ACUTE OBSERVATIONS OF A CONTRARIAN DIASPORAN: HEY MAMA

In the hallowed halls of my middle school, February descended upon me like a heavy shroud. No, not the amorous haze of Valentine’s Day, but the oppressive presence of Black History Month in the suburbs. In this realm, a stark dichotomy emerged between the teachings of Black History Month in an affluent white enclave and those in an urban black institution of affluence. In the city, where audacity thrived, Black History Month became an empowering celebration, illuminating the struggles of our ancestors against oppressors and honoring the achievements of black individuals throughout America’s history. Alas, in those white suburban schools, it transformed into a narrative solely centered around slavery, insidiously perpetuating the divisive notion that whispered, “Your own people betrayed you, so direct your anger towards them, not us.” Within those classrooms, I became a token representative, subjected to stares and “apologies,” as if my very existence encapsulated the entirety of black America.

The leap from a gifted program in an urban school to a small-town middle school was a seismic cultural shock. It wasn’t until my years in university and graduate school that I finally had the privilege of interacting with non-white classmates, immersing myself in an academic setting that unveiled the resplendent tapestry of black achievements in America.

Race, like an invisible force, weaves itself into the very fabric of the American experience, dictating the narratives that shape our lives. We have been conditioned to battle amongst ourselves, instead of standing united against the forces that seek to divide us. It is a tragic paradox that in a land that extols diversity, we are often pitted against one another, our identities weaponized to undermine us.

The affluent black people against the less fortunate. Light-skinned versus dark-skinned. African versus African Americans. Sub-Saharan Africans against East Africans. British-born black actors against their American-born counterparts. While the world profiles us based on our blackness—regardless of our origins or bank accounts—we wage internal wars as if we aren’t fighting the same battles in America.

As an adult navigating the corporate realm, I have learned to tread cautiously, artfully choosing my words to avoid the misinterpretation of passion as aggression. The coils of my hair, a natural testament to my identity, are often perceived as radical when all I am doing is embracing my authentic self. In this arena, the “aggressive and radical” employee is shunned, and so I find myself perpetually walking a tightrope. Let me be unequivocal: I revel in being black, but in America, the weight of this identity can be burdensome.

I was raised by typical immigrant parents who aspired for their children to be extraordinary. They pushed us academically and in all facets of life, urging us to surpass their achievements as well as those of our predecessors. Throughout my journey, I often found myself as the sole black face in the classroom, compounded by the burden of an unmistakably African name. When my younger brother and I attempted to maintain contact with our friends from our old neighborhood in the city, we were met mostly with the sentiment that we were “boujee” or that we “acted and sounded white,” leaving us feeling insecure in the very spaces that were once ours.

When you are rejected by what you know, you tend to seek solace in spaces that embrace you.

My parents hail from Liberia, a nation founded by freed American slaves and the sixteen indigenous tribes they encountered upon arrival. Faced with this lack of belonging, my parents were even more determined to fortify our connection to our roots. They imparted upon us a profound knowledge of our history and Liberia’s intricate ties to America, encompassing both the good and the bad. It was within the embrace of the vibrant Liberian community in the United States that I found a sense of belonging, a sanctuary where shared experiences and cultural pride intertwined.

So profound was this connection that I made the audacious decision to relocate to Liberia after graduate school, yearning to fully immerse myself in my heritage and find solace from the wearisome reality of being black in America.

As I reflect upon my time in Liberia, I am reminded of the freedom I experienced, liberated from the suffocating weight of America’s racial struggles. In Liberia, my blackness was not a deterrent or an impediment to my prospects. The way my hair naturally grew out of my head was not met with judgment or misunderstanding, and the hue of my skin did not hinder my progress. While Liberia, like any nation, faces its own challenges and complexities, race was not the focal point of existence.

Contemplating the future of America, I cannot help but harbor a sense of uncertainty. The rewriting of black history, the perpetuation of false narratives, and the banning of books only serve to deepen the chasm. Will things ever change for the better? It is a question that hangs in the air, pregnant with doubt and concern.

But here’s the thing: hope is a stubborn flame that refuses to be extinguished. In the face of adversity, we must persistently fight for truth, for justice, and for a future where our identities are not turned against us like venomous weapons. We must dismantle the systems that perpetuate division and work tirelessly towards constructing a society that celebrates the richness of our diversity. The path ahead will not be easy; the road may be long and arduous. Yet, we must persist, for the future appears bleak, and it is up to us to mold it into one characterized by equity, inclusion, and unity.

In this dance of progress, we must remember that the weight of blackness is not ours alone to bear. It is a collective burden, shared by all who believe in a fair and just society. For the struggle against racism is not a solitary endeavor; it requires a symphony of voices, harmonizing in defiance of the status quo. We must amplify the stories and achievements of black people, not just during the designated month of February, but throughout the entire year. We must weave a tapestry of narratives that reflect the breadth and depth of black experiences, dispelling the suffocating shadows of ignorance and half-truths.

In dismantling these systems, we must also acknowledge the role of class and privilege within the black community itself. The divisions between the upper and middle-class blacks and our less fortunate counterparts only serve to further fragment our unity. We must cultivate empathy and understanding, recognizing that the struggles faced by our brothers and sisters are interconnected and intertwined. Our liberation lies not in isolation, but in collective action, with each strand of the tapestry supporting and uplifting the others.

As we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of America’s racial landscape, we must remember that progress is not linear. There will be setbacks, moments when hope wavers and despair threatens to consume us. But we must persist, drawing strength from the resilience of our ancestors, who fought against unspeakable odds to pave the way for our existence. We owe it to them, and to the generations yet to come, to continue the struggle, to challenge the status quo, and to demand the recognition and respect we deserve.

So let us embark on this journey with open eyes and open hearts, ready to question the narratives that have been fed to us, ready to challenge the structures that seek to divide us. Let us build bridges instead of walls, celebrating the vibrant diversity within our own community while forging alliances with others who share our vision of a more equitable world.

For the weight of blackness, though heavy, can be transformed into a source of strength and resilience. It is a weight we carry not as a burden, but as a reminder of the power and beauty that lies within us. And in the face of adversity, we will rise, united in our shared humanity, forging a future that transcends the limitations of race, a future where we are not measured by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character.