Woke on the Fourth of July

This was initially published on the Busy Black Woman blog on Bastille Day (yeah I know), and I was just going to let that be until I saw this fuckery on Facebook. I have an updated message for folks like him, read on:

My Dad was woke back before we knew that would be the thing to be...because when we were growing up, his woke-ness was uncool. It was the 80s and as a proud, yet jaded veteran of the Civil Rights Movement, he restricted us from participating in anything he deemed to be counter-revolutionary. So we didn't watch the Dukes of Hazzard or any classic cartoons with racial caricatures (at least, not when he was around). He always belonged to a black bank. Our African names, black dolls, and annual observance of African Liberation/Malcolm X Day were nods to his embrace of pan-Africanism before everyone else caught on in the 90s. And my Dad hates Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, Elvis Pressley, and Gone With the Wind.

Of course, like most people, his woke-ness could be inconsistent whenever he hit the snooze button. We couldn't play "Cowboys and Indians" although we were avid Washington football fans (even before Doug Williams). He won't celebrate Kwanzaa. For years he thought OJ was framed. And while we could happily spend the day at the beach, eat barbecue, and shoot off our little fireworks on July Fourth, it was never in celebration of America's birthday. So it made me beam with pride upon seeing how so many of my friends posted Frederick Douglass's powerful speech, "The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro" last week since Daddy had made me read it years ago as part of his stance against celebrating American Independence.

For the record, my take on July Fourth falls somewhere between my Dad's outright hostility and other folks' unbounded enthusiasm. Which means I have no opposition to celebrating the day for what it commemorates, but I reserve the right to remind folks that the struggle for freedom continues. So no, you probably will not catch me wearing my patriotism on my ass like a cheap pair of American flag leggings (made in China). However, I am happy to wave a few sparklers (also made in China) while I recite the words to Langston Hughes' "I, Too" or Claude McKay's "America" or Maya Angelou's "These Yet to be United States". Or even better, as the Toddlersaurus, my Niece, and I belt out our favorite songs from the musical Hamilton.

Just as my Dad and others were disillusioned by the post-Civil Rights era backlash, I can appreciate how disheartening it is to confront the realities of this post-Obama era. From that race-baiting NRA video to the retreat by the Justice Department from protecting the rights of citizens to outright religious intolerance and hostility, it is easy to understand why folks have lost faith. Unfortunately, hypocrisy is as American as pumpkin pie--literally, ever since those eloquent words of equality and liberty were penned by a slaveowner whose "slave mistress" was his wife's half sister.

Despite the wide gulf between our ideals and reality, we too can celebrate America. We can believe in the hope expressed by both the Declaration of Independence and the Frederick Douglass speech because this is our country too. If we can celebrate both men for their greatness while acknowledging their very human weaknesses (Douglass' extracurricular activities), then we must learn to reconcile our disappointments with American shortcomings to our pride in American progress.

Since I mentioned it earlier, it is the genius of Hamilton that reminded me how we are all inheritors of the American legacy. Only in America could a Puerto Rican rapper write a Tony Award-winning musical on the life of an undocumented Caribbean immigrant who ascends from obscurity to notoriety by aligning with a black/brown George Washington. American History is our story too, so marginalizing or othering us doesn't negate that fact.

And in case you might be wondering, I can celebrate America and stay woke. In the words of the prophet known as James Baldwin, "I can love America more than any country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually."

Here's what I added for that idiot in Florida:
I was born here. And since you aren't a Native American, nor did your family come over on the Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria, Mayflower, or on a slave ship, try again. Check your family tree to see if its roots are as deep as mine, because I assure you that your white skin is the only advantage you have. So you can keep your "Go Back to Africa" foolishness.

You can also keep those historical commemorations that have been purposefully sanitized, such as folks' misplaced nostalgia for the Confederacy. Let's be clear that if you insist on dedicating public space to venerate Confederate generals, then it should be okay if we drape those hallowed monuments in white bed sheets...because that is your history too. Or if we install colored water fountain signs nearby, because that is also your history.

And one more thing, now that I'm on a roll, let's address the anti-PC campaigns that want to graft Confederate history onto MLK Day, but don't want to acknowledge Native Americans during Columbus Day...yeah, stop. Ditto for White History Month. Get over yourselves and stop conflating freedom of speech with a license to offend.

It is our history, all of it--the good, the bad, and the shameful. The triumphs and the tragedies. George Washington and George W. Bush. Thomas Jefferson to Barack Obama, and even the current President. Hopefully he'll be history soon enough.

Screaming at the Top of My Lungs

I promised myself that I would not use my BBW blog to air my dirty laundry, and for the most part I have kept that promise. That's why I keep this blog, and why I am grateful that I decided not to continue writing this post over there. Because I am feeling kinda crappy right now.

WHEN AM I EVER GOING TO BE HEARD?

In an argument. By my toddler. By my family when I have a legitimate point of contention. By my friends? By anybody?

Do you know how frustrating it is to feel like NO ONE gives half a crap about you unless you are fucking up? How it feels to think that nothing you do ever matters because to some folks it is just your job? That you aren't even remotely special?

I feel like that right now. Right now, just as I want to eat my feelings (which was something I never did before this year). Right now as I am really thinking about running the fuck away and not telling anyone where I'm headed. Right now when I want to reach out, but don't think anyone has the time to understand why I am just feeling hopeless and useless and perennially frustrated by life.

When is it my turn to be first? Why can't I make demands and someone feel obligated to meet them just because? Why am I being high maintenance when I want something done a certain way? Why can't I have expectations? Why don't I ever feel appreciated? Can I get some flowers that someone actually took the time to look at to make sure that they weren't dying (instead of buying the cheap ones because they were cheap)? Can I not be given the lecture that I ought to be grateful for being an afterthought instead of not being thought of at all (which is the definition of afterthought, n'est pas)? Can someone call me and reach out to check in on me from time to time, instead of reaching out to ask for a favor? Why can't I be needy? Why does my loneliness feel more like normal the older I get?

Why so many questions, you might ask because from your perspective, I should be happy. And I get the green grass theory, which is true when you realize the reason why their grass is greener--someone waters and cares about that other lawn. If I am not watering my grass, it should be brought to my attention so that I can do a better job. I don't have a problem being told that I am doing something wrong. I have a problem with always being told that I am doing something wrong in response to telling someone else to modify their behavior.

I have a few other issues, but I will get to my laundry instead.