When you just love your people

My oldest daughter comments to me that I’ve been “woke” for a long time. I studied some in my early 20s. I remember declaring that I was on a quest for knowledge when I was about 18. I started reading about Malcolm X and sifting through things to learn why it was important to appreciate my blackness. I learned about being hated and why it was important for us to understand our history and our culture. At 20 years old, I didn’t know that what I was learning would lay the groundwork for a lifetime of learning and unlearning.

Twenty-one years later and I feel like I’ve come full circle and still recognize exactly how far I have to go. Being “woke” in 2015 means that I understand a lot of the ramifications of structural racism, white supremacy, and the war on black people in a way that dictates how I walk, talk, and move through my life. Being “woke” in 2015 means that I understand how the system was set up to cripple our people financially, emotionally, and psychologically. 

It means having our narrative dictated to us.  It means have our realities distorted and then dictated to us. It means being blamed for conditions, even though we didn’t create them. It means being having our culture both mocked and emulated. It means being divided by things as simple as our hairstyle choice and as complicated as the tones of our skin. It means understanding that not everyone will see these things are having been done to us. It means understanding that not all of us will understand what is happening to us. It means spending money on Christmas and Easter instead of paying our bills on time and investing in our future. 

To be black and woke in 2015 is both painful and useful. I’m STILL uncovering nuances to structural racism. I’m STILL discovering things about my people that were hidden or distorted. I’m STILL learning to love all of us, even when we don’t love ourselves. Being “woke” doesn’t make me a better black person. It does, however, shift my intentions and priorities regularly. It inspires me to ask myself what I can do to help myself and my people.  It makes me not want to harm another black person (except cussing at people in traffic. I’m a work in progress.) It makes me yearn for better conditions for us all. It also makes me sad because I know that we ALL aren’t going to see the light. We ALL aren’t going to understand nor are we going to comprehend exactly what is happening to us. We ALL aren’t going to wake up from the spell. Some of us kind of know what’s going on is wrong, but we don’t know what to do to fix it. We’re not sure if it can be fixed and we feel overwhelmed. We’d rather not focus on all that black stuff. We just want to live and mind our business. What we don’t know is that surviving and living in sub-par conditions is not living. Getting scraps is not eating. We shouldn’t have to drink dirty water to quench our thirst. 

I just hope that I don’t succumb to the sometimes paralyzing fears that we all are subject to experience when thinking about how we can make this world a better place for us. I have hope. And for right now, I live off of that hope.  I have faith. And for right now, that faith sustains me. And I believe in us. And for right now, that belief feeds me and gives me the energy to keep going. I don’t profess to know all the answers. I just know that I love my people and want what’s best for us. Whatever that looks like for us individually and collectively. ALL THE TIME.