Sunday, March 22, 2009

Carolina Roots


I grew up in the North, and identify comfortably with changing seasons accompanied by the occasional harsh winter and a progressive mindset rooted firmly in the Industrial centers that at one time thrived this side of the Mason Dixon Line. Yet my actual roots – the essence of the ancestral thread that defines me, lie in the Up Country dirt roads and Woodland Forests of Chesterfield County S.C. where my parents were born, and where I spent my childhood summers when my Grandmothers were still alive. Never knew my Grandfathers – Jacob died eleven days after I was born, and Huey Jr. passed when I was only One. But I knew everything there was to know about them – as conveyed by my parents and the quiet recitations of Grandmas Lula and Rebecca, respectively. Way down South…where Tobacco and Cotton Fields stretched for an eternity of Miles on either side of the road that led out of town, and where Cicadas trilled on the warm breeze of evening and the smell of Pine and Cedar filled our nostrils as we sat on Ma Beck's porch, watching darkness close a seal-tight lid on the remote, rural fields that surrounded our family’s land…terrified and transfixed, as she told only slightly embellished tales of our Elder's encounters with the Haints that inhabited those woods. During the day it was always hot – to the point that the sand would burn your feet if you dared to step out of your sandals. My cousins did it all the time, but it typically didn’t take long for me to give up my feeble attempts at conformity, as my tender feet had never quite conditioned themselves to that degree of abuse. &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
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During the week, we ate Box Lunches at Vacation Bible School; flirted with the pretty girls, and took care to avoid the retribution of the ugly ones - mad because their amorous advances were never reciprocated. On the way back to Grandma Lula’s house, we avoided the patch of ground beneath the tree where the freshly slaughtered Hog bled out before being disassembled for the parts used to make Ham, Chitterlings and Sage Sausage. Later in the afternoon, Grandma’s sing-song voice would call for us to come home, and the pack of us would arrive at her back porch, just as she was about to slice up a giant Watermelon with the shiny, Silver Machete she kept inside her back door. We would relieve ourselves in the woods while ‘on the run’, but were forced to make other arrangements when a more deliberate elimination was required. Visited only when absolutely necessary, the Out-House was just down right scary. It had been placed inside the pen where the Hogs and Chicken Coops were maintained, and once you entered the gate, you had to take care not to step on the aluminum pie pans covering the traps that were set out for coyotes and stray dogs. Securing the latch behind me, I was always afraid I’d fall down into the damn thing – horrified as I imagined what inhabited the squishy darkness below, a mere four to six feet down, beneath the rough, wooden seat on which I was perched, gasping from my playful exertions...then predictably gagging on the smell and stifling July-in-South-Carolina heat that hung heavy inside the confines of that narrow, wooden box.
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Sunday services were not optional, and my Father and Uncle would sit in the front row with the other Deacons – My Mother, both Grandmothers and my Aunts in the row just behind them…and our imaginations would invariably wander to the Iced Tea and Coconut Cake we knew would be served up after a dinner of Fried Chicken, Collards, Fried Corn with Buttermilk Biscuits and Pinto Beans - all while the assembled, saved souls sang passionately of Solid Rock and Sinking Sand. After the service, we would make the obligatory walk through the adjacent cemetery to pay homage to the relatives and loved ones who’d passed on before us, and I was always struck with an immediate and powerful awareness of the rows upon rows of Black/White/Grey stones that bore chiseled evidence of the surname that was my own. And it was at that precise moment of comprehension when I began to fully appreciate the fact that this was the place from whence I had come; the foundation upon which my value system and cultural identity would be defined.  These simple folk...descendans of Share Croppers and Slaves - blended from a miture of West
African, Scottish and Native American blood...that lived peacefully out in that quiet country, miles from the convenience of running water and paved roads.
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These were my people...and I was their son.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Baseball in Puerto Rico


This week finds me blogging from San Juan, where I've escaped for a quick getaway to de-stress and counter the effects of too much sun deprivation. It's early in the morning, but still a very comfortable 75 degrees; that, compared to a mere 50 in New York, and a ridiculous high of 20 in Minneapolis; relative heat waves for both locales, but clearly no match for the splash of Royal Blue Sky and swaying Palm fronds framed inside the sliding glass doors of my room's balcony. I flew down with some friends on Friday to catch the Pool D Bracket of the World Baseball Classic, and to catch up on some very much needed R&R. The Fresh Seafood, strong Mojitos and some interesting baseball have made it all very much worth my while. Led by Delgado, Beltran and Pudge Rodriguez, Puerto Rico made quick work out of the boys from Panama, and with the likes of big leaguers like Pedro, Big Papi and Miguel Tejada, the DR was the consensus favorite; but all that talent, nor the throngs of Dominican supporters, shouting and waving their Island's colors like Jamaicans at a Track and Field event was enough to hold off the improbable upset orchestrated by the team from the Netherlands. Relative unknowns outmatched at nearly every position, those Brothers had something else in mind. Yeah...I did say Brothers - surprised me too when the first five batters walked out to the plate, and even more so when the entire team came up out of the dugout to whoop and applaud themselves on a successful first inning. They had names like Jansen and Schoop, but after doing a little research, I later discovered that these Dutchmen were apparently of the 'ABC' and '3S' Island variety :)

Sunday, March 1, 2009

What does Obama's Presidency mean to Caribbean People?


This question was recently posited by POSH Publisher and Founding Editor, Janette N. Brin. About a year ago, I stumbled across her Webzine one afternoon while performing some online research for SFM, and since then I've gone back to the site from time to time - if nothing else, just to check out the latest celeb featured on the cover, and to soak up the substantial number of colorful pages filled with some really, beautiful Black people. It's a general interest magazine that includes the standard Fashion, Political and Travel categories - but presented from a perspective that focuses on the impact made on people of Caribbean descent, and the unique contributions they bring to societies table. As you can tell from my profile and the attendant nature of my posts, I have a deep interest in exploring and better understanding the various intersections that constitute the nexus between the AFAM/Caribbean experience; so when I flipped to the Mag's Conversations section and encountered Janette's question, I had to pause for a moment of reflection - and was immediately reminded of a central theme I've been coming back to...over and over again since the election was called for Barack last November.

For me, it started with two previous experiences which in my opinion, articulate a number of underlying societal and psychological forces at work. Both occurred several years ago - the first resulting from a discussion I had with Jamaica Girl after she got upset over a comment made by Ed Gordon (back in the day when he anchored the news for BET). I don't even remember the specific context of the statement, but during the program, he mentioned something about Black Panamanians. This annoyed Jamaica Girl to no end - kind of set her off actually, and she summed up her rant by claiming that Ed was projecting a destructive (and uniquely American) obsession of color consciousness onto a region and its people who very likely would prefer not to be saddled with the same racial baggage Mr. Gordon had accumulated while growing up in Detroit. Of course, I didn't understand why she was so upset, and a lengthy conversation ensued in which I tried as best I could to defend the viewpoint (from my own perspective) that might have influenced the Brother to say what he did. Jamaica Girl wasn't having it, and went on to stridently suggest that most Americans simply didn't understand (nor were we inclined to even try) the opinions and/or world view of cultures and societies that existed beyond our own. I felt she was overreacting, and told her so; but looking back on it, I'd have to say that she was right - to a point; although I believe that her reasoning for why Mr. Gordon selected that particular color-based phraseology was a bit off the mark. Let me see if I can explain why:

At no time, do I think that Ed Gordon was ever conscious of the fact that his reference to Black Panamanians might frustrate, upset or offend certain members of his audience; nor was he projecting some type of fundamental bias regarding his socio-philosophical views. I didn't quite understand it at first, but my many years of West Indian immersion has taught me a thing or two about how I'd come to perceive myself - as an adolescent, and then later as a young man and adult; and over the years just how much my environment and the dominant culture had played into that perception. Hence, another clear example of Du Bois' theory of Double Consciousness: an awareness of one's self that is juxtaposed against an equally influential and (if not more significantly) internalized sense of being perceived by the larger world around them. For anyone born and raised in the United States, the burden of Double Consciousness has been an incredible load to bear - made even more difficult for those of us who grew up beyond the cultural reach of a major urban center, where the novelty of our skin tone, broad nose and kinky hair subjected us to an even greater degree of social segmentation. Of course we understood that we were Americans, but we were Colored/Negro/Black/ or African-American first...and not necessarily because that's the way we wanted it, but because our environment (Sitcoms, Movies, Books, the Evening News, our nation's Laws and the not so subtle opinions of members of the Paler Nation (as Stephen L. Carter likes to describe them through the characters in his books) continuously reminded us that it was so. My second revelation came during my first trip to Jamaica. I was standing on Halfway Tree Road, watching Jamaica Girl and her Sisters eat Pepper Shrimp, while I nursed a Ting and worked on my Patty. The sidewalks and streets were crowded with people - on foot, browsing the various stalls, or riding bikes and in cars interwoven with crowded mini-buses packed to overflowing with harried passengers and their bags. And I was struck by an overwhelming sense of connectedness to all those Cappuccino, Mocha and Almond faces. I was in a Black Country, administered by and for the benefit of Black people... and at some point over the course of my silly musings, I mistakenly came to believe that somehow, I too fit neatly into the foundation of that tropical, Chocolate mix - until I opened my mouth, offering up self conscious, halting responses - unable (at that time) to comprehend the rapid, lilting cadence of the Patois-laced questions directed towards me, and then further confirmed their suspicions that I was not Jamaican through unintended signals conveyed by the way I looked, walked or dressed. I'm sure that to any non-American, this might sound crazy, but I'm not joking when I tell you that that moment was the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE that I actually felt like an American! It took going away to another country, where the layer of Double Consciousness I had grown up with was stripped away... leaving nothing but the true essence of who I was and the country I represented. Those Jamaicans on Halfway Tree Road (and Hellshire Beach, Portmore, Boston Bay, Mona and New Kingston) were not seeing another Black Man (as this fact was self evident and not worthy of further consideration). Rather, who and what they saw was an American, and through that undiluted West Indian lens of Single Consciousness, I too was able to experience it - awesomely and amazingly, for the very first time in my life!

That was a long time ago, and sometimes when I think back on it, it still shakes me to my core; to imagine the degree of influence one group of people can exert over another through the images and messages they allow to be presented - even in the face of a positive, nurturing environment where academic achievement was encouraged, and where mental and spiritual nourishment was meted out on a daily basis, such as it was in the household in which I grew up...
Which brings me back to Ed's comments, and Janette's question about the meaning of Obama's presidency to Caribbean people...

In my opinion, Ed Gordon was simply speaking through his layer of double-consciousness. I've come to recognize that many of us do this unconsciously, and in some cases, I dare say it is something we are often forced to do, given the many reason's I touched on earlier. But unlike Mr. Gordon and so many more Black Americans, Barack Obama (even though he spent a part of his childhood in the US and was no doubt reminded of how he was different) was able to master the requisite skills of introspection and self-definition that enabled him to step outside of the box that others were attempting to prescribe for him - to conceptualize his own identity and forge a relationship with his country. By following his example, and the transformative imagery of our Commander in Chief, the beautiful first lady and their two daughters as they go about their business in our nation's capital, it is my belief that over time, we Black Americans will come to define ourselves as simply Americans - and not by diluting or ignoring the unique fabric of the African heritage that defines us, but by embracing it as a factual component of who we are, and the vibrancy it brings to the composite American experience (and this point is critical) - through the clear and unvarnished lens of Single Consciousness heretofore more successfully demonstrated by our African and West Indian Brothers and Sisters; something that in the end, brings us all closer together through an enriched understanding and mutual paradigm of respect for our shared Diaspora.