Two Sides of the Same Coin

Collard Greens and Calalloo, Grits and Corn Meal Porridge…

Banana Groves to Sugar Cane,

and Fields of Cotton and Tobacco…

Gunga, yes and Black Eyed Peas…. From Charleston to Kingston Harbor.

Two dimensions of a single Diaspora that have so very much in common…and yet, they’re nothing alike.  So what’s up with that?

It’s a question I ask myself all the time, and one that surfaces frequently in my writing projects. One example being a previous post in which I tackled the subject of Double Consciousness: That extra baggage many Black Americans carry around which forces us to constantly manage an awareness of our personal identities – identities that have been qualified in terms of what the ‘majority’ culture thinks it means to be Black in America. My intent was to explore the cumulative effect of Double Consciousness on the contemporary Black American experience, and how that influence might factor into our political and social discourse during the age of Obama. As a child I definitely felt it; as a young Elementary and Middle School student who was the first person of color to ever attend my school. I was a kinky-haired, Brown-skinned Island in a sea of Pink and White faces; a young Protestant unexpectedly thrown into what was for me, a strange and unfamiliar world of Incense, Holy Water and Rosary-beaded Catholicism. And yet somehow I managed to survive with my identity and self confidence mostly intact; imbued (I would like to believe) with the same instincts for survival that strengthened and sustained my parents and grandparents before me. At that point in my life, I’d never heard of Double Consciousness, and I’m not sure I would have had the capacity to understand the essence of Dubois’ original argument if I had. But all these years later, with the benefit of life’s challenges and character building experiences, I can look back on that period and comprehend beyond the shadow of a microscopic doubt, that it was my burden of Double Consciousness that made my journey into adolescence all the more difficult, and established the emotional and psychological frame of reference for my subsequent interactions with the Caucasian world.
&
Since initially tackling the subject, I keep coming back to what it means, and just exactly how I feel about it. Now, having benefited from the passage of time and by adopting a more nuanced perspective, I feel compelled to revisit the topic in light of a recent (and purely accidental) revelation that came to me earlier this year. While watching a PBS/Masterpiece Theater presentation of Sandra Levy’s Small Island, I was struck by one scene in particular that for me, encapsulated the difference between how Black Americans have traditionally viewed themselves and their place in the world, verses persons of color who have emigrated from the Caribbean Islands. Small Island overtly promotes an exploration of racism and racial identity; but beyond the Black-White, Colonizer-Colonized dichotomies, I tuned in to a more subtle (and I imagine unintended) message emanating from Ms. Levy’s dialogue and plot. Gilbert - a Jamaican RAF volunteer in London during the Second World War - attempts to enter the Cinema with a British Woman (Queenie) with whom he’s recently developed a friendship (Queenie has scandalized her neighbors by renting Gilbert a room). Without hesitation, the young man approaches the main-floor entrance with the intention of purchasing his ticket. Incensed by his blatant disregard for what they view as the prevailing rules of social engagement, a group of White Soldiers voice their displeasure, strongly suggesting that the young soldier needed to move his ass over to the colored line. In the face of this challenge, the Jamaican Soldier immediately argues that (a) he isn’t a Black American; (b) They were not in America, and (c) he was free to move about as he damn well pleased etc. etc. I’m paraphrasing here because I don’t exactly remember how Gilbert formulated his response, but for the most part that was the uncompromising position he chose to stake out. I remember perking up at this point, struck by Gilbert’s choice of words, and curious about what was going to happen next. Unburdened by the albatross of Double Consciousness, and (I would argue) incapable of identifying with American standards of Jim Crow social stratification, Gilbert never even stopped to consider the possibility that access to a certain venue might be denied him.
&
Of course, Gilbert’s character represents a populace undoubtedly affected in other ways by the lingering influence of colonialism that continues to shape relations between the Crown and her former Jewels; but on the specific question of American-style segregation, Gilbert the Jamaican had never become psychologically invested in the notion that his choices or movements would in any way be limited. Most interesting for me, is how Gilbert does not hesitate to differentiate himself as not American when addressing the White Soldiers, while nearby, a group of Black American GI’s (waiting in the Colored line), shift uncomfortably and began moving towards the commotion; anger and solidarity (with a brother who is being abused) evident in their postures and facial expressions; this, after the Good Ol’ Boys contemptuously hurl a couple of N-Bombs in Gilbert’s direction.
&
The scene marks a critical juncture in the film, and in my opinion also serves as a metaphor for various pockets of misunderstanding that sometimes manifest across segments of the Black American and Jamaican social continuum…and it is here that I’ve purposely chosen to speak in terms of Jamaican Blackness in the larger context of how it is generally regarded in America, because therein lies the root of much unnecessary conflict that sometimes crops up between Black Americans and our Afro-Caribbean cousins. As you can imagine, this is a compelling topic for me, and something I’m eager to cover in more detail. In a future post, I’ll explore some of the cultural and historical determinants that have contributed to those ‘pockets of misunderstanding'; why American and West Indian Blacks view the world through such a different contextual lens and what those differences mean for the state of ongoing relations in America and abroad.
&

An observation…from a Yank’s perspective.

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.