KiWords

The roaring 20s are a myth. Join me as a write about how I'm surviving this decade of life, being black in America, Trump, love, and any other shenanigans.

The Importance of Diversity is More Than Seasoned Chicken

What brilliance has been bottled up in kitchens? What ingenuity has been scrubbed away while cleaning the floors of houses the scrubber will never own? What has this country lost by not considering the brilliance and potential of every single person that inhabits this land? Recently, while perusing some little known Black History facts, I came across the story of Eugene Bullard. Mr. Bullard, an American citizen, was one of very few Black pilots who flew in WWI. The interesting thing about Mr. Bullard is, he didn’t fly for the U.S. army. After moving to France in an attempt to escape the racial turmoil of the U.S. south, he joined the Foreign Legion and became a part of the French colonial troops. During his time in the Foreign Legion, he was promoted to the rank of corporal and earned his piloting license. At one point during the war, he attempted to join the U.S. forces as a pilot. However, since they were only accepting white men, he was denied. After the war ended, he received the Croix de guerre, Médaille militaire, and the Croix du combattant volontaire for his service in the French army. (I clearly don’t speak French, but I’m thinking these awards have to be pretty dope.) Between the end of WWI and the beginning of WWII, Eugene Bullard made a pretty great life for himself in France. He opened up a night club which graced the likes of Josephine Baker, Louis Armstrong, and Langston Hughes. Unfortunately, during his service in WWII, Eugene Bullard was wounded and eventually returned to New York. Back in America, back in his country of origin, Mr. Bullard never reached the same level of success that he had seen overseas. At one point, after his return to the states and while attending an event hosted by Paul Robeson, he was beaten by an angry mob, upset with Paul Robeson’s assumed association with the communist party. The mob consisted of both veterans and law enforcement officers. Though there is footage of the mob beating the attendees of the event, no one was ever charged with a crime. Later in life, although he had known great success and fame during his time in France, his life in America ended with him living alone and working as an elevator operator. As much as I love black history, I did not start this post to provide anyone who reads it with a history lesson about Eugene Bullard, but rather an opportunity to question what greatness we miss out on when we don’t allow people to live into their full potential because of the color of their skin, their zip code, their gender, or their sexuality. How many American lives could have been saved if Eugene Ballard was allowed to fly in the U.S. Army and provide the same services for our country as he did for France? What culture did we miss out on because this country decided that his only value was to stay in a box that went up and down, instead of a potential entrepreneur working to preserve black culture in this country? Even today, what unearthed brilliance lies in our babies that policies, lack of resources, and Secretaries of Education who don’t know the difference between proficiency and growth, have stopped us from developing? What power has gone untapped? What inventions are waiting to be created in the hood? What life-saving medical researcher are we shutting out by building a wall? In this Trump era, I have often seen the argument for the importance of diversity wrapped up in a humorous 5 minute video about which rappers should go with us on the boat, which hairstyles dominant society wouldn’t have left to appropriate, and the looming danger of unseasoned chicken. While the videos are all funny, they can also be dangerous in limiting the worth of diversity. Diversity is not just a photograph of smiling people with different skin tones. Diversity includes differences in thought, perspectives, ideas, experiences, and much more.

When this country minimizes the importance of educating everyone, it minimizes the beauty of the diversity of possibilities that could be. How much faster could America have gotten to space if Katherine Johnson would have been allowed in the room the first day she arrived at NASA? Could we have won the space race? That answer will always be hidden to us. But the future doesn’t have to be. As this administration continues to push legislation and executive orders that threaten to minimize the power of diversity that our country is blessed with, we must learn from the mistakes of our past and ensure that every person in this country has the opportunity to live into their fullest potential. When we are able to do that, the power of our diversity will be more than seasoned chicken. When everyone is given all the resources and care that is needed to help them live into their true potential, then we can truly make America great.

My country tis of thee...

Sweet land of liberty...

Of thee I sing.

8 years ago, standing among almost two million people, shivering in freezing temperatures, I listened as Titi Retha (Aretha Franklin to those who aren't in the family) sang that song as part of the inauguration of Barack Obama.

Like many people around me, as I listened, I cried. It was a moment that I will never forget, and a moment that I fear I will never feel again. See, the tears that I shed that day were not of sadness, but of pride. I was proud to be watching the first black president be sworn into office. I was proud to be on the mall watching something that my great-grandma, a woman born around the time the Klan came to power, said she thought she would never see in her lifetime. For the first time in my life, I was proud to be an American.

For the first time that I could remember, I looked up at the flag and thought America had finally delivered on its promise. That my stolen and nameless ancestors' wildest dreams had finally come true and I was lucky enough to see it happen in my lifetime. The more the flag waved, the more pride I felt.

For a moment...

I even closed my eyes. I ignored the freezing temperatures and I let my emotions and Aretha's voice take me to a place that didn't feel constrained by the pain of the past, but encouraged by the promise of tomorrow. I had the Savannah, Bernadine, Gloria, Robin moment. A feeling that I and countless of “other” people had been waiting on...I exhaled.

In that moment I breathed freely and deeply, thinking that all 50 of those stars and all 13 of those stripes were meant for me. A 20-something, wide-eyed black girl from the South. The flag was finally for me.

But it was on loan.

And the owners have come to collect.

Somewhere in these past 8 years, even before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was elected, that same flag that I looked upon 8 years ago which such pride and admiration, became a symbol of fear and hatred. Maybe it's been the election, maybe it's been the police shootings, maybe it's been inhaling the dense racial smog that is ever present in the South, but when I see it, it scares me.

The same feeling that was evoked in me as a little black girl growing up in South Carolina every time I saw the confederate flag, is the same feeling I get now when I see the American flag. A feeling of fear, confusion, and anger arises in my spirit every time I see it.

because they lied to me.

I feel like I've been kicked out of a club. A club whose general admission requirements are white skin, and more often that not, a penis. It's like Barack Obama's election was just Negro Day and now it's back to your regularly scheduled programming.

My only question is, where do I go from here? I am a person without a flag. Sure I could claim the Christian flag, I mean I do love the Lord...but the only time I see that getting waved is at Vacation Bible School. Should I claim the South Carolina flag that until the massacre of 9 church goers was consistently accompanied by the confederate flag? I think not.

I think I could claim an African flag every now and then. But which country? Unlike other immigrants to this country who can look at a book that says, Peter Macelli-Italy and Mike O'Malley-Ireland, all of the history books with my lineage will say Big John-50 dollars.

So which flag do I wave? The flag that evokes fear every time I see it? Or the flag of a place I've never been to and may not be from?

There is no flag for me.

Your country tis of thee...

Enjoy your liberty...

Of thee I dream...

Control. Something that all of us want, but most of us don't have. The ability to control the weather. Lottery tickets. Traffic lights when you're running late for work. To extend the last moments that we have with our loved ones. What will happen to you tomorrow. We all want to know.

I'm 27. The 26 years before this one, I thought I was doing a pretty great job of controlling the circumstances of what happened around me. Throughout my life, I have taken very calculated risks. I stepped out only enough to peek around the corner to see what was coming next. The whole leap of faith thing never appealed to me. I always needed to know what was coming next. If I didn't like what was coming next, I had to organize circumstances in my life that would lead to my desired outcome.

Then the 27th year happened. Boom! Zap! Wham! (and all the other examples of onomatopoeia that resembles the sound of getting hitby a bus) I lost it. I applied for new jobs that I thought were in my reach. I didn't get them. I broke up with someone who loved me, because I thought I could find someone who fit into the model of who I thought I was supposed to be with. I haven't found him yet. I took on a million and one projects at work to prove that nobody could out work me. Then I got lapped. I tried to take care of myself, by myself. I got sick. I tried to catch my breath to get better, but I couldn't breathe. Months have gone by with me still waiting on the snap back. The moment where I can take a deep breath again without wrenching pain. A day when I don't wake up with an immediate reminder that I was diagnosed with lupus. A day where I can wake up again and feel some sense of control about what will happen to me that day. That day has not yet come, but a lesson has.

This year has taught me one thing. While you can't control everything that happens to you, you can control how you react to them. Our reactions to life's difficulties is what defines us. In fact, I don't think you can define yourself until life gives you a situation that offers a definition.

I used to teach 6th grade. Before any lesson we ever did on character development, I always asked, “Can you come up with three words to describe yourself?” At the beginnnig of 2016, my three words would have been different than if I was asked that question again today. Needless to say, this has been a defining year for me. Not because of a large number of life events. I'm not engaged. I haven't had kids. I have been working in the same job for the past 4 years. The definition has come in the non-fulfillment of all of those things. Not that I'm jumping to have children...but I have seen everyone around me gain the things that I have wanted so much throughout various times this year. It has made me feel small. It has made me feel insignificant. It has made me feel like a failure.

I couldn't figure out what life seemed to be working against me, why nothing was going right for me. After lots of soul searching, praying, crying to best friends, and several $30 co-pays to my therapist, I am thankful for losing the control that I thought I had.

While you can always have a plan for where you want to go, you never know what obstacles are waiting once you set sail on your course. Storms come. Winds blow. So much rain falls that you think you might drown. But just like the flowers need water to grow, sometimes we have to go through situations that produce a few tears to grow to our next level.

If we could control the things that would make us grow, we would never utilize them. As human beings, most of us have a tendency to retreat from pain. As much as I have struggled. I thank GOD for my 27th year. While I am by no means a flower yet, blossoming and beautiful. I am very much a seed that is still taking root. Let's see what blossoms the next years brings.