On Being Black

Recently, thanks to the candidacy of Barack Obama, there have been a spate of "blackness" assessments. Frequently, and I suppose that it's the color of his skin and the simple fact of his success, Obama has been criticized for being less than genuinely black. I can't quite grasp the meaning of this criticism, but what I generally take away from such an indictment is that the person making the argument is black and disagrees with Obama in some way or other that the accuser finds repugnant. In that case, Obama's lack of blackness is regarded as "wrongheadedness" which furthermore must be due to too much white pigment, after all, he had a white mother.

Let's step back a minute and see if we can figure out exactly what blackness is and isn't. First, I think we can quickly rule out color in its most visual meaning. The darkest skinned African, perhaps a Rwandan, or an Eritrean, who has managed to escape his native country, done what it takes to become an American citizen, worked his proverbial butt off and is now buying and developing real estate, feels no impediment from his color especially when compared to the difficulties of being in a war ravaged society, and does not identify with black Americans and their historical struggle, is not genuinely black. At least not in the American sense. This person has money, has been enfranchised with the right to vote, is taking advantage of the rules of law, including those against discrimination, is thrilled with being here and is acting more like a European immigrant than a typical black American. Maybe his children will experience something different, maybe not. But okay, if I buy that then maybe the litmus test for blackness is slave ancestry.

Let's take a look at slave ancestry. Who has it? Who knows his ancestry? Who knows that he was descended from slaves and slaves only? What do we do about mixed race ancestors? American Indian blood? What about blacks who are descended from free black men? Or how about the black man who is descended from Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings? Is he more black than the immigrant black African with no white ancestry? Or less black than the descendants of Jefferson's black slaves with whom Jefferson did not procreate?

Perhaps the test is longevity under the American sky, the extent to which one's family has been subject to the American apartheid with all of its inconsistencies and regional differences? Too many variables there. And again, there are tenacious families who have been here since colonization, earned an education, managed to rise above their peers, black and white, literally became rich and entered the upper class of America. I'm sure they sometimes feel their own blackness, but in the eyes of the less fortunate they are considered more akin to rich whites than "real" blacks. They even have power. I'll bet a lot of people put Obama, with his Harvard degree and very fine clothes, squarely in that camp.

No, none of these seem to be the right test for blackness and if we were to provide some kind of definitive analysis along any of these lines we'd no doubt end up in a far worse mess than we're already in and even those who would assess Obama's lack of blackness, his half whiteness, would be unhappy with the results because other half-black Americans whom they would point to as exemplary blacks, men whose blackness was unquestionable would suffer in the analysis and we'd be missing the point.

So what is the point? Is the point attitude? Does righteous indignation hold the summit? When a black man succeeds, thanks his God for his family, his wealth, his health and his overall good fortune, and lives happily, does he have less claim to his blackness than the man who has all of those material and earthly successes, but maintains a full measure of indignation because he feels he might have been more if not for the injustices of our color divided playing fields? Now we're getting somewhere because I think a lot of us would say yes, brother, you're right. You could have been more and it's whitey who has kept you down. I confess, at times I have thought so myself. And maybe there's something to that idea.

But then I look around a little and I see something strange, something that makes me sit up and question myself. I see men, black men who have used their indignation to succeed. We all know a man like this, who has taken the demon by the horns and wrestled himself onto its back and is riding that demon to success right now. Is this the blackest of black men? Maybe, but wait a minute, where would he be without his demon? Does his success depend on the demon? Was slavery good for him? Shame on me. What a thought! Obviously, the lessons we learn are not always worth the price we pay for them. Still, they are lessons learned and we can pass them on to our children.

So, now that he is on top, this man who has conquered his demons and ridden them to success, now that he is on top and has given his children all that he lacked, do the children lose their blackness? Even a little bit? Is that another price to be paid? Does a black man's success in America create a new black child, one less authentic? Is Barack Obama one of those men? Or one of those children? Or is he something all together different? With his Kenyan father, his Indonesian boyhood, is his blackness even American?

Now I'm confused. I don't know what qualifies as black, still I can feel that a man means something personal when he levels that complaint and disagree though I might with it having been leveled at all, I can't quite argue it away because there is something there that I haven't quite put my finger on, something I agree with, something that makes me nod my head and say "maybe Obama isn't so black."

Is it regard? Is the black man who continues to regard his downtrodden fellow's plight to be as important as his own success the man with the highest claim to blackness? Yes, that's it! That's the answer, but whoa, hold your horses, there's a problem with that, too. That man with empathy, with a history of adversity, with good will toward his fellow, might just as easily be white pigmented as black, or he could be brown or yellow. If the test is about empathy, history and commitment to the race, two things are certain, the blackest man could easily be Jewish, and Obama has demonstrated plenty of empathy. So now we're back at square one.

And being at square one is not such a bad place to be because now we can throw up our hands, throw out "blackness" and assess Obama not by the color of his skin, whatever that is, or the loyalty to his race, whatever that is, but by the quality of his record, the integrity of his ideas and his ability to bring us all into the discussion about the future of America. So far he's doing reasonably well. He has a long way to go, but so far he's made a legitimate claim on his own personal authenticity, not some undefinable blackness.

And one more thing, if he wins the presidency, every person can feel the pride of possibility, the legitimacy of the American dream, where a man is judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. Every person can take pride in a new inclusiveness that makes any one color less important, less defining, and a multitude of colors more invigorating. The tremendous talent in this country that has been hidden behind color and gender and poverty might be tapped. That is one very powerful reason to vote for him. It is an affirmation of the ultimate American ideal. You can do anything. You can be president. Yes, you.

A Pleasant Drive

As part of my job, I make deliveries. I enjoy making deliveries, but when a delivery goes bad I forget what I like about them. Take yesterday for example. Everything was running along fine. I had my food, my supplies, my drinks. My car was neatly packed, I had plenty of gas and I was leaving early. One delivery at 5:00, a second at 5:30. Perfect. Until I got out onto the street.

All week the streets have been quiet, it's mid-winter school vacation and a lot of lucky people are in warmer places. Did they all come back on Thursday evening? I don't know. But anyway, everyone who was at work must have decided to leave at the same time. Here it was 4:30, usually a busy time, but gridlocked? Not likely. Was it like this at 3:00? Would it be like this at 6:00? Relax, I thought, you have 30 minutes to get somewhere that takes 15. Wrong, it took all of 30 and then some. Still no problem, I've got leeway. Called the client, asked him to meet me on the street as he always does, bring his cart, that's the routine. No problem, he said, be right down. 5 minutes, 10, 15, called him back, did you forget about me? No, I can see my guy right there, he's on the phone, I'll get him right down to you. 5 minutes, 10, wait there's someone looking around. Hi, I say, I have food, are you here to get it? Yeah, I'll get a cart.

I'm thinking, get a cart! get a cart! What the hell have you been doing for the past 25 minutes? Another minute passes, where the hell did he go? Where's that stupid cart? Finally, he's here with the cart. I've been here for 25 minutes, I tell him. He says, I've been down here, I didn't see you, they usually come in. I don't know who "they" is, but I've never gone in before. And why should "they?" Why unload from car to cart, walk 100 feet into a lobby and unload again from cart to cart. Makes no sense, but what's worse, and more pressing, now I'm already overdue at the next delivery which should be only 10 minutes away and that customer isn't answering her phone. I'm getting that knotted up feeling that 10 minutes away might be a lot longer tonight.

Yup, certainly not 10 minutes, and every bit of 30. On my way to a place I've never been before, I can't see the addresses, I can't read the street signs and the frustration of a heavy traffic commute is spilling out all over. Cars are speeding off at green lights, rushing through yellows and honking viciously at anyone who doesn't fit into the hectic grooves, and that just to travel a block and get to the back of the next grid. There is no play for mistakes, which I make, have to circle past my turn, find the right lane this time because hell is waiting if I'm in the wrong lane, ignore the angry revs and glares and finally park in an illegal spot. There aren't any legal ones anyway, and of course this is just one minor inconvenience that I would ordinarily take in stride, but tonight, now that I'm late, late! I can hardly believe it, the illegal parking spot feels like the weight of a senseless bureaucracy placed squarely on my shoulders. Late! I'm pissed off that I have to park illegally to make this delivery, but so it is, and then I go into the clinic, leave the food, the client is happy and I'm done. Done. 13 hours after my day began, I'm done. Shit, I swear. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! Doesn't help.

All the stress has nowhere to go but to my heart or my head or my mouth and I pick up my voicemail messages and even though my day has already run forever, my wife is politely asking me to pick up her prescription on my way home. Geesh.

Cutting the Dog's Hair

Sam, the dog, has so far been in our home for seven years. He's probably eight years old, but the shelter was vague about his history, didn't remember his birth name or exactly how old he was. He was an import from Taunton's kill shelter, (now there's an oxymoron!) but he was rescued by the Milton Animal League, a no-kill shelter about two miles from our new home and we found him as they did, big and black and shaggy, so big in fact, that the shelter had named him Bear. But belying his name he was not the least bit aggressive, lying in a depressed heap kowtowing to his dominant mother, politely waiting to eat and pretty much deferring to everyone and any dog who crossed his path. He was so calm that I thought the shelter was mistaken, that he was really way past a year old, on his last legs and not likely to take up much space in my life before he passed on to the dog netherworld, and being only a little better than Taunton, I was pretty happy to take him home for a while, hoping that his shelf life would last just until my daughter went off to college. Wrong.

After we brought him home, the first thing we did was drop him off at the groomer for a shave and a bath. Phew! He came back acting like Sampson with his strength gone, not only did he look completely different, but he was so embarrassed to be naked that he spent the next day crawling under tables and hiding behind chairs. His tail was long, ropy and bare like an opposum's. I was embarrassed for him and believe me, baldness usually makes me feel proud. This was acute and sudden baldness, no time to develop pride. Think of chemo victims with their heads hunkered discreetly down between their shoulders wrapped in tell-tale scarves. Sam didn't even have a scarf.

That should have tipped me off right away. The dog was clearly, obviously, undoubtedly, embarrassed. Who knew that dogs could be embarrassed? I felt for him, poor guy. But he got over that pretty quickly. Maybe a day or two, a week at most. Hair grows and haircuts wear off. But more importantly, to me anyway, I didn't even notice that Sam was already growing on me. Dog empathy?

I must say, once he got over the embarrassment, he looked like the bright young guy that he was. He strutted like any cock in the barnyard, his tail held high, sniffing every rock in the neighborhood and pissing on it just for show. I was proud just to know him, but uh oh, I thought, this guy is going to last a long time around here. Little did I know.