Black History Month is coming to a close so let’s talk black people. Being black is a gift, a privilege only granted to the most elite; it’s like being a part of a secret society of bronzed gods and goddesses who are always overlooked and under-booked, yet everyone secretly wants the password for entry to our club.
Being black means living a lifestyle that most don’t understand.
See, being black means oppression of course. Being black means living amongst your oppressors who refuse to take ownership as being your oppressor, even while they oppress you.
Being black means not getting the job because you’re black, not getting the home loan because you’re black, not getting the raise because you’re black.
Being black means teaching your young son how to avoid being killed when he sees blue lights flashing.
Being black means teaching your young daughter how to love her kinky hair, despite the constant portrayals of beauty in society of women who look nothing like her.
Being black means colorism, gentrification, systematic and institutional racism, and blatant hatred.
Being black means bearing a burden that you know for a fact your children’s children’s children will bear because that’s how life works. Right?
But people forget to mention that being black means blessings. Understand, no black people means no people. Open heart surgery? That was Daniel Hale Williams, he’s black. In need of laser surgery? Patricia Bath helped you out, she’s black. And if you’re like me and appreciate having dry clothes, you can thank George T. Sampson, a black man, for the first clothes dryer.
Being black means being the epitome of Langston Hughes’ poem Mother to Son. We are constantly set up for failure, yet look at us. Still prospering. Still shining. Still doing what we do best: being black, and proud. Despite our struggles, there is no other race black people would rather be than black. Even on our darkest days, our blackness unites us, our struggles bring us together, and our resilience keeps us going.
