HopefuL Brown Face

In the crucibles of self-doubt I utter self affirmations; speaking life over my future like a prophetess. I’m less concerned with the optics and more concerned with the process because that’s the only way I’ll ever make progress.

I wear my brown skin like fine linens, never forgetting my ancestors and their beginning. I come from a fine lineage. Since they brought us on boats we’ve been magical and obviously valuable. Why else would they trade us like bars of gold?

I see beauty in our historical rise. From non English speaking slaves to citizens— witness the pain in our intelligent eyes. We always overcome.

Our African American history is the context which explains our present. Some souls are lost because no one wants to teach the details in their white washed lessons…

So I speak for those who need a roadmap. I speak for those who need to go back in time to find themselves in the present. Let this poem be a lesson. We were born into this misery and wrought inside oppression…but to free our minds…well, that happens at our very own discretion.

Black man

One thing I love about my husband is his ability to genuinely not care what people think about him. He’s comfortable in his own skin…in whatever space. He is so brave. Honestly I struggle with caring too much about what people think of me…so his energy…his essence… his reasoning with me about caring less…it’s all so refreshing!

The other day I took him to breakfast, my treat. I was wearing scrubs (my work uniform). He was wearing basketball shorts and a Tshirt, looking and sounding like any other cool black man. The swagger. The lack of concern for perfect diction. The style in the way he puts words together and his unique southern drawl, coasting around the restaurant and to his seat.

When the bill came the waitress sat it between us, more to his side than mine. As he sat there in complete oblivion I laid my card down. I watched her eyes scan the name on the card. Brianna Ehie. HIS Mrs. Suddenly her posture was slightly flippant. I grew very annoyed, again, caring all too much about the thought processes of other people. Assuming that she was stereotyping and judging my love.

What Sis didn’t know is that the black man she glared at… the one in the basketball shorts… why, he’s the man of the house. Breakfast is just the least I could do for the man who keeps my world spinning on its axis. She hadn’t laid eyes on just any homeboy mooching off his wife. The boy is unassuming. He has a masters degree in Accounting (let me clarify for the under-estimators). In spite of his bent towards slang and his swagger, he has a high IQ. Proven. He’s a provider. He’s our protector. He’s amazing. My family adores him and although I paid for breakfast, he’s the one keeping the lights on and paying mortgages around here. I wanted to correct her attitude and her silent audacity but I looked at my man sitting across from me unbothered. I watched him exist in his space autonomously being him and needing no permission. He was so comfortable in his basketball shorts speaking slang to his wife and eating breakfast with his family.

Sometimes I wish I could wash away the stereotypes he silently battles with daily to truly be seen. This reality is not imagined. It is lived every single day and the misperceptions about black men are almost palpable. Sometimes I wish a train followed him dragging all his titles around.Father. Husband. Provider. Counselor. Senior Accountant. Intellectual. Loyal Friend. Comedian. Sports enthusiast. Man of Charm and character.

When people wonder who he is…if I get the opportunity to speak, I will say he is a real good man and not the cluster of stereotypes many people see when they look at an urban, slang-speaking, smooth black man. He’s everything you would want your son, your husband, and your father to be. I have to learn to be like him and stop observing the things that don’t matter. Majoring on the minors. The stares. The low expectations from people about him. The dominant culture’s perception that he is generally ignorant and of low status.

I want to retire into that peaceful existence that my husband has. He never has to announce who he is. I have watched him be discriminated against in corporate America and still go to work to provide every single day. I have watched him come home frustrated at the treatment and barely utter a word about his troubles. I’m not perfect as a wife but I’ll go down in flames for him and if they ask me who he is…I’m gonna tell em and get em told. Often underestimated but always celebrated.

Black trauma

I was caring for a white man TODAY (no lies are being sold) and he said “My Grandaddy had about 50 black concubines. It don’t matter what color you are as long as you know how to act!” I excused him because he has hit his head recently and maybe his judgement is off. But maybe it’s not. People of color excuse a lot of things. Far too many. Women excuse a lot. It was a sober thought he expressed in spite of his condition. What exactly is “knowing how to act”? Subservience? It’s not exactly an honor that was given them…to be a white man’s black concubine.

Concubine: a woman who lives with a man but has lower status than his wife or wives.

People wonder why Americans of African descent (and feminists) are so traumatized and easily triggered. This is why friends. We experienced the atrocities of slavery a few lifetimes ago and even though we want to bury the memories like everyone else does…we can’t seem to bury them quite deep enough. They erupt from the soil in black blood.

We are reminded of slavery every day while trying to move on and forget with the crowd because the stench of oppression and racism is still in the air. The problematic ideas and attitudes are still being expressed. The psychological and emotional impact is lasting. It is intrusive.

I considered not posting these thoughts because maybe people are tired of hearing about matters of race. Then I decided to post this anyway because even when I’m tired of dealing with racism I still have to carry it on my shoulders. I don’t have the privilege of excusing myself from the table. So why would I stop using my platform, albeit small, to advocate for myself and my people. As long as it keeps happening I’m going to keep telling the stories and humanizing the pain for “others” to be bombarded with the images like we are bombarded with the torment of this existence. I ain’t in no ways tied.