Some of my best friends are black....

remember back in the day
when everyone was conscious
and down for the struggle
love brought us together
just sitting back and talking
cultivating a positive vibe
blue lights in the basement
freedom was at hand
you could just taste it,
it was so cool..
I'm Digging You (Like An Old Soul Record)
Meshell Ndegeocello 1993

My mother and step father were members of the Nation of Islam during the early seventies. As a pre-teen I read the Autobiography of Angela Davis, The Autobiography of Malcom X, Soul on Ice, the poems of Sonya Sanchez, June Jordan, Etheridge Knight, and Nikki Giovanni. Most of course were accompanied by the dictionary. I was to look up every word I didn't know the meaning of, in order to expand my vocabulary and obtain "the true meaning" of the text. The "required" reading continued well thru High School, when eventually, my participation in athletics and other after-school activities kept me occupied. It was thru the required reading that I seemingly developed a "pride" in my heritage, my people. I knew the difference between being proud to be black, the need to associate myself as such and the "color". That identifying myself as anything else would be to turn my back on the people who struggled for "rights" which were not afforded to "niggas". To identify myself as "African American" was to claim, maybe, one aspect of myself and my ethnicity. (Since the cradle of civilization is Africa, then all people, black and white can claim to be african american. and a white south african can check the african american box if they so desired.) Besides if and when the war comes to American soil, I don't believe they are going to bomb African Americans, Native Americans, Irish Americans, ect. I believe they are going to bomb Americans.
I must admit. I have always believed I had an infinity for my people. That, while at times a few bring an overwhelming sense of embarrassment, due to their self imposed inappropriateness, I have always been able to recover. To contribute their lack of appropriateness to lower socio-economic conditions and deprivation. Never, had I believed that I had "bought" into "racism", black on black racism that is.
On Friday, I attended my best-male friend's feature. It was held in a little "nite club". Upon entering, I realized the crowd had "changed" considerably from the previous month. There was a "hip hop" act showcasing before the poetry reading. The club, a very small one, with one way in and one way out was filled with.. Soldiers posing as wannabe gangsta rappers, and thugs posing as soldiers. There were the few locals who just wanted to.. Well, wanted to fit into the stereotypical mold that MTV, BET and the local news have created for them. Reeked of kryptonite (new slang for THC) drank Patron tequlila and Hypnotic, because MTV, BET, Rappers, the American media (print, visual and hearing) and peer pressure dictated they do such. Most wore the gangsta rapper uniform, baseball cap, gaudy jewelry, large belt buckles, XXXL t-shirts, blue jeans much too big for them with their boxer shorts exposed. Along with the modern day brand, black tattoos which represented things that are "important" in their lives. They threw up gang signs, snarled and grimaced, spoke loudly and harshly as a means of showing their toughness and expressing their manhood. And I became, as the night wore on, extremely uncomfortable. The people in my group would often express their dismay with the noise level coming from their corner. Each time some one in my group commented toward them, I moved, believing that a fight or altercation would erupt any second. I was teased, my girl stated I was from the "scaryho" tribe. And in that moment, I was. Except I was afraid for all the wrong reasons. This was not a healthy fear. There was no immediate danger. Only the "idea" of danger, because some one said I should be afraid under these circumstances. I was afraid in the way that most would describe as "white" fear. The truth of the matter was that these young men represented nothing more than a statistic or local news story. All relating to crime, substance abuse, victimization, ect. And I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed for having the thoughts. Ashamed for not believing that, they, like me, were there for simple artistic expression. Nothing more. The uniform they wore, the feelings they masked, their overt behaviors, were simply nothing more than who they were in that moment. But I couldn't. I couldn't get past the statistics and news stories. All I could think was: Security is not checking any one for weapons. How am I going to get out of here when they shyt hits the fan? I found myself watching. Watching closely because every one was suspect. And I was ashamed. And I was angry. And I was besides myself. And I fought myself. But I lost. I lost because I could not see those men for who they truly were... or at least acknowledge the possibly of who they could be.... And that night, as everyone discussed the night, including my standing in a booth reciting my piece, stomping on a table, spilling a drink on Cousin, forgeting my poem. All I could think was how I exposed my personal bigotry, and was left naked, wearing a thinly veiled sheet. Ashamed that perhaps, like so many, I have forgotten who I was, bought into black on black racism, and had become a member of the modern day Klan....