Another year, another Black History month, and yet I find myself still trying to figure out what it means. As an educated African-American of the third millennium you would think that I know more, that I could spout an awe-inspiring answer with ease. Yet even I cannot fully grasp the meaning of this month.
Is it a month of homage to those who struggled and to those still struggling, is it a concession made by a pluralistic society, or is it about the dynamic of being an American of African descent? Our meaning of black identity as a society is based on a history that we grudgingly acknowledge, but abruptly stopped acknowledging, around 1975. It’s a history that wants me to be ashamed of the Panthers, to question Malcolm’s motives, and to glorify the 1950-1963 Martin Luther King, Jr.
But I look at these same things and draw different lessons. The free-lunch and head-start programs first introduced by the Panthers were adopted by the government. Malcolm X sought to create an alternative to a tried and true America, which bloodied his brethren. And in the post-1963, post-civil rights act Martin Luther King, Jr. moved his focus from challenging Jim Crow in the South and took on the institutional racism found in the North.
I look back and yearn for a time when our purpose was so true, our drive so resolute, my identity so clear. I find myself struggling with how I fit into America. I love America, yet I hate America. I share a love for American ideals with my third-world brethen, yet the practice—the pursuit of achieving these aims—leaves me utterly repulsed. For instance, the war on drugs, which was intended to free our nation from the demon of addiction, underscores this situation. Today, I must ask if the war on drugs is a war on me, my family, and my people. Since the implementation of this war, America’s prison population has swelled to nearly two million, with an even heavier skew towards minority populations. Today, one out of every three African-American males, aged 18-24 are in some way involved in the criminal justice system, more than are in college. Today, although two-thirds of drug users are non-minorities, non-minorities constitute less than twenty percent of the drug convictions. Yet, this policy, which began like this nation with noble aims, has destroyed lives, families, and communities. And for some reason this issue is not considered a national crisis, but it is widely acknowledged as being an “African-American” crisis.
Being an African-American is about this compulsion to write this notebook, to tell these stories, to push towards a more just American existence.
