Am I Black?

I kinda suck at this…

There’s a question that’s been keeping me up at night that burns and numbs me all at once. “Am I black?” It’s not a literal question; I’m not asking if I have the pigment of charcoal or of crude oil, of obsidian rock or of hot, sticky racecar tires. Nor is it a metaphorical question; I bear no likeness to Trent Reznor after a bad breakup. The burning, numbing question is whether or not I am … you know … black. Like racially speaking: Am I — “ssshhh, not so loud” — black? Seriously. Because I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m still not entirely sure. According to the impressionable American public and nearly every employer that I’ve ever had (not to mention the Greensboro Police Department), I “fit the description.” Sir, step out of the vehicle. Sure, my skin is dark; in both winter and summer I hover around chestnut, peaking out at espresso. My whole life, though, I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that they — teachers, peers, employers and public officials alike — could be terribly, terribly wrong.

Years of first being called an “Oreo” and later being called an “African booty scratcher,” only to then be called “the whitest black guy anyone knows” will work against anyone’s certainty. Maybe there was a memo I accidentally deleted. Maybe there was a big board meeting where the Black Panthers, the Harlem Globetrotters, and Soulja Boy convened and set forth the nation’s Black Laws. The Founding Brothas. And for this nation, they wrote a Bill of Rights, except they called it the Tyrone of Rights because, well… and then, after a ceremonial blessing by Re-Run and Rosa Parks, they sent The Laws out to every man, woman, child, child-impregnated-with-child, baby daddy, baby mama, boo, cousin, play cousin, Grandmama… you get the picture. They sent out The Law, and The Law became Word. That’s probably why black guys say “Word” when they agree with something! The Law became Word and it spread to everyone. Everyone but me. I don’t know, maybe the Word got lost at the post office. That happens all the time! Surely there’s some sort of DMV for blackness where I was supposed to renew my paperwork, keep my Black Card registered and valid. Did I miss the deadline? Don’t be silly, I assure myself. Everyone knows the Black Card office would revoke your citizenship immediately if you turned in your paperwork on time. Admittedly, though, I didn’t score too well on the Rob Parker Scale of Blackness. But still — dude. I mean — dawg. I’m black. Right? …Right?

Okay, let’s play a game. Pretend you had no idea who was writing this piece, that you were oblivious to the name or race of the author at the top of the paper because it was whited out. Consider this an experiment, and consider me an “anonymous author.” This anonymous author gives a few details about himself, and asks you to guess his race. Here are the clues about me, the anonymous author: I have horrible credit; I rap and play bass guitar; and I grew up without a father figure. Now what race am I? I mean on a scale of zero to Samuel L. Jackson, I’m at least a Will Smith, right? Maybe even a Danny Glover and a half. What if we add these details about me, just to sweeten the pot: I’ve had dreadlocks for half of my life; I’ve been fired from nearly every job I’ve ever had; and I consider Eddie Murphy and Richard Pryor to be heroes. Okay, no deliberation needed — this guy is definitely black. Midnight black. Tap-dancing-on-a-Cadillac black. Ring it in.

Now let’s pretend the same game show (yes, it’s a game show now. It’s called “Whose Skin Is It Anyway?” and it’s hosted by Chris Rock. I’m considering selling the rights to ABC. Unfortunately BET passed.) has a bonus lightning round. Vanna White (go figure) brings out the author’s new clues: I love Coldplay and Mumford & Sons; my favorite three sports are lacrosse, surfing and snowboarding; and I think O.J. did it. WHOA. Curveball. “We were so sure before that he was black, but now…” Your wheels are turning. “Are we allowed to ask yes or no questions? We are?”

“Okay — have you been arrested more than once?”

“Yes!”

“Alright — do you like Tyler Perry movies?”

“No!”

“Hmmm… well are you good at basketball?”

“I wish I were, but there are few things I’m worse at!”

Chris Rock cues the live studio audience to collectively shout the show’s catch phrase: “Name That Race!” The time is ticking but you’re at a loss. Your best guess is that I’m either a white ghetto hippie with slightly conservative political leanings, or that I’m the estranged suburban-raised offspring of Bootsy Collins. Neither is terribly far from the truth, but you’re coming back down to earth now and starting to get my point about how confusing this gets. You’re starting to see why I’m still not sure if I’m ‘black.’

I should consider that maybe I’m ‘African-American.’ It’s an appropriate title for anyone in America who is of African descent, right? According to the census, that’s the only bubble I fit in. And I guess it fits better — a little snug around the edges, but better — than the alternative. After all, I am the first-born American citizen of an African family. In fact, I was born just three months after my family got here from Swaziland, making me the first American citizen of my bloodline. Technically that makes me the most African-American guy I know. But the curiosity is not in the title; it’s in the association. How, then, besides the abundance of melanin in our skin cells, am I socially similar to my “African-American” counterparts: few of whom shared the same friends, school classes, neighborhoods, or interests; many of whom are multi-generational Americans; many of whom have zero attachment to the African country from which they descended; and many of whom actually have more European DNA than they do African? Add the fact that recently, so-called African-Americans are beginning to distance themselves from the term itself, specifically for the aforementioned reasons, and you begin to realize the extent of this semantic clusterfuck and how absurd it is that we’ve guised it as acceptable nomenclature. Gibre George, in the Huffington Post article Some Blacks Insist: ‘I’m Not African-American’, speaks of this rift: “We’re several generations down the line. If anyone were to ship us back to Africa, we’d be like fish out of water.” Indeed, perhaps the only thing Mr. George and I may have in common is our relative unfamiliarity with each other’s cultures. Yet even African-Americans who “[claim] Africa as part of their identity… appear to be ignorant to the realities of Africa and its people.” More ironic, still, is our common bond of American citizenship, while our differences are defined by how we choose to claim America. Now pay attention because this is where it gets interesting.

The origin of the African divide, the catalyst to our conflicting consciousness, can be pinned, predictably, to our relative relationships with America’s slave past. There is, apparently, a marked difference when your exodus to the United States is by choice rather than by force, when you came to exploit America rather than be exploited by it (consider our current President), and when you are under only a fraction of a generation’s influence of American social consciousness. Literally, I share more in common with my friend Alam, who is a first generation Indian in America, and whose parents were born and raised in South Africa. The African-American identity, on the other hand — not the one that describes my and Alam’s similar immigrant story, but the one that the Department of Education implies on those curious little bubble sheets — seems to be dominated by the tug-of-war between reconciliation and retribution. The result is a culture that is simultaneously proud and ashamed; embarrassed of her ignorance while also adopting and morphing, even flaunting her ignorance in acknowledgement and celebration of her patriarchy, uneducated as he was; having a deep spirituality that often manifests in either devout asceticism, or rebels in self-destructive indulgence in order to distance herself from her abusive European stepfather, making her both angel and demon, both God and gangster. Ebonics, by every academic definition available, is a language, one that I speak about as well as I speak French: I can read it, understand most of it when it’s spoken clearly to me, but have a hard time formulating sentences quickly.

I’m speaking, of course, in generalizations — generalizations that aren’t at all fair. I rarely observe mass media because I don’t enjoy watching cable television and I find the radio unbearably frustrating. But when I do observe, I often imagine being a Martian ambassador charged with the mission of learning about the human race based on my observations of media. Shows like Orange is the New Black, Sports Center, 106 & Park, and The Game would lead me to conclude that the vast majority of African-Americans are either criminals, professional athletes, or rappers. Even watching the local news would seal my conclusion and round out my recon. This is, of course, a lie, a perpetuated myth that many black Americans struggle daily to prove defunct, as the innocent and the impressionable fall in accord to its self-fulfilling prophecy. The vast majority of black Americans are neither criminals, nor professional athletes, nor rappers. But you see, we humans are an empathic species: we do as we see, until eventually we see only as we do. The young child sees only gangsters in his neighborhood; eventually he becomes a gangster who sees crime as his only option. Being aware of this, seeing the world through this lens sheds light on why I must be so confusing and contradictory to the expectations of my “fellow” African-Americans, yet also forces me to constantly question the true motives behind my choices in career and identity, such as my choice to rap for money. Ironically enough, my ability to rap in high school is probably the only thing that gave me a “black enough” pass, the only stamp that kept my Black Card valid. Nevermind my being full-blooded African; being black has nothing to do with one’s nationality.

Let’s backtrack and pretend briefly that we’re back on the same game show, a fourth and final round to take home all the marbles. Your illustrious host Chris Rock gives you two choices: either walk with your current winnings, or risk it on an all-or-nothing final guess. You’re feeling lucky and you opt for the second choice, much to the delight of the live studio audience. The author gives his last round of clues: I have a click in my last name; I have more teeth in my mouth than I have room to hold them; and I consider Nelson Mandela to be my surrogate father. “Hmmm,” you think, “Doesn’t sound like anything American.” Three more clues will cost you $3,000, but you decide it’s worth it to get a shot at the grand prize. “We’ll buy three more clues, Chris!” “Sure!” says Mr. Rock, “But it’s gon’ cost ya! Bring out the clues, mothafucka, bring out the clues!” Vanna reveals the clues: My favorite comedy is Coming to America; I have a natural talent for rhythm and dance; and I love wearing animal prints and look good in them. Your heart is racing; you’re nervously considering your options and you’ve logically deduced that this time it’s a trick question. But you can’t be sure unless you purchase some more clues. You notify the host; the crowd jumps to their feet in excitement. “Ladies and gentleman! Oh shit! For the first time in Whose Skin is it Anyway? history, we have a contestant that wants to buy the eight-thousand-motha-fuckin’-dolla Final Clue Showdown! Yo’ ass betta get this right or you gon’ be more broke than Hammer! Vanna! Bring yo’ fine ass out here and show this man some clues so I can get the fuck outta here!” Vanna appears, and reveals the final clues one at a time: I have rigid bone structure; high cheekbones; a wide-set nose; and big, plump lips like everyone in my family. (The final clue) And I have a noticeable weakness for the bottom-heavy female form. “African,” you say, with no hesitation. “American-African.” Not a slip of the tongue, but a confident reassignment of terms. “Final answer.” The drum rolls while the audience waits in eager anticipation for Vanna to open the envelope. She pulls out a 6” by 8” card, reads it, looks up at you, smiles, and turns to reveal the card’s message: American-African. Confetti falls, doves are released, and the show fades to black. Or rather, American-African.