The Who of What I’m Not Pt.1

I am a female who was born into a brown body in the late 1950's. My Georgia birth certificate specifies my ethnicity as Negro, a classification concocted by a white supremacist society. Negro and its kissing cousin, nigger were used to define me as either almost human or less than a farm animal. And although the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863 formally abolished the enslavement of my ancestors, racism remains an implicit method of psychological bondage from which there is supposedly no escape. Racism shaped the narrative of my life.

That said, I have been graced with moments of personal empowerment which reaffirmed my humanity many times over. The most significant took place after divorcing a deeply troubled man. The divorce in and of itself is inconsequential, other than to delineate racism as the reason for poor choices and decisions I’ve made throughout my life. The underlying factors for my behavior are more complicated than one might expect.

My mother and father grew up in a rural Georgia town where train tracks separated whites from blacks and the streets were paved with red clay and hate, a roiling pressure cooker where a black person could be lynched for sneezing in public. Writer and fascism expert Ruth Ben-Ghiat said the Jim Crow South is an example of “...regional authoritarianism...” To survive southern fascism, my parents embodied a virulent form of restraint, vigilance, and perfection, in their minds, a force field against the white threat.

When Dad was accepted to the University of Illinois, the first to attend college on either side of my family, we joined the Great Migration north, among thousands of African Americans who fled the South seeking a better life. I easily made friends in the vibrant international community. The university offered kids a myriad of fun diversions. Weekends and summers were spent roaming the campus as our playground until long after sunset. I stayed out as late as possible. The repression my parents thought they’d escaped had seeped into their DNA and, as a result, permeated our household.

Repression stalked us to Rockford, IL., the first African-American family to integrate an all-white subdivision on the city's east side. The area’s reputation for excellent schools was the golden ticket to success in a white world. During the drive to our new home, Mom casually remarked that a cross could be burned on our lawn. Imagine our shock when two jolly white ladies holding cakes appeared at our door, Mom and Dad put on happy faces and invited them for tea. When our neighbors left, no one said a word, though the message was deafening. Do not be deceived. White people cannot be trusted.

My parents' worldview angered me. Deep within my twelve-year-old self, I understood
their terror was neither my reality nor responsibility. A smart, curious kid with my own
opinions, I’d interacted with all types of white people, and yes, some were racist, but many were not. In middle school, a teacher's aide identified my gift for art and offered to arrange after-school painting classes. He handed me a permission slip for my parents’
signature. They never saw it. A white man’s recognition of my abilities felt like a betrayal
of everything my parents believed, so I dropped the slip in the trash.

Longing to express myself without fear, I yearned to be in the world authentically.
Instead, an angry kid matured into an angry adult fluent in the blame game. Victimization is a currency that devalues personal accountability. I’m embarrassed to admit that problems of my own making were attributed to racism. I used racism to sabotage all manner of relationships and opportunities. And of course, I was only hurting myself.

Marriage seemed like a good distraction. The man I chose epitomized the repression that afflicted my childhood. We raised two sons. My art life thrived. Works reflecting racism from a victimized perspective resonated with people, and at exhibitions, many queued up to share their appreciation. Praise made me uncomfortable. As thank you’s were exchanged, an acute sense of impostor syndrome hung over me.