Colorblind: Requiem for An Angry Black Bitch

I, Too

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

I, too, sing America. 

I am the darker brother. 

They send me to eat in the kitchen 

When company comes, 

But I laugh, 

And eat well, 

And grow strong. 

Tomorrow, 

I’ll be at the table 

When company comes. 

Nobody’ll dare 

Say to me, 

“Eat in the kitchen,” 

Then. 

Besides, 

They’ll see how beautiful I am 

And be ashamed— 

I, too, am America.

The poem above reflects the awkward space and inner fight I experienced during my 4th of July in New York. I stood in the crowd, peering between shoulders to catch a view of the Macy's celebration. Five barges, laden with fireworks, floated atop the East River, ready to brighten the Manhattan sky at 9:45pm. Kids toyed with cellphone apps while impatiently waiting for the show to begin, and adults stayed glued to their selfie sticks and Snapchats. Around me, I expected to hear the usual mixture of complaints, flirts, and passive aggressive hangry commentary, but I was greeted by another sound. Instead of English, the crowd around me hummed and buzzed in Arabic, Spanish, Hindi, and more . . . these were the proud patriots. The immigrants. The others. We were the ones at risk of explusion, via bullet, barring, or blockade.

On any other 4th of July, I would have waived away my "shock," and mingled. However, given the state of this nation, my nation, I felt a bit taken aback and frustrated. During my time in New York, I experienced a true melting pot, and I loved every minute of it. We were one in food, song, happiness, and even shoes (long story, but thank you, Becco). Sadly, though, it was also we
Americans who are one in suffering. 

I too, am America, but only when it suits you. I too, am America when you want me bare-breasted and bronze, my melanin a fountain for your consumption. I too, am America when my fruit is yours to spoil, and my tree dries up in fear of another sapling gone too soon. I too, am America when I am mocked and sensationalized on reality tv or silenced by stereotypes. I am the over exaggerated, unnecessarily angry tenant of the crooked room, renting space in corners not meant for me. My brothers and sisters are America when our lack of recognition and access enables your ability to support a profit from diversity. 

I too, am America when my color fills a slot on your rainbow, but I am dry during the harvest of the American Dream. Do not call me angry, now that my whisper is a shout. Do not call me a bitch, now that I have earned the legal right to rebut. Do not call me black when you ignore that colorized violence only polarizes the problem. I am not your friend, comrade. I am not your sista, your freak, or your mouthpiece. I am America, and she is fed up. 

When you stigmatized and separate others to the margins, the strong will find a way to survive. Understand that ignorance and hatred will breed a more ferocious and fervent oppressed, opining not for compromise and concession. 

The ABB illusion is dead. 

Required Reading:

Sister Citizen
Shifting
Invisible Man