Some people claim that African American people don't have the right to celebrate Independence Day. Those people are flawed for various reasons.
To persist that the Black individual has no right to celebrate the 4th of July demeans the fact that Black people are the fabric that built this country, even before America gained independence from British rule. It is also flawed because it is self-hatred at its finest. Saying that African American people cannot have pride in the only country that they have a claim to echoes that they cannot have pride in who they are. If I don't celebrate this country, what do I celebrate? I am patriotic, not because America is so great, but because this is the country where my lineage was created, passed down, and where it will continue. My great grandmother was a sharecropper; her child moved to Chicago in the great migration. Her child, my mother, made something of herself and now I live in suburbia. I am a vivid depiction of Black history in America. I celebrate that by waving a flag and eating good food today. This land is mine. I believe that African Americans should, by all means necessary, become patriotic. If the Black man learned to love this country, he would look at his neighborhood and his neighbor differently. Perhaps he would put down his gun. If the Black woman became patriotic should would respect her country and those around her. Perhaps she would respect herself. So let's love this country, ourselves, and the yummy food we get on days like today! Be safe, be fat, be free. -MK
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First things, first; I would like every person reading this post to copy the word Afromerican. Right click, and “Add to Dictionary.” Done. We have made Afromerican a word, officially. It is no longer defined by the Urban Dictionary. In fact, for all future purposes, scratch the google results you found out of your head! I am not the final word, but I did extensive research and Zach Braff has about as much to do with the word Afromerican as I do with the NCAA March Madness. (That’s absolutely none, in case you missed the glaring sarcasm.) With the lexical tasks completed, I can begin the real purpose for this week’s Strog topic: Why I identify as Afromerican.
When I began my studies at Howard University, I thought black was Black was BLACK. But, I quickly learned that Black in the Caribbean was very different from the Black in Chicago, even though we were all BLACK. Suddenly, I was a minority because I was just plain ole black. Within the first six months I heard and used the term Afromerican. It was jokingly at first; but, by my Senior year it was how I separated Blacks who are descendants of American slaves from the rest of blacks in the African diaspora. (There’s your definition.) In a world with so many afro-based ethnicities and identities, the Black umbrella can be a bit crowded. I am by no means a separatist, but I am a scholar. I knew immediately that I would need a word to define my predicament in the very large plight of the Black community. I mean, truthfully speaking, an African American box on the census wouldn’t suffice in identifying me ethnically; mainly because I am not an African. (Bring in your wandering thoughts; I know who my ancestors are. Just keep reading.) Other than my geographic location, I can’t really claim to be an American either. My lineage alienates me from both of those separate identifications. So, throwing them together could never define who I am ethnically. I know lots of African people. People whose mothers make them delicious dishes and whose fathers wear beautiful garb. I can identify with them only in my whimsical, Black Nationalist state. Soon after I’d get done enjoying my experience with them, I would go back to my home and my mother would stare at me in bewilderment. You see, my mother is the granddaughter of a Louisianan share cropper. Her idea of a feast includes chitterlings soaked in hot sauce. She would smile and grin at the Jollof rice and then whisper and ask me if they had chicken. (See, she would know that the chicken would be safe. All Black folk like chicken.) My mother isn’t the only reason why my African ethnic identification would be a bit tricky. My dad is the grandson of a Black and Irish woman. I honestly have no clue where to begin there. So, if I go back a couple of hundred years, would a tribe in Africa house one of my ancestors? Undoubtedly. But, there is no way that I would exist if slavery hadn’t reared its nappy, dark, and lovely head. (Did I just call slavery lovely? *gasps*) Yes, I called slavery lovely; not for its years of oppressing my ancestors or for its residual effects still eating away at my people today. I used the word lovely because it created the meeting ground for all of the factors necessary to make my Thanksgiving dinners special and my culture resilient. There would be no Daisy Henton, if there was not a slave master who would eventually sell his land to a slave. There would be no Mark Henton, if the ghettos that housed Blacks weren’t so close to the Irish ghettos in Chicago. I would be an uncreated whisper blowing in the wind if ships holding slaves hadn’t anchored on this land which was never made for me. But luckily, those slaves did come. I am not African. I am not American. I ain’t even African American. I am a vessel filled to the top with identities that don’t really define me, but name me all the same. I am the black that smears on white faces in folly. I am the Black that checks the census in pride. I am the BLACK that James Brown screamed in defiance. But, if you would like to be specific, I am Afromerican. I am directly in resistance to the silent, low-lying racism that exists today. I am a remnant of tradition. I have clarity on my space underneath the umbrella term Black. And, quite frankly, I am downright giddy about the fact that words can be joined together to make new definitions from old existences. Last July I wrote this poem. It pretty much sums it up. “I am not and will never be an African. I am not and will never be the description of an American. By sheer existence, I represent the war between each of those identities. I am an Afromerican. I am fried chicken, collard greens, and gumbo. I is sho', ain't, and huh. I am Blues, Jazz, and Hip Hop. I am the personification of resilience and perseverance. There is no antecedent to my Blackness. No island I can claim. Only the solitude of knowing that my culture began in sweat, tears, and oppression. That does not make me lazy, nor marginalized. It makes me positive of my ability to rise". |
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More About MkMk is 23 year old Chicagoan. She attended Howard University in Washington, D.C., studying English. Now back in Chicago, Mk has focused on writing her truths. Outside of ATS, she also writes on Youth Alert, a blog for young Christian believers. Mk is also a stylist at Akira Hyde Park. When she isn't working on the Mag, Youth Alert, or at Akira, Mk is with her family, she spends her time with a good book or cooking.
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