I have a love-hate thing with February. Okay, more of a dislike-hate thing.
It’s a short month of generally unpleasant weather, reminding me that spring is still more than a month away. And that fact that it’s Black History Month doesn’t do much to lift my spirits, either.
I hate to say that. Because as a black woman, I’m proud of my race’s history of survival through atrocities, and some awesome accomplishments in the face of adversity. I like the idea of Black History Month in principle, but dammit, I get tired of seeing the same old crap trotted out year after tired-ass year. I sometimes feel like it’s about as exciting as National Clock Month (that's October; you have plenty of time to plan your parties).
I recently read a newspaper story saying younger folks don’t even really get the significance of Martin Luther King Day, though they do know he was a black dude who did some good. So what hope do we have that they’ll come away with anything lasting from Black History Month?
The problem isn’t the young folks. It isn’t the old folks, either, who paid their dues already. The problem is with those in the middle, myself included, who haven’t passed along our history in a meaningful fashion, and who haven’t appreciated how far race relations have come.
Yes, terrible things happen to blacks simply because they are black — particularly when they live in places where racial tensions still run deep. Take the Jena 6 situation. Or, more recently, the situation in Lima, Ohio, where the police went in with guns blazing and killed a black woman when it was her freaking boyfriend they were supposed to be after — and wounded the couple’s 14-month-old child in the process.
But we really have come a long way, and my dad reminded me of that this past weekend. He grew up in the rural “Jim Crow” south, where he could only drink from the colored water fountain and go to the colored movie theater. He dreamed of being a pilot but had to settle for hopping a Greyhound bus to Chicago days after graduating from high school, and he never really got anywhere financially.
What he did do, though, was instill in his two children a love of all people and a feeling that we should aim high in our life goals. When my brother was in high school and was told his desire to be an architect was a mere fantasy, my Dad went apeshit, refusing to see another dream die. Now in his late 20s, my brother is indeed an architect and will soon have his master's degree in management.
My dad got teary with me talking about going to the polls, wishing that his father had lived to see how far racial progress has come, that a black man could be a viable candidate on a major party ticket.
That put some perspective on things. I am the granddaughter of rural southern sharecroppers who never could have imagined a granddaughter with a master’s degree who would be writing a monthly newspaper column on diversity or a grandson who would design multimillion-dollar buildings.
And there’s the crux of the problem. Black History Month serves up big names like Dr. King, Malcolm X, and others. And we focus on them until we are numb. But it’s the nameless folks like my dad and other regular people to whom we should have been paying homage. I need to start doing that, and I invite you to do the same.
Shay Stewart-Bouley can be reached at diversecity_phoenix@yahoo.com.
