Chapter Two

A Name I Call Myself

Not quite as sensational, but arguably more important historically, is the debate over which term is the socially accepted description of choice. First, we were Negro. Now, the term sounds extremely dated, but I’ve always liked the word. To me, it’s incredibly regal and professorial. During the 1940s and 50s, it lent a certain scholarly tone to newspaper headlines like Two Negroes Found Lynched. Police Question Why They Were Out So Late. Negro was not without its drawbacks, however. Semantically, it was entirely too similar to nigger and it allowed white people to disrespect us even when using the proper terminology. I am of course referring to the popular “Nigrah” bastardization made popular by the likes of Bull Connors and George Wallace. It takes a special kind of idiot to take a word that sounds so fundamentally positive and twist it into a slur. That’s how dedicated to being ignorant they were. Regardless of how stupid they sounded, part of me has to appreciate that. I can always respect excellence and commitment. Even in racism.

I’m not sure if it’s because the word is so closely associated with the leaders of the time, but it seems as if Negro was the perfect term to describe these individuals. Adam Clayton Powell, Medgar Evers, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X. All those men were most definitely Negroes. At least until they were arrested for protesting the disgusting treatment black people received at the time. Then, of course, they became niggers again. Negro was the suit and tie that the black community wore when we went out into the great big job interview of life. Stand up straight, look people in the eye, and don’t let them mistreat you. You’re a Negro. I think black Americans will always have fond memories of the word just because it was our initial foray into self-actualization. Negro represents the first time in our history that we dictated how we were going to be treated, represented, and labeled. “You, white man, must call me Negro. If you don’t, polite society will shun you.” Like all nascent attempts at maturity, we tend to remember it fondly. I think the first time I tried to shave myself with a disposable razor, I lost approximately one full pint of blood. But somehow, whenever I think back to it, it brings a smile to my face.

After Negro, came Afro-American. This one always confused me as a child. As a product of the 1970s, I assumed that it was somehow related to the Afro hairstyle. Although I didn’t quite understand why an entire race would choose to so closely identify itself with a popular ’do, I accepted it. Understandably, I was even more confused in the 1980s when we did not switch to being referred to as Jheri curl-Americans, or High Top Fade- Americans. In retrospect, that would have lead to an extreme fragmentation of our society. Mullet-Americans, Feathered- Americans, Jewfro-Americans. Nope. Way too divisive.

Afro-American didn’t have the organic sound of Negro, and it wasn’t nearly as literally correct as its successor. It was the perfect term for the time though. Black people were in flux. We were in between. We were starting to be proud of our roots, and still demanding our rights as Americans. We needed a term that fit the times. Nothing says blackness circa the late 1960s and 1970s like Afro. Even now, saying the word Afro makes me want to put on a dashiki and hang up an oil painting of a beautiful black sister lounging around with a panther, light some incense, fire up a joint, turn over the Parliament LP, and groove. Dig? Solid.

We seem to have settled on African-American, and at first glance it certainly does seem logical. We are Americans who are decedents of Africa. Makes sense, right? Yes, but this term poses all kinds of problems.

First, once you get into hyphenating based on continent of origin, the obvious question is, “Do you have to do that for everyone?” Asian-American, European-American, South American- American . . . where does it stop? Not to mention what happens when hyphenates marry other hyphenates and have baby hyphenates. When they apply for college, my as yet unborn children might have to suffer through form after form listing themselves as Native-American/African-American-American.

Also, even though my ancestors were originally from Africa— for that matter, who’s weren’t?—I’m about as African as Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. It seems disrespectful to African culture to refer to myself in that vein. I wear Nikes, I watch South Park, I eat fast food . . . I’m extremely American. It just seems totally arbitrary to label myself based on where my great-great-great great-great grandmother or grandfather was stolen from. Besides, I could think of several other hyphenates that would be more appropriate. Dallas Cowboy-American, TiVo-American, Internet porn-American. Those all go a lot further in describing what kind of person I am than African-American. Don’t get me wrong. If I had lived during Marcus Garvey’s time, I would have been the first person on board the Black Star Line. Good idea, Marcus. Let’s cut all ties with this racist cesspool of a country and start fresh on our own. (Although, given the way things turned out in Liberia, maybe that wouldn’t have been such a good idea.) I look forward to the day when I can set foot on the continent. I realize that, ultimately, I am a son of Africa. But I was born and raised in Eden, North Carolina. I don’t trace my lineage back to the Masai, Wolof, or Yoruba tribes. I trace it back through various Adams, Jumpers, Moreheads, and Meadows from all over the southern United States. I’m American, damn it. As corny and trite as that may seem, isn’t that what my people fought so long and hard for? So that I could stand next to a lily-white Republican from Connecticut and feel just as American as him? At least until the cops come.

The last, and most obvious, problem with African-American is that it takes too damned long to say. Say it out loud. African- American. Seven syllables. It’s quite a mouthful. And a clumsy one at that. It’s not a lyrical mouthful that rolls off the tongue like lugubrious or verisimilitude. (Consult dictionaries . . . now. Don’t sweat it. I didn’t know what they meant either.) Whenever my wife and I go to Seattle to visit her family, I look forward to the stimulating conversations that I know we will have with my in-laws. They are smart, well-educated people who are always abreast of the political, social, and cultural issues of the day. They watch tons of movies and read tons of books. Both her parents are Native-Americans, so they take great pains to be sensitive when they are talking about other cultures. I remember my mother-in-law talking about a conversation that she had had with a coworker.

“I was talking with my friend James, who’s an African American. He was saying that in the African-American community . . .” I felt like screaming, “What did that nigger say already?”

Which brings me to my personal favorite: Black. It makes more sense than the others in every way. Phonetically, it’s no contest. One syllable versus multi-syllabic hyphenates. Black wins hands down. Although initially it doesn’t conjure the lofty bourgeois imagery of the other terms, it depicts a more realistic portrayal of who we really are. Indeed, who we have become. And I don’t mean that in a negative way. (I also don’t mean that in a literal way. I have met some extremely dark people in my life, but I think very dark brown is the closest a human being can come to actually being black.) When my family put on our Sunday best and sat through a two-hour, fire-and-brimstone, Baptist church service . . . we were African-American. When we came home and changed into jeans for Sunday dinner . . . we were black. When I go into an office for a job interview . . . I’m African-American. Once I get the job . . . I’m black. Black is who we are and what we call ourselves when we aren’t concerned with what white people think. It isn’t lesser than. It isn’t greater than. It just is. It’s more casual, more understated, and much more honest.

The word is also vastly more organic than the alternatives. Over the years, while the cultural and political elite of black society were busy deciding what we should be called, we simply started referring to ourselves as black. It does not allow us to hang on to some old, bullshit ideal of what we are supposed to be. Or how we’re supposed to look or act or think or dress or what kind of music we’re supposed to listen to. Black says, “This is us. The best of us, the worst of us. Take it or leave it.”

We were shown the way by different social, political, and cultural pioneers. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, James Brown, Malcolm X, Shirley Chisolm, Tom Bradley, Jackie Robinson, Jim Brown, Bill Russell, Ralph Ellison, Toni Morrison, Langston Hughes, Dr. Ronald McNair, Dr. Mae C. Jemison, Cornel West, Randall Robinson, Sidney Poitier, Ozzie Davis, Ruby Dee, Dick Gregory, Bill Cosby. These are all black people. Hear that? That’s the sound of white readers running off to the Internet to do some serious research.

Being African-American means that you have to live up to a certain standard at all times. I like being black if for no other reason than that it’s only one step removed from being a nigger. That way, if I act a fool at a concert or decide to hang out all night smoking weed and drinking malt liquor with Big E., I won’t be ashamed or feel the need to apologize. Here’s a little secret that black people don’t want white America to know. There’s a little nigger in all of us. All of us. Dr. King? Rumored to have been quite the ladies’ man. Jesse Jackson? Fathered an illegitimate child. Al Sharpton? The hair. Enough said.