bullet wound of chest, lungs, spine and spinal cord, followed by paraplegia and bronchopneumonia
In other words: he got shot.
Why Are You Wearing That White Man Over Your Heart?
Never point a gun at anybody. Never store a gun under your pillow. Treat every gun as if it were loaded. Keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction. Keep the action open when not in use. Know where your companions are. Know your gun and ammo. Be sure of your target and what’s beyond. Alcohol and shooting don’t mix! Put on the safety switch.
—March 2, 1991, Mead Composition notebook of Karanding Baratunde Thurston
In the absence of my father, my mother was always searching for men to add to my life. The whole effort had a “Who’s Your Father Figure?” game show feel to it. One week, I’d be hanging out with James West, an old family friend, musician, and photographer. He taught me how to use a camera and encouraged my musical interests. He worked as a bicycle courier, owned massive fish tanks, and lived one block away. He was on the top (fourth) floor of his building and had no buzzer. This was pre–mobile phones, so when we went to visit, we simply stood on the sidewalk on 16th Street, aimed our heads high, and yelled, in concert, at the top of our lungs, “Yo James!! Jaaaaaames West!!!!” Every. Time. Some children are discouraged from hollering in the street. For me, it was a regularly scheduled family activity.
In another week, I might spend time with Pepe and Pinky, the Latino owners of a local bike shop called Brothers & Bicycles. They gave me extra bass lessons and sold my mother my first bike. When we went to pick it up, my mother made me sign a handwritten contract witnessed by both Pepe and Pinky, stating that I would never let anyone else ride my bike, and if I did, I would have to forfeit it to her. I wondered what she would do with a bike made for a ten-year-old boy, but I never tested the terms of our agreement to find out.
The individual men my mother brought into my life rode, sold, and fixed bicycles. They played all manner of instruments. They were photographers and booksellers, and one was even a Buddhist. All of them served to subconsciously round out my definition of what black and brown men could be and do, and I owe part of my present-day love of cycling, music, photography, and books to these men. But my mother’s most significant attempt to fill the man void in my upbringing was my enrollment in the Ankobia program at the same time as she enrolled me at Sidwell Friends.
“Ankobia” is a term from the Twi language of Ghana, which means “vanguard” or “those who lead in battle.” It is also the name of an Afrocentric “rites of passage” program I completed during my early teen years in DC. I like to think of it as a counterweight to the elite private education I received five days a week on the other side of town. It was Hebrew school for blackness.
Established by Pan-African black American activists, Ankobia was designed to help black children make the transition into adulthood and withstand the assaults and temptations of life in the crack-ridden city in the 1990s. Think of it like an extended bar mitzvah minus the dance party, expensive gifts, and belief in the one true God. Then add an element of Scared Straight. Every Saturday from seven a.m. until just after noon, I would gather with a dozen or so other black boys (we were called karanding, which is Kiswahili for “student”) at the Nationhouse Watoto School in Northwest Washington. There we would engage in rigorous physical exercise, practical life-skills training, and black history education.
The physical training was intense. It was led by a massive and fit man we called Baba Mike.* He led us in a routine that included a thousand jumping jacks, scores of push-ups, martial arts techniques, and an agonizing abdominal exercise involving us lying on our backs and lifting our feet six inches off the ground for several seconds at a time. In the bonus round of this latter exercise, Baba Mike would yell, “Six inches up!” and then walk on our abdomens.
The life-skills education covered the practical. We got lessons in carpentry and electrical work, and we were taught how to operate firearms safely. When I look back, there’s something potentially horrifying about this latter lesson, but at the time, it felt as natural as the former. The odds were high that we would be exposed to guns at some point, and we might as well know how to handle them.
The primary education we received, however, was mental and cultural. We had a reading list that included the work or biographies of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., Paul Robeson, Kwame Nkrumah, Toussaint L’Ouverture, Frederick Douglass, and Nat Turner. We were exposed to West African elders, who explained their religious and cultural traditions. We learned to dance to the drum. We ate couscous! And we were pushed to question the values of the mainstream society around us.
I remember one Saturday sitting in the classroom, possibly discussing The Isis Papers by Dr. Frances Cress Welsing, when one of the babas called out a boy from Baltimore. The kid was wearing a Los Angeles Raiders NFL Starter jacket. These were the height of cool at the time. The baba, referring to the team logo on the front of the jacket, pointedly asked him, “Brother, why are you wearing that white man over your heart?” None of us thought of Starter jackets that way. We then all got a lecture on economic self-determination, trans-Atlantic slave trading, and the importance of symbolism.
As I mentioned, I was in this program at the same time as I was enrolled at Sidwell Friends. I think my mother loved the idea of combining two extreme educational influences that would, in fact, check each other. Too much exposure to Sidwell’s culture, and I might forget where I came from, start to value things foreign to my upbringing, and end up a total disappointment to my community by joining the Republican Party—this was unlikely, given Sidwell’s Quaker origins, but still. Too much exposure to the Ankobia world, though, might have me thinking black folk were only kings and queens, and white folk could never ever be trusted. This is clearly not true, as I trust some of my best white friends to help me get cabs on a regular basis.
The whole Ankobia experience felt like a Black Power boot camp with young brown men trained in self-defense and the handling of firearms, given books that told a more complete version of their history, and shown that they are beautiful children of the universe. The combination of these Saturday sessions with my Sidwell experiences would lead to tense and hilarious results on occasion.
The U.S. Propaganda Machine: A Middle School Paper
The blackness-bolstering Ankobia rites-of-passage experience had strong effects on my perspective and behavior at Sidwell. As initiates, my fellow karanding and I were expected to behave almost like fraternity brothers away from the Saturday sessions. Every day we were required to wear a leather medallion featuring a red, black, and green pattern. This medallion served to physically remind me of the Saturday lessons even while I peeled bar mitzvah invitations from the inside of my school locker across town. Given the popularity of Afrocentric hip-hop at the time—groups like Brand Nubian and Poor Righteous Teachers were exploding then—no one at Sidwell thought much of my adornment. But on occasion, the Ankobia perspective would find its way into my school activities.
In high school, as head of the Black Student Union, I helped write a report to the board of trustees on the status of life for students of color. We documented cases of discriminatory applications of discipline, and called for more black faculty and a more diverse curriculum. We titled it “The Students of Color Report.” We were very original. But well before I channeled my blackness into approved campus political activity and congressional commission–style documents, the Ankobia experience dramatically influenced my academic work. Such was the case in March of 1991.
I was in the eighth grade and had a paper due for my English class. I cannot recall the specific assignment, but I’m sure the paper I submitted missed the teacher’s expectations by a wide margin. Using Microsoft Word on Windows version 3.0, I wrote the paper as if it were a major speech I planned to deliver to all black people in the United States. I printed it out on my dot-matrix printer, and on March 9, 1991, handed over the following 1,100-word address:*
; The Destruction of Afrikans : The U.S. Propaganda Machine
I am here today, my Afrikan brothers and sisters, to speak on a very serious problem of our people. We are in a state of emergency, and headed downward fast.
I am here today, my Afrikan brothers and sisters, first, to make you aware of the problem, and second, to help you deal with and try to solve it.
As many of you know, we have been hit by a serious epidemic, this epidemic is ( at least in this country ) is the destruction of our people, by our people. One can rarely miss a day without hearing about some black man killing another black man, or some black husband murdering his wife for trying to divorce him. And while we hear daily reports of blacks being killed, the whites, sometimes subconsciously are shaking hands and patting each other on the back for a job well done. Some people may say: “Well. why don’t you just tell them to stop!” Now, I thank those people for their input; but I have one thing to say about that suggestion: it’s not that easy! As Marcus Garvey once said: “The best offense you can use against the Negro is disorganization.”
Well, Mr. Garvey had a point there.
Now, my brothers and sisters, I will tell you ways that. the white man has led our people into this epidemic. If you want to go way back:
It all started when the Europeans invaded our rich, prosperous motherland, and robbed her of her people. At the time of the slave trade, there were Africans who sold their own people for beads and jewelry. This was the beginning of our self destruction.
Another possibility is found by looking at the brutal times of slavery. During slavery some of the brutalities were earthshaking and unfathomable. We were treated as livestock, whipped like horses, chained like animals, and auctioned like estate, not to mention the treatment, and raping of our women. Families were separated, and we were made to abandon our native languages, and made to erase our beautiful culture, and made ignorant. During all these years, the tension was building up to one day reach a climax or peak. Well, my brothers and sisters, we have reached dooms day. Now you would hope that we would take out our hostilities on the whites, after all they did put us in this situation. But no, we were made so ignorant that we’re taking it out on ourselves, OURSELVES!?
And yet, my brothers and sisters, another time the white man had forced us into this epidemic was the time after slavery, when he displayed his demonic evil self even more. After slavery we were fooled more, and made even more ignorant. I come to this conclusion because they told us we were free ( “they” being the white man ). They fooled us into believing that we were free and equal to them. Most of us did not know much about freedom, except that which we limitedly heard about the “north.” Being in such the state that we were, anyone could say we were free and we would believe it. because we didn’t even know what freedom was. This was and is one of many ways that the white man has taken advantage of our naiveté.
The fourth and final way that the white man has forced us into this deadly virus of self-destruction is by way of what is known as the “U.S. Propaganda Machine.”
First, let’s begin with a definition of propaganda; as defined by Marcus Garvey:
“ . . . organized methods used to control the world is the thing known and called ‘PROPAGANDA.’
Propaganda has done more to defeat the good intentions of races and nations than even open warfare.
Propaganda is a method or medium used by organized peoples to convert others against their will.
We of the Negro race are suffering more than any other race in the world from propaganda—Propaganda to destroy our hopes, our ambitions our confidence . . .” and eventually ourselves.
America has come up with different techniques to keep us down, from segregation to prejudice, there’s always been something new. In a way things were better during and immediately following slavery, because at least then whites told you what they thought. But now racism is more virulent. Now whites say we are equal, and pat us on the shoulder, and eat with us, and act all goody goody. They even allow us in their government to show us how equal we are. But under that Kentucky cotton coating there is still the feeling, solid as the Rockies that we are inferior. Back then there was absolutely no way we could argue against a white man’s word, we weren’t even allowed to “fight.” Nowadays we’re allowed to speak in their courts and they occasionally let us win, just to show us that we’re equal. That’s like letting us fight but they have the weapon, and one out of a hundred times we can knock the weapon out of their hand and get a good punch in to knock them out; The problem was just stated, we’re just knocking them out, when we need to kill them.
The “U.S. Propaganda Machine” has three major outlets into the Afrikan community. They are the church, the school, and the mass media.
The church is part of the “Propaganda Machine” through its teaching of a white Jesus. Some, if even a few people know of Africa’s greatness as having the first trace of civilization. But if people knew that and the fact that the Bible says Adam was the first, logic would tell you that Adam was African.
The schools are involved in the Propaganda Machine through their teaching, or should I say their nonteaching of African and African-American history. Considering Afrikan’s great contribution to this country’s wealth, not only in slave labor but in inventions such as the signal light and in medicine. The least this country could do is give us an “honorable mention.”
Third, mass media is involved by means of its portrayal of whites as superior. Since the beginning of television whites held the foreground. They were shown on horseback shooting down “uncivilized” Indians and taming the “cannibalistic and wild” ways of Africans. And when we finally were on the television, it was as a negative depiction. They did not show us as the “first,” they did not show us as the geniuses we were, nor did they show our great heritage. The only thing they could find were our “backwards and primitive” ways. The mass media has played an extensive role in the destruction of our people.
Lastly, my Afrikan brothers and sisters I have something to tell you. Beware of the white man; I’m not saying to be scared of him or to cut off communication, but beware, because when we realize that we should not be fighting each other, the tide will turn.
I was thirteen years old when I wrote that and handed it in to my English teacher. If a middle school student turned in such a document today, he would immediately be sent to a counselor or detention facility, but this was pre-Columbine 1991. The number one song on the Billboard charts was the upbeat Someday by Mariah Carey, and the top television show was Cheers. It was a happier time.
After class the next day, my teacher pulled me aside to discuss my manifesto. “You would never have written this if I weren’t black, would you?” he asked. I responded, “Absolutely not, and I trust you to keep my secret!”
The White Student Union
Sometimes white people just like to ask questions. They don’t mean anything by it. There are no judgments in it. They just want to know, and what’s wrong with asking questions?
My mother returned from the Sidwell Friends parents association meeting livid. They had been discussing the prom and how it would be financed, and one of the parents (a white parent) had offhandedly asked, “Well, doesn’t the Black Student Union have a lot of money?”
See, she was just asking a question!
Indeed the Black Student Union did have “a lot of money,” which we raised through one massive, heavily coordinated, expensively secured annual dance party known as The BSU Go-Go.* Exactly what those funds had to do with the prom was unclear to my mother, and the inference that the BSU would somehow cover the costs of this school-wide event offended her. However, that parent didn’t directly demand the money. She was just asking a question.
Sidwell was a school populated in part by the children of Washington’s liberal elite. There were lawyers and senators and lobbyists and White House administration officials among the parent class. Being loyal NPR listeners and Clinton voters, many of these parents thought the
y were incapable of even a hint of racism. They voted for Bill Clinton! He was the first “black president.” Their children had black friends! So they felt insulated from even the possibility that they might display racist tendencies.
Fortunately, the treasury of the Black Student Union was not pilfered by the creative financing concepts of this particular parent, but “questions” challenging the legitimacy of black communities were a regular occurrence.
One such question revolved around the informal institution of black kids eating together in the cafeteria. I’m going to let you in on a secret: growing black children like to eat. In a majority-white school, they are often friends with other black people. This has been known to result in black kids eating together at the same table. While this terrorist cell–like activity is a perceived clear and present danger to some in the non-black community, the agenda at most of these nefarious, exclusive gatherings consisted of talking about classes, flirting, making fun of each other, and, oh, plotting the downfall of White America—but only on every third Tuesday.
Preparing to inherit the rights and privileges of their race later in life, many white students were put off by the unspoken exclusivity of “the black table.” Due to our limited camouflage abilities—most of us still wore the dark skin into which we were born—“the black table” visually stood out in ways gatherings of other groups (the A/V kids, football players, or Future Corporate Douchebags of America) might not have. In addition, the Civil Rights Movement was over, so what’s with the sit-in-looking gathering? This confusion and offense led to a question: Why do all the black kids sit at the same lunch table?
The best answer exists itself in the form of a question: Why do all the white students sit together at the same tables? No one ever asked that, because such seating arrangements were “normal.” You don’t question ten tables of nearly all white children dining. You question the one or two with nearly all black children dining.
How to Be Black Page 5
