This weekend has been so unapologetically Black and I am here for it. Outside of binge watching Netflix’s Luke Cage where in a Marvel Universe a Black man in a hoodie is not only a superhero but bulletproof . Two things that are a far cry from the current reality that we live in now, but it’s good to see something positive on my television. Even if it is not real, because what is actually happening now is too real. Blood of our own on the streets, social media racist rants telling us to go back where we came from and a circus of a presidential race.
The visceral anger that is felt watching this from the sidelines is palpable, friends and co workers posting articles supporting the contrary of what I believe. Reminding me of how far we have come, yet so far, and the parts of me that are in constant conflict wanting to lash out but also remain quiet.
But then I came across ” A Seat at the Table ” a beautiful ode to being Black NOW. I have always been a fan of Solange but the fact that she was able to capture exactly what I was feeling and why I was feeling it was everything I needed. I recently heard a story online of the racism and abusive treatment that her and her son received while attending a electronica/dance concert, and was appalled. First at the fact that these people had no idea who they were mistreating and also would they have treated her differently if they knew who she was. Which honestly the latter is scarier because that means there is no hope for the rest of us average Black people.
I remember hearing ” A Seat at the Table ” before , particularly around my grandmother and great grandmother. It is a Traditionalist saying adapted from Black workers post slavery but before the Civil Rights movement who served Whites. It was mean to express the lack of inclusion, and how we were only allowed in the same room to serve and for nothing else.
What seems crazy to me is that over 50 years have past, we are still looking for ” A Seat at the Table”. To have our voices heard, to not be treated as 2nd class citizens in our own country and to not be killed for it. When I speak to my grandmother about what is going on today she always says that she never thought she would see some of the same things happening this day in age that were reminiscent of her childhood in the South. I have become weary of the who, what, why, where and when, but hypocritically seeking some sort of solace in it all. But this weekend has provided me that temporary peace where all big Black men don’t look like ” bad dudes” and beautiful music we make masks the pain.