Black History: Where Are We?

I walk through downtown Boston, watching cars noisily bustle through green lights and people scamper to and fro, cycling through life's daily errands, when a group of three black teenage boys catch my eye. They where baggy jeans and XXL jerseys, sporting the number and name of current iconic athletes - Vick, LeBron, LT. Doo-rags, piercings and tattoos are the ornaments they have placed on their bodies, just as the words of Tupac and Biggie, Dre and Nas, Jay-Z and Snoop decorate their minds. One of them starts beatboxing and another joins in, as the third starts rapping, the history of hip-hop - its gangsterism, its social cry, its violence and degradation, its hope - obvious in his words, his style and his flow. When he finishes, the others comment; "That's real man, that's hot, that's what I'm talkin' 'bout." What they mean to say is, "That's black."

And I think to myself, is this where black history has led us?

I order a grande white chocolate macchiato at Starbucks, overjoyed at the prospect of lapping up this little treat I am giving myself, as a black woman bursts through the door, a fusion of energy, fire and determination. She wears a tailor-made dark suit with light pinstripes, cut to loosely fit her body, so that everyone knows she is still an attractive, feminine woman but are also firmly aware that she means business. She walks with strength and purpose, orders a latte with the ease of someone who has been ordering the same drink for years and calls her secretary regarding a conference call. I can not help but imagine what her private or, even unconscious, thoughts may be; I am part of the most handicapped group in American society - black women - and yet most everyone in this room gives me, at the very least, the impression of respect. I have made it to the top. I have achieved my potential both as a woman and as a black person. I don't know if this is really what is running through her mind; but it very well could be.

And I think to myself, is this where black history has led us?

I sit outside, lured by a blissfully cloud free sunny day, reading the sports page on a park bench, when a grizzled old black man and a vibrant elderly black woman, both tastefully dressed in relaxed pants, tucked in collared shirts and dark sweaters, sit on the bench next to mine. Eavesdropper that I am, I pretend to be nonchalant as I listen to their conversation, evermore intently as the dialogue begins to peak my interest. They are professors from one of Boston's innumerable colleges, black political activists forged in the '60s and '70s. They speak eloquently on their experiences, their views, the history of the Civil Rights Movement, of Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X and so many other leaders. Then they pause. "These kids today, they don't know what being black is," the man quietly asserts. The woman nods slightly and, reaching through the annals of her own history, thoughtfully replies: "They don't know they gotta sacrifice the trivial things. They don't know they gotta achieve for all of us."

And I think to myself, is this where black history has led us?

While I stand outside a classroom, waiting to meet up with one of my friends, I notice the janitor down the hall, a worn black man who must be in his sixties. His back is bent, presumably from years of manual labor, his hands appear to be scratched and have a certain leather-like quality and his slow, effortful walk is hampered by a limp. I am curious as to what his story is, where he comes from and what he has been through. I wonder whether he used to be one of the statistics we hear about all the time - a black student dropout, a black drug addict, a black prison inmate. Or maybe he is one of the statistics we rarely hear about - the black women and men who struggle to get by, those often visualized as the "real" black people; black women and men who never stood a chance.

And I think to myself, is this where black history has led us?

Does black history inevitably bring us to a point where we must mold our images and characters in order to be considered truly black? If a black person sacrifices drug use in order to help ensure that he/she achieves in school, wears a professional suit and yet focuses his/her energy on helping lower-income black families, speaks without slang but listens to Mos Def and Talib Kweli, is he/she still black - or is that breaking too many categorizations?

Black history - its music, its leaders, its suffering and its steadfast perseverance - has opened doors, figuratively and literally (segregated schools, restaurants and institutions being opened to blacks), but in no way does it dictate which doors black people should enter and which doors black people should be expected to enter. Black history gives us real-life heroes and villains, rhythm and poetry, tragedy and triumph; it does not give us ourselves. It does not rob me, as a black person, of my individuality.

And I think to myself, where will we lead black history?