Q. “What do you call a black man who flies airplanes?”
A. “A pilot, you fucking racist.”
—a new twist on an old joke
It was a bright Saturday morning as I walked to the main branch of the San Leandro Community Library to do some background research for this book. The library is a majestic building, originally donated to the city by Andrew Carnegie himself, one of his many philanthropic atonements for a life lived as a robber baron. The library has recently been seismically retrofitted and updated with computers, audio/visual equipment, wireless technology, and all of the state-of-the-art contrivances that are expected to aid in the dissemination of information here in the twenty-first century. It is totally and thoroughly modern.
As I approached the front door, two little boys came bouncing out. One was black, the other white. They couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. I watched as they laughed and giggled, playing together without a care in the world. I stopped and looked at them in wonder as they raced around the base of the library flagpole, Old Glory billowing proudly above in the wind. “Liberty and Justice for All.”
A moment later, their respective mothers walked out behind them. Two women of different hues bound together by the mutual backpacks of toys, children’s books, and apple juice boxes that they carried. Two moms just raising their kids and watching them grow. No color chasm separated them. They got no odd looks as library patrons walked past them going in and out of the building. No one questioned their association or the right of either family to be there. I watched in amazement as I thought of how this city has changed and how proud I am to have been a part of that change.
Not too long ago, when my daughter, Carolyn (who I’m sure you know by now is named after Mom), was in the eighth grade, one of her classmates called her a “nigger.” It was a white boy she’d known since kindergarten and it was the first time she’d had that epithet used in reference to her. The funny thing was that she was not upset by it. It was no big deal to her. I, on the other hand, was apoplectic. I called Tracie at her home in Sacramento.
“She’s in the eighth grade?” Tracie asked.
“Yes.”
“And this is the first time she’s been called a ‘nigger’?”
“Yes, Tracie. The first time.”
“In San Leandro?”
“Yes, Tracie. In San Leandro.”
“Wow!” she said. “Things really are better!”
She laughed, and I lost it right along with her. I hadn’t put it in that perspective. It took my daughter thirteen years to experience an indignity that I had faced after less than a week in this town.
I marvel at the place that my children are growing up in today. San Leandro has gone from a place where whites desert their churches because their pastor has the effrontery to engage in fair-housing practices to a place where members of all races worship side by side in the pews of churches of all denominations. It has changed from a city that expected its police department to enforce de facto segregation, to the point of humiliating eight-year-old children for simply walking down the street or riding their bikes into town, to a city whose police department mentors children of all colors, teaching them about the dangers of associating with gangs and the scourge of illegal drug use. It has changed from a town with a real estate industry operating under subversive “gentlemen’s agreements” not to show homes to people of certain complexions to a town whose Realtors value the diversity and contributions that all homeowners bring to the community.
As San Leandro has changed, I have changed as well. When all is said and done, I AM indeed a Genuine Black Man—because I am resilient. That’s what being black in America is truly about: resilience. Our ancestors were kidnapped from their homes in Africa and brought across the ocean on slave ships. Most of them died during the journey. Only the resilient survived. Then our forefathers suffered four hundred years of bondage, followed by another century of legalized disenfranchisement. Again, only those who were resilient enough to persevere made it through. Had any of these people not had the fortitude to withstand the struggle, had they died as the result of it before starting families and planting the seeds of the future, my generation of African Americans would not exist. It is that resilience that enables my brethren to plant their own seeds for harvest in a better and brighter future.
I am as resilient as my forefathers. I have the fortitude of my mother and my grandmother. Even though I almost threw it away in a sad and sick moment, I am still here. I’m still standing. I stayed on my feet through taunts and harassment, through police intimidation and bigoted nuns, through schoolyard bullies and Sylvester, through my mother’s death and bouts of sometimes crippling depression. I am still standing.
I am black because, as my friend Mr. Wilkins once told me, people should be called what they want to be called. I have the right and the ability to determine my identity regardless of what other blacks or whites say. I am not an “oreo,” nor am I “still a nigger.” I am a man. I am a black man.
No one person or group of individuals holds the monopoly on what in this society is the “true” black experience. My world is as “black” as that of Malcolm X, Colin Powell, Snoop Dogg, Jesse Jackson, Usher, Bill Cosby, or Diddy. As their experiences in America are unique, mine is unique—yet it is the same. It is as valid as that of the poor African American living in “the ’hood,” the rich black rapper balancing a lifestyle of fame and violence, and the black scholar working to better this world through academic dissertation. It is as authentic as the experiences of those who marched with Dr. King for civil rights and those who defy the black community by arguing the conservative point of view.
It is the “true” black experience because it is my experience. I defy anyone to say that it isn’t as real, as joyous and as painful, as liberating and as confining, as frustrating and as exhilarating as that of any other similarly complected American. Black people in this country are not a monolith with one lifestyle, one viewpoint, and one agenda. The second that blacks or whites buy into that misguided belief is the very moment that all racial progress in this country has been negated.
In the end, I am grateful for that anonymous letter accusing me of not being a genuine black man, for it led me on a journey of self-exploration. If the letter writer is reading this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I am grateful for encountering Judge James Ware at the time in my life that I did. In spite of his own apparent struggles with self-identity, I still admire him and I thank him for showing me by his very presence that within myself, I had the ability to be who and what I wanted to be. It took me a long time to figure that out. Especially in terms of my appearance. Once I finally did, I stopped straightening, Geri curling, “perming,” and “relaxing” my hair. I love it because it’s mine and it’s just how God intended it to be.
People sometimes ask me if my mother made the right choice moving us to San Leandro, into that hostile environment. All I can say in response is, “It’s my hometown.”
I am proud and I am at peace. Genuinely.
Brian Copeland
San Leandro, California
July 2006