Category — Being black in America

I wish I had the ability to express the wave of powerful emotions that washed over me and brought scalding tears to my eyes when I thought about writing this article. My mind flashed on my grandmother wearing her long white apron in Louisiana who was born in 1865, the year the slaves were “freed.” I saw the fields of cotton my fiance took me to see in 2003 in California because I had never seen similar places down south where my people had labored during slavery. 

In my mind’s eye I saw pictures of my sisters and brothers being attacked with water hoses, dogs, Billy clubs and savagery. Then like fast forward, my mind brought me back to sitting in my bed and a blank sheet of paper, but the pain lingered. 

I am a person who does not like black rhetoric, in fact I hate it; particularly when we linger and wallow in our ex-slave misery, using it as an excuse not to perform on the level we are capable of; we meaning black folks. But then I remember those who were left behind when the flight to white neighborhoods and a “better life” took away our teachers, doctors, business people, ministers, and others of higher status and education after civil rights were mandated. 

I don’t blame them. When my ex-husband and I bought our first home in 1976, it was in a new development with only one other black family. So I can relate to the desire to live the “American dream,” but what about all those who couldn’t leave and were left behind? What about all those who had menial jobs, but were decent, God-fearing folks who marched, and were beaten and spat on, but were left behind? 

Those are whose shoulders and graves so many of us stand on today, and the generations they spawned are the people we now call the black Underclass. They are that group of low-income, barely educated, unsophisticated, crude people that many of us now avert our eyes from rather than notice or acknowledge. The ones many of us are employed to serve because we are teachers, social workers, government employees, preachers, doctors, lawyers, police officers, prison staff, counselors, etc. etc. They are also the ones we can’t stand as fellow human beings. We denigrate them to cases and files, numbers without faces or souls, but characters who are certainly not like us. 

To us they are welfare mothers, drug-addicted or incarcerated or absent fathers, low-lifers, irresponsible, criminal, stupid, crazy, less-than-human wastes of time. And we wonder where they came from, or call them “refugees” as they were labeled in New Orleans after Katrina. We can take their children because they are poor and give them to others without a look back or a thought about their feelings. We can make them wait for hours while we take breaks or talk on the phone, thinking they have nothing else to do, and they need us to give them food, clothing and shelter. 

But they are none of these things, and without them we wouldn’t have jobs, or be able to live in our comfort zones. But primarily, we should consider that they are the products of the same stock of people from which we all have come. They are the descendants of the bridges over which many of us have crossed, and they only want what we all want…to be loved and understood. But primarily, we should consider that they are simply the offspring of the people who were left behind.

On January 30, I turned 67. Being 67 gives me a privileged opportunity to look back over a span of many years to see how far, not only have I come, but also how far my fellow human beings have evolved on this earth that we share. 

Behind me are 6 decades, 3 generations, and half a century of changes, tragedies and wonders. And I’ve viewed them all from the perspective of a woman, an American and a black person. Those three are not my only characteristics, but being a black woman in America has always played a particularly affective role in my life. 

In America, the U. S., being black has often over shadowed the other aspects. Try though I might to circumvent my ethnicity and focus on the job or task at hand, I have always been made aware or needed to consider my ethnicity. Having to declare it has become particularly much more worrisome than in past years when it was viewed as either a duty or necessity. But I am wondering what the beneficial reason is for it now? 

We are all in a financial crisis in the world; everyone is feeling the pinch. So what does my color have to do with anything? To me, knowing how hard I’m struggling is a matter of status, and members of the haves or have nots include folks from all ethnic groups. 

At this point, will I receive any extra benefit because I am black, female or American? What will my sex, ethnicity or citizenship provide that the status of human being cannot?

 www.paristompkins.com

www.thefirsttrip.com

Recently my partner and I were discussing possible stereotypical backlash now that our first “Oodleville” children’s book, The First Trip, has been published, and Bubba Oodle, our first character doll, is available. For me, the Oodles’ black color has been the subject of conjecture since I began working to manifest my dream. 

In our conversation, therefore, we talked about ways to address the dolls’ color. We discussed comparing the Oodles to gollywogs who were and still are depictions of black-faced minstrels who were entertainers during the days of slavery. In 1965, however, all caricature depictions of blacks, like gollywogs, were deemed politically incorrect. This action also caused many creative works by blacks to also be exiled to local or near-underground marketing. 

Although gollywogs have been removed from public display, they have been sold for over a hundred years in England, and can still be purchased online and through gollywog clubs in the U.S. The Oodles, however, are not gollywogs, nor do they represent any aspect of minstrels or slavery…other than the fact that I am black and a descendant of slaves. 

My grandmother, Mary Pigues, was born in 1865, the year that slavery was legally abolished. My grandfather, Ben Pigues, who was much older than Grandma was obviously a slave. On my father’s side, the similar situations probably existed. Prior to slavery, I imagine my ancestors being free, happy and enjoying life in Africa. 

“Oodleville” is a similar world, and the Oodles are characters conceived in my heart and mind and created from my imagination. Rather than human, they are human-ess; meaning they possess the best of human values like honesty, caring, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, and commitment. 

They represent my freedom of expression, and are simply playthings for all children, and their color should not determine whether or not they have merit. My mission for Oodleville and the Oodles is to bring fun, friendship, a new perspective, and a unique product by a black person back to the mainstream…to pick up where my people left off.

www.thefirsttrip.com