The Most Frustrating Month

(First published February 05, 2002 at Africana.com)

"I can't take it any more! I can't stand February! If I see another institution or corporation celebrating Black History Month, I'm going to throw up!"

So began the rant I heard a few nights ago, after a ringing phone stopped me dead in the middle of reading a really good book. It was my friend and business partner Heru, an activist and writer who doesn't bite his tongue and speaks his mind very colorfully. So colorfully, in fact, that I had to change a few words in this essay in order for it to be publishable.

"It's sick, I tell you," said Heru, flipping through channels on his TV and finding new ammunition for his rant. "What in the hell does McDonald's have to do with black history? Tell me."

"Well, they do have a lot of black customers," I said, wishing he hadn't called because now I was getting pissed off too. "We like Big Macs."

While I no longer share his rage, I do feel his annoyance. Black History Month frustrates me. I find myself praying those 28 or 29 days will rush by with a quickness, because there is both far too much and, ironically, far too little going on during this month that actually pertains to black history.

It's not that I don't understand the power and importance of learning one's history. And I wish this could be done in a respectful, decent way. But hey, we live in a capitalist society where nearly everything, including our bodies and minds, are for sale. So why wouldn't McDonald's manufacture and market a black history booklet? It makes perfect sense.

What troubles me is that we black folks are often willfully ignorant about our not-too-distant past, for a variety of good reasons. Some of us are still in some denial, because admitting that we were an enslaved people implies so much vulnerability it is terrifying. The only way to really know what happened is to research history, and to look at slavery and not flinch. While writing her Pulitzer prize-winning novel Beloved, Toni Morrison once said that if those people, meaning those enslaved Africans, could live through the horrors of slavery, then she could write about it. That takes a lot of courage, but it is vitally important.

Meanwhile, Heru continued his rant: "It's so demeaning. Corporations who take and take from black folks daily have these stupid commercials with Martin Luther King Jr., reciting part of the 'I Have a Dream' speech. I hate it, I hate it, oh God, I hate it," he said, his breath coming fast.

As he continued his harangue, I thought about my early experiences learning about black history. As a kid in the 1970s I loved reading about Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Carter G. Woodson and Martin Luther King. But as the years wore on, I wondered why these were the only black people I learned about, and why the treatment was so shallow. We seemed to study these people every year, without any real context. We learned very little about slavery, except that Abraham Lincoln was nice enough to emancipate us. Many of the most important figures in African American history were left out of my education, their accomplishments too complex or subtle. Now they are simply burnished idols, reduced to names of dozens of housing projects, schools or streets that run through the ghetto.

"Oh, great, now here's Bush reading a book about Martin Luther King Jr., to some inner-city children," Heru groaned. "Will it ever end?"

In a word, no. This is how I figured it out.

A few years ago, I worked as a children's librarian in Ohio. Much of February was spent getting information about the aforementioned five notable men and women (plus Malcolm X, now that he's dead and harmless), for teachers and parents.

The remainder of my time was spent compiling exhaustive lists of lesser known scientists, inventors, musicians, doctors, athletes, writers and other men and women in order to introduce these people to a seemingly hungry, yet selective public. Frustrated kids and overbearing parents demanding books crowded me daily. By January 31st, I was frantically pulling books off shelves and placing them on moveable carts with big signs reading, "BLACK HISTORY BOOKS HERE."

It was my only chance, I figured, to introduce lesser-known figures in the history of America. I was doing my job, but I was also engaged in the subversive act of diversifying the often static pantheon of black historical figures.

"I mean, why is Coors celebrating Black History Month? It makes no sense to me," Heru continued.

Selling black history has never been any easier or more profitable. The recent Kwanzaa phenomenon is a good example. A decade ago there were only small pockets of people around the nation who even knew about the seven-day holiday, much less celebrated it. This past December, though, my ears were assaulted with a frequently aired radio commercial for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and their special Kwanzaa cookbook. It just so happens that I am a conscious observer of Kwanzaa. So conscious in fact, that right now I'm celebrating Ujamaa, one of the Nguzo Saba, the seven principles of Kwanzaa. Ujamaa means cooperative economics, and urges us to focus on building and maintaining our own stores, shops and other businesses and to profit from them together. So Kraft can suck my macaroni and cheese.

"That's it. I need to turn off the television. Peace," said Heru, who sensed my sleepiness.

And so it goes. Black history is for sale, but no one should be mad about it. If anything, we black folk should capitalize on it more. Just look at dozens of our so-called leaders, thinkers, authors, celebrities and other people of note who rake in gobs of cash, people who will make numerous appearances this month to talk about black history in some respect. Wish it were me.

Wait a minute, it is me! I was paid for this essay! Whew.

Okay, for the rest of you, I say find a way to celebrate this history of our folk on your own terms. Ways that bring you closer to the events and experiences of those men, women and children who helped create the mosaic that is black history. Here are a few tips: Leave the comfort of your home for a month and sleep outside in the dead of winter to experience the life of an American slave. Rob a store and run barefoot through the park while the police chase after you, like a slave running to freedom. Okay, here's one even better: Build up a thriving business district in the heart of the black community and then burn it down and replace it with substandard public housing. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

Jokes aside, when you think about it, after all black people have been through, you'd think we'd be tired of having our history hijacked. But there's an antidote to that. It's got to start at home with parents who show that they love their children enough to try to understand their own personal histories. This is the way to show reverence to those millions stolen from Africa, who either died on the Middle Passage or survived long to enough make it to these blood-drenched shores only to live under the lash to build the economic wealth of this capitalistic land.

Last year, a friend of mine sent me an email about Budweiser. It appeared that the beer company was threatening to stop producing their "African Kings and Queens" calendars if we (meaning black folks) don't order them immediately. One per household. Has anyone asked themselves why a beer company is producing an "African Kings and Queens" calendar in the first place? Hey Budweiser, this middle finger is for you!

Maybe black folks will just have to read a book, watch a film, or learn their own history by sitting at the knee of an elder. And just maybe after a few years of learning our history, researching our genealogies, eating healthy, building up our community's wealth, looking out for one another, and showing each other some much needed love, there won't even be a need to have a Black History Month. We will know and love ourselves enough to keep our histories alive, and for more than 28 or 29 days out of the year.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004 @ 07:06 PM