Culture May I?

    We are a community of shortened phrases that tell a story empowering enough to move a person. We are reared by these colloquialisms and, have governed generations by them. The duality of the accountability. “Hold a good head.” “I see you!” “I got you.” "Put that on your Mama." "For the Culture!" “Fix your kitchen.” “Where you think you goin?” “Nah, we good.” “You good?” “What you not gone do.” “You were on my heart.” These same pressures are strong arms of encouragement. Snares of support. Loving you in a but, sieging exploration into foreign lands. There is very little room for evaluating the beauty that is multicultural outside of the diaspora. Better yet intermingled by the diaspora. Anyone with a touch of keystrokes can request the revocation of your Black Card without justification. Representation allows me to gain permission to accept the marginalized and rejected portions of myself. The uniquely human process of coming to voice as though it is a place. 

     At this stage in my life it is a dream vacation. My former frame fights for freedom inside the walls of my heart. There is a freedom in filling up a box with names, turned ghost of lovers past being tossed into the abyss. There is a liberty in playing in the sand bare feet without a care for the pending ash. There is a release in wearing my hair, not combing my hair, styling my hair, matching or not matching my arrayed wardrobe. No longer in a covenant relationship with what I am supposed to do or be. Muzzled by the burden of deference due to those who paid the ultimate prize in contrast to my whimsical ideology grown from my experience in the less bound society they paid for me to thrive in. The minority tax. The perpetual homage that echoes the current cries of my ancestors undiagnosed dysfunction reincarnating in my choices. 

     The juxtapose process that we are perpetuating the bondage because our souls have generational wounds. Is this what they would have wanted? I endorse the opposite. We understand this at the micro level. In the capacity of one home a set of parents want their children to build from their pain of sacrifice. The domestic laboriously invested in the advancement of his seed. It would dishonor him for his children to also choose domestic work. Yet, at the macro level. When we see People of color engaged in activities that are not black enough we criticize, we devalue their expression as if they are not a myriad of cultures forged by the fragments of hate, racism, artistry, personal experience, genetic influence, love, mercy, forgiveness, color, education, and imagination. 

     We don’t owe anyone an explanation about our clothing, music, career, coiffeur choices but everyone has the misguided notion that their opinion matters. Our words have power. The question is how are we using that power? Do you build up? Do we tear down? Is this a battle of distance between culture and self or, if this just me being me? Am I going to put an end to the world’s view on racism by addressing their form of creativity? Truthfully, people only have the power we give them. Upon appraising my deserving of my Black Card by my heart; it was deemed worthy. Your misery beaconing misery words of oppression fall on deaf ears. This is a life raft for someone else struggling with the invisible scream of oppression. Stop asking for permission to be you. You are knit together intentionally. The awareness of is the power, not the permission. I hope this finds you in joy and happiness because you were on my heart. -Love