Native Sons

Our native sons are our today and tomorrow. Precious gems clothed in hoodies and high-tops. Sons, who when given a chance, will cut away our pain and stitch us back together again, good as new.  They will drop their gavels and prescribe justice for our rotten ways of living.  They will help us converse our way out the maze of mental illness from centuries of slander and strain, and give us blueprints to new and better ways of habituating here on earth.   A mother's love for her son is distinguished and different than the love for her daughters.  The love that a Black mother has for her son is even more intense.  Knowing that a son will someday grow up to lead his own family is cause for concern in a society that plans for him to be cut off without a moment's notice, by the excuse of another human's fear.  Even more so when Black sons who grow a few inches, speak a little deeper, and still cry on momma's shoulder are surrounded by accusations, mistreatment, and murder because of the melanin they wear. Whether or not Black mothers raise their sons in the suburbs, private communities, or prestigious institutions, she is always concerned about the safety and well-being of her child.  Will he be mistaken for a son? or a criminal?  Only if society looks at him through the heart of a mother and a father, will they see a son.  As a Modern Moomah, I hold the sorrow for my native sons, all of them. 

Our sons walk on streets in the footsteps of ancestors separated by waters and travel to cities that are camouflaged with the modernization and industrialization of the times, yet stay trapped in the ideologies of pre-colonial hate, because of the stubborn mindsets of its citizens who refuse to change.  Our native sons are at the mercy of some unconscious teacher who doesn't care that he has a bright future, only cares to punish his every breath and stand by as some executioner pushes him out on the outskirts of society.  Silence is still consent. I cringe at the neighbors who can't see a child, only someone that society mistreats and joins the band of oppressors in hopes that they will rise a little higher on a pole that will soon be dismantled as long as time marches on. Our native sons matter. 

Other mothers have a love for their sons and if they have the heart of a mother, they will hear the cries of mothers for their native sons. The hands that rock the cradle are the hands that rule the world. Our home is the true classroom and learning space in which we develop and nurture our contributions to society.  Our schools are finally integrated and we populate suburbs that reflect a multicultural lifestyle but we still sit at segregated dinner tables and church services.  Our children read our expressions and wait for our second glance as consent to imitate and emulate.  Everyone puts on their best behavior in public, smile and cheer at school football games, and we take our frustrations to the family thanksgiving dinner and the voting polls. The children pretend until they get closer to commencement and they are free to recycle the hate as a full-fledged adult. We wonder still why change has not come.   

I am a Black woman but I'm not the same as all Black women because my narrative is a combination of my Jamaican heritage and the culture I develop daily as a result of my migration.  We have become pulled into a vortex of struggle based on our color, even when we have every tool to rise above, simply because no one cares about our life stories. We had our very Black Attorney General for the entire nation, head of police and justice to be pulled over and harassed by police.  He was just another thug, they said. Our native sons educate themselves and increase their economic standing, yet the power and privilege that is due to us become sucked into the vortex of racial hate.  That hate has a special reservation for our native sons. 

Had it not been for the vast reading list of my Gifted and Talented Middle School, Phillipa Schuyler, I would not have been exposed to the moving narrative of Black America's native sons.  Now here I am raising one.  The intricate narratives of our native sons are not found in the assigned historical texts or in the sly remarks made by those who do not understand.  I had to search it out in books like Native Son by Richard Right, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane, and Spin A Soft Black Song by my beloved Nikki Giovanni, whom I just found out shares my first name as her middle name.  Wow! My middle school was a type of charter school, way ahead of its time.  The summer reading lists were intense and advanced.  In fact, I re-read several of the same reading list books in college.  My mother made sure I checked out every book on that list at the New Lots Avenue Public Library in Brooklyn, New York.  The selection must be over the top now. Welcome to gentrification.  I tried my best to keep up with the reading.  I was nervous about going to school after summer break because I thought we would be tested on the reading lists.  I was wrong about the testing.  In fact, the school was creating a culture in the next generation.  I was an immigrant child who needed these stories but others who were in America for generations who also needed these stories.  Some people just never take the time to pass on stories of how things used to be and how far we've come.  Books do take time to share what humans will not.  

Reading helped me to see how far we had all come.  I was raised by Jamaican parents who taught me that respect is due even to a dog, manners, and respect will bring you a far way, and respect starts with yourself first.  Jamaica is populated by a variety of races and religion, all fused into what makes us Jamaica.  In fact, our motto is "Out Of Many, One People". We understand the differences between people, cultures, and races but we don't subscribe to the fact that one race is to be respected above another. We understand that there are certain privileges in the color of one's skin and we also understand that education, dedication, and hard work will naturally be rewarded regardless of color.  Immigration brought my Black body across the sea, united with more Black bodies that were similar but not the same as me. I take on their struggles because my story blends into theirs.  The least I can do is listen to and learn their story.  The least I can do is learn the roots of the struggles of my native son, connected but disconnected, grounded, yet with roots that run wild, pulled into a vortex that he will challenge if he knows from whence the wind is blowing. Much love to our Modern Moomah’s who continue to love our native sons.

Our sons walk on streets in the footsteps of ancestors separated by waters and travel to cities that are camouflaged with the modernization and industrialization of the times, yet stay trapped in the ideologies of pre-colonial hate, because of the stubborn mindsets of its citizens who refuse to change.  Our native sons are at the mercy of some unconscious teacher who doesn't care that he has a bright future, only cares to punish his every breath and stand by as some executioner pushes him out on the outskirts of society.  Silence is still consent. I cringe at the neighbors who can't see a child, only someone that society mistreats and joins the band of oppressors in hopes that they will rise a little higher on a pole that will soon be dismantled as long as time marches on. Our native sons matter. 

Other mothers have a love for their sons and if they have the heart of a mother, they will hear the cries of mothers for their native sons. The hands that rock the cradle are the hands that rule the world. Our home is the true classroom and learning space in which we develop and nurture our contributions to society.  Our schools are finally integrated and we populate suburbs that reflect a multicultural lifestyle but we still sit at segregated dinner tables and church services.  Our children read our expressions and wait for our second glance.  Everyone puts on their best behavior in public, smile and cheer at school football games, and we take our frustrations to the family thanksgiving dinner and the voting polls. The children pretend until they get closer to commencement and they are free to recycle the hate as a full-fledged adult. We wonder still why change has not come.   

I am a Black woman but I'm not the same as all Black women because my narrative is a combination of my heritage and the culture I develop on a daily basis.  We have become pulled into a vortex of struggle based on our color, even when we have every tool to rise above, simply because no one cares about your life story. We had our very Black Attorney General for the entire nation, head of police and justice to be pulled over and harassed by police.  He was just another thug, they said. Our native sons educate themselves and increase their economic standing, the power and privilege that is due to us become sucked into the vortex of racial hate.  That hate has a special reservation for our native sons. 

Had it not been for the vast reading list of my Gifted and Talented Middle School, Phillipa Schuyler, I would not have been exposed to the moving narrative of Black America's native sons.  Now here I am raising one.  The intricate narratives are not found in the assigned historical texts or in the sly remarks made by those who do not understand.  I had to search it out in books like Native Son by Richard Right, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, and Spin A Soft Black Song by my beloved Nikki Giovanni, whom I just found out shares my first name as her middle name.  Wow! My middle school was a type of charter school, way ahead of its time.  The summer reading lists were intense and advanced.  In fact, I re-read several of the same reading list books in college.  My mother made sure I checked out every book on that list at the New Lots Avenue Public Library.  I tried my best to keep up.  I was nervous about going to school after summer break because I thought we would be tested on the reading lists.  In fact, the school was creating a culture in the next generation.  I was an immigrant child but there were others who were in America for generations who also needed these stories.  Some people just never take the time to pass on stories of how things used to be and how far we've come.  

Reading helped me to see how far we had all come.  I was raised by Jamaican parents who taught me that respect is due even to a dog, manners, and respect will bring you a far way, and respect starts with yourself first.  Jamaica is populated by a variety of races and religion, all fused into what makes us Jamaica.  In fact, our motto is "Out Of Many, One People". We understand the differences between people, cultures, and races but we don't subscribe to the fact that one race is to be respected above another. We understand that there are certain priveledges in the color of one's skin and we also understand that education, dedication, and hard work will naturally be rewarded regardless of color.  Immigration brought my Black body across the sea, united with more Black bodies that were similar but not the same as me. I take on their struggles and the least I can do is listen to their story.  The least I can do is learn the roots of the struggles of my native son, connected but disconnected, grounded, yet with roots that run wild, pulled into a vortex that he will challenge if he knows from whence the wind is blowing. Much love to our Modern Moomah’s who continue to love our native sons.