I've known beauty and lust in all shades. They've called me nigger, articulate and many other things, but never lover. A black boy's only hope for a life without violence. I can only hope to be loved by one of them, so that I too may bask in their golden blond sunshine, as seen and celebrated in the movies and on TV. The ones who can qualify as "the boy or girl next door." The ones who lay claim to the title "all-American." (What does that make me, half-American?) The ones who weren't getting killed for trying to vote. The ones who didn't get hosed or attacked by police dogs just because of their color. White people, the ones who can go anywhere and do anything in America. With so much darkness within my black family, my young spirit was signed, sealed and delivered for a better alternative: white people. They also caused a lot of hell for my parents. Our neighborhood and school district were naturally integrated, but I had all the motivation in the world to be like all the white people suddenly thrust into my life. My parents moved us to the suburbs of Indianapolis where I, the youngest, became the most-assimilated member of my family. It didn't help that said brain was already conditioned to profile black brothers in the same vein as my actual black brothers. Of course, I'd had exposure to non-angry black men in high school and college, but not enough to crack the core of a young man's brain. Life was about finding the white man who could love me. The buddy of my dreams, with whom I could survive anything, even my family, even puberty, even high school.ĭitto for college. We were going to be best friends, as seen on TV and in the movies. He was going to be another boy at school.
I dreamed of the Unsers and Foyts fighting over me in a custody battle, rescuing me from my angry, abusive family.īy the time I hit puberty, I was thoroughly convinced my fate lay in the hands of a white man whom I had yet to meet.
The city's passion was race cars and race car drivers, who were. I was raised in Indianapolis, Indiana, in the 1960s and 1970s. On top of that, the handsome white men on TV did some pretty terrific and adventurous things. Just three men, who happened to be black (and were supposed to nurture and protect the baby, me!) who used violence to work things out.Ĭonversely, the white males on television were strong, handsome men who rescued people, hugged people, smiled at people and didn't abuse their loved-ones. Or maybe just paralyzed, if you were lucky, which was almost the case for one of my brothers one time.ĭid I mention there was no back up for the innocent? Not my relatives, not the neighbors, not the police. Since circa age 5, I lived with a daily reality: myself, my mother or my sister, the weak links, could be taken out. I was born the youngest child in a family terrorized by three angry black men.
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