Black Is Not A Dirty Word
More times than I can count throughout my life, I have been asked some variation of the question: “Wait… so you’re Ethiopian? But I thought you were black?” Or on the flipside, “Wait… you’re black? But I thought you were African?” While this may sound ridiculous to some of you, who are likely thinking, “well, of course Africans are black,” you’d be surprised how often I deal with these interrogations. For a long time, I allowed these encounters to force me to pick a side; to split my identity in the middle. Am I an African American? Or am I an African born in America? Often, I was forced to question whether I “qualify” as black. If I wasn’t black, then what was I? I was constantly in a state of questioning myself, and for a while I didn’t know where to find the answers - until I started thinking about language.
The way we talk about identity, particularly in America, has great influence on the way we then think about identity. The words we choose to use can, over time, shape the way we categorize and differentiate one another. When we fear a word, for whatever reason, we start to associate that fear with what we are referring to.
A good example of this can be found in a 2013 CNBC poll that found that 46% of Americans opposed Obamacare, while 37% opposed the Affordable Care Act - which are the exact same thing. In this situation, the subjects of this poll allowed the name Obamacare, and all the political baggage that it carried, to shape the way they thought of the actual legislation. The language used to describe their reality then created their reality.
One of my favorite examples of this concept in relation to race is when many folks gingerly refer to the rapper Drake as African American, despite knowing that he was born and raised in Canada and has never pretended otherwise. There is no reason to do this - except for the fear of the word, “black.” We fear this word because of everything it carries with it: every stereotype, every historical offense, every hashtag, every news headline. And by fearing this word, we slowly teach ourselves to fear black people themselves - to associate all of the baggage of the word with the person.
It is not only non-black people who are afraid of the word “black”; many of my most appalling memories of conversations surrounding race come from interactions with other African immigrants or children of African immigrants. Too often, they are afraid to call themselves “black” here, and this is for various reasons. Sometimes it is because of a deep-rooted fear, that if they self-identify the same way as black Americans, they will suddenly allow a floodgate of racism and discrimination to open and drown their lives. Sometimes it is because they fear that calling themselves simply “black” will erase all of the memories, culture, and tradition of their home that they still hold so dearly. Far too frequently it is because of a false sense of superiority, over “those American blacks,” and an internalization of the racist stereotypes we are all presented with daily.
There are two main issues with this mindset. The first is that when an African immigrant speaks about American black people in a degrading manner, they are contributing to a culture of anti-blackness in this country that their children will grow up to experience. To speak about “those American blacks” as if they are all thugs is, at its core, to speak about your children in the same way. The second is that regardless of whether you want to call yourself Nigerian, or Ethiopian, or Kenyan, instead of “black,” this country views you the same. You will still face the same microaggressions. White people will still ask to touch your hair or clutch their purses when you walk by.
One of the many in the recent plague of videos of white people calling the police on black folks for no good reason was the case of #PermitPatty, as she was nicknamed. Allison Ettel called the police on eight-year-old Jordan Rodgers, who was selling cold water outside of her home in San Francisco on a hot day, hiding behind a wall as she complained to 911 responders that the child did not have a permit. Jordan and her family are Ethiopian. This made no difference in the way they were treated.
Amadou Diallo, an unarmed and completely innocent black man and an immigrant from the nation of Guinea in West Africa, was shot and killed by NYPD officers in 1999. The officers were not in uniform, saw Diallo entering his home, mistook him for a rape suspect, and fired 41 shots with no warning. Diallo was struck 19 times, dying almost instantly. All four officers were eventually acquitted, and one of them, Kenneth Boss, who had previously shot and killed another unarmed black man two years prior, continued to work for the NYPD, had his ability to carry a firearm restored in 2012, and was promoted to the rank of sergeant in 2015. Diallo’s life meant nothing more to the involved officers or to the criminal justice system because he was “African, not black.” If anything, Officer Boss was rewarded for Diallo’s death, in the end.
These incidents always remind me of an excerpt from one of my favorite books, “Americanah,” by the great Chimamanda Adichie, where she writes, in part, “Admit it—you say “I’m not black” only because you know black is at the bottom of America’s race ladder. And you want none of that. Don’t deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say “Don’t call me black, I’m from Trinidad”? If you think that this doesn’t make sense, imagine a French individual claiming that he is not white, he is French. It doesn’t quite make sense, does it?
If we are able to talk about race frankly and boldly, without fear of language, we are able to truly transcend above the baggage that language carries. We can shake off the negative associations that we have tied so closely with the word “black,” because we have no reason to fear a word. (Mind you, I said “word,” and not “slur.”) Too often, we say “black” when what we really mean to say is “victim.” We say “black” when what we mean is “criminal.” We say “black” when what we mean is “dangerous,” or “lazy,” or simply “dead.” And too often, we try to find other words, like “African American” or “Ethiopian” or “Barbadian” - which are all perfectly fine words and help us to find our own specific identities - but these are detrimental when what we are really trying to talk about is “blackness” - from around the world, in its beauty, its pain, its richness, and as a whole.
If we can unlearn our fear of the word “black,” we can talk about race in a much clearer way. No, of course there isn’t one all-encompassing international “black experience,” but the reality is that so many of the world’s institutions operate and affect black people in such similar ways that it is almost always more constructive to be able to have one cohesive conversation.
So rather than allowing your language to create your reality, I am daring you to start actually using your language simply as a tool to talk about your reality - keeping in mind that “black” is not a dirty word.
The way we talk about identity, particularly in America, has great influence on the way we then think about identity. The words we choose to use can, over time, shape the way we categorize and differentiate one another. When we fear a word, for whatever reason, we start to associate that fear with what we are referring to.
A good example of this can be found in a 2013 CNBC poll that found that 46% of Americans opposed Obamacare, while 37% opposed the Affordable Care Act - which are the exact same thing. In this situation, the subjects of this poll allowed the name Obamacare, and all the political baggage that it carried, to shape the way they thought of the actual legislation. The language used to describe their reality then created their reality.
One of my favorite examples of this concept in relation to race is when many folks gingerly refer to the rapper Drake as African American, despite knowing that he was born and raised in Canada and has never pretended otherwise. There is no reason to do this - except for the fear of the word, “black.” We fear this word because of everything it carries with it: every stereotype, every historical offense, every hashtag, every news headline. And by fearing this word, we slowly teach ourselves to fear black people themselves - to associate all of the baggage of the word with the person.
It is not only non-black people who are afraid of the word “black”; many of my most appalling memories of conversations surrounding race come from interactions with other African immigrants or children of African immigrants. Too often, they are afraid to call themselves “black” here, and this is for various reasons. Sometimes it is because of a deep-rooted fear, that if they self-identify the same way as black Americans, they will suddenly allow a floodgate of racism and discrimination to open and drown their lives. Sometimes it is because they fear that calling themselves simply “black” will erase all of the memories, culture, and tradition of their home that they still hold so dearly. Far too frequently it is because of a false sense of superiority, over “those American blacks,” and an internalization of the racist stereotypes we are all presented with daily.
There are two main issues with this mindset. The first is that when an African immigrant speaks about American black people in a degrading manner, they are contributing to a culture of anti-blackness in this country that their children will grow up to experience. To speak about “those American blacks” as if they are all thugs is, at its core, to speak about your children in the same way. The second is that regardless of whether you want to call yourself Nigerian, or Ethiopian, or Kenyan, instead of “black,” this country views you the same. You will still face the same microaggressions. White people will still ask to touch your hair or clutch their purses when you walk by.
One of the many in the recent plague of videos of white people calling the police on black folks for no good reason was the case of #PermitPatty, as she was nicknamed. Allison Ettel called the police on eight-year-old Jordan Rodgers, who was selling cold water outside of her home in San Francisco on a hot day, hiding behind a wall as she complained to 911 responders that the child did not have a permit. Jordan and her family are Ethiopian. This made no difference in the way they were treated.
Amadou Diallo, an unarmed and completely innocent black man and an immigrant from the nation of Guinea in West Africa, was shot and killed by NYPD officers in 1999. The officers were not in uniform, saw Diallo entering his home, mistook him for a rape suspect, and fired 41 shots with no warning. Diallo was struck 19 times, dying almost instantly. All four officers were eventually acquitted, and one of them, Kenneth Boss, who had previously shot and killed another unarmed black man two years prior, continued to work for the NYPD, had his ability to carry a firearm restored in 2012, and was promoted to the rank of sergeant in 2015. Diallo’s life meant nothing more to the involved officers or to the criminal justice system because he was “African, not black.” If anything, Officer Boss was rewarded for Diallo’s death, in the end.
These incidents always remind me of an excerpt from one of my favorite books, “Americanah,” by the great Chimamanda Adichie, where she writes, in part, “Admit it—you say “I’m not black” only because you know black is at the bottom of America’s race ladder. And you want none of that. Don’t deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say “Don’t call me black, I’m from Trinidad”? If you think that this doesn’t make sense, imagine a French individual claiming that he is not white, he is French. It doesn’t quite make sense, does it?
If we are able to talk about race frankly and boldly, without fear of language, we are able to truly transcend above the baggage that language carries. We can shake off the negative associations that we have tied so closely with the word “black,” because we have no reason to fear a word. (Mind you, I said “word,” and not “slur.”) Too often, we say “black” when what we really mean to say is “victim.” We say “black” when what we mean is “criminal.” We say “black” when what we mean is “dangerous,” or “lazy,” or simply “dead.” And too often, we try to find other words, like “African American” or “Ethiopian” or “Barbadian” - which are all perfectly fine words and help us to find our own specific identities - but these are detrimental when what we are really trying to talk about is “blackness” - from around the world, in its beauty, its pain, its richness, and as a whole.
If we can unlearn our fear of the word “black,” we can talk about race in a much clearer way. No, of course there isn’t one all-encompassing international “black experience,” but the reality is that so many of the world’s institutions operate and affect black people in such similar ways that it is almost always more constructive to be able to have one cohesive conversation.
So rather than allowing your language to create your reality, I am daring you to start actually using your language simply as a tool to talk about your reality - keeping in mind that “black” is not a dirty word.