Not Black Men
By
La Vonda R. Staples
I think the majority of Black men whom I speak with on a daily basis
are not African American men. I regularly interface, via phone and
internet, with Nigerian, Ghanaian, Haitian, and Puerto Rican dark-
skinned, thick lipped, and very well educated brothers. This is in
addition to the people I speak with on an ongoing basis over writing
projects and publishing. I don't know how this happened that most of
my professional male contacts are black but not Black. But it has.
It's probably something to do with me and how I prefer to keep things
congenial yet formal and also at the same time I expect complete
respect for me as well as other cultures.
I'm like anyone else. I make off-color comments but mostly when I'm
angry or confused or hurt. I'm not a person who enjoys ethnicity
jokes and these men of whom I fortunate to know and hear their
testimonies regarding non-Black black male interaction and Black male
interactions. To put it bluntly, brothers from the rest of the
African Diaspora are a totally different "type" than our domestic
crew. They tend to invest more in their family at the expense of not
looking so very stylish. They tend to not drive the flashy, expensive
cars. They are, almost to a man, married. Black men (and I'm using
the word Black to mean those from America) really are a polar opposite
in terms of socio-cultural orientation. The African Diaspora men from
around the world may look exactly like Black men but they don't behave
in the same ways in terms of spending, commitments, or even work.
Am I saying that Black American men aren't hard workers? Hell no!
Why would I say something as crazy as that? I'm saying that the
African and Caribbean Black man is something more akin to a machine.
I have a mentor from Sierra Leone, Dr. Abdul Karim Bangura, he holds
five doctoral degrees and has published nearly sixty books as well as
countless articles. It has been a long time since we've seen a Black
American academic post such numbers in such a short time (Dr. Bangura
is not yet fifty years old). I have interviewed a Nigerian academic,
Dr. Toyin Falola, who, in addition to his teaching schedule has
managed to author some 90 texts on his subject: African history. I
don't think Dr. Falola is 65 years old. I could give you each man's
CV, down the line, over and over again. Even my friends Kwaku Danso
and Kwaku Kwakyi, both Ghanaian men, both moderately young. Do you
know in addition to holding advanced degrees that both of these men
also have very successful entrepreneurial endeavours? Yes. They do.
It seems that the African and Caribbean man never sleeps.
And that brings me to my friend Henry Rodrigues. Typical diasporan.
Puerto Rican parents and brought up in Brooklyn. Thick accent which
meant that Whites didn't consider him Black and Blacks didn't consider
him Black. By culture alone he's in a type of limbo. The way he
lives his life is a commitment to his chosen profession. Henry is a
personal trainer. He's also the trainer for my son's Muay Thai team.
He's a father to those young men. He has coached my son to his first
win in mixed martial arts and he also takes time to give me free
personal training advice. He is a true sage in the words of the
ancient Egyptian parable: A true sage gives what he has without pay
and without secret."
I've listened to Henry. At fifty eight years old he looks more like
35 and moves better than most 25 year old men. He is a miracle in
muscle. But when you realize that most of Henry's clients are White.
His circle, other than from his home or in New York, in the Midwest is
nearly all White. He's still, after all of these decades set apart:
his lack of Black-ness segregates him. It's a tragedy. This man has
so much to give. I wonder why we, Black people, will accept Italians
as trainers, Polish, it just seems like we'll take anyone but the
people outside of the United States in the African Diaspora. After
all, didn't we come from them?
I don't know if there's any solution for this. I know that my son
and his friends openly accept Henry and they don't make any jokes
about the myriad accents they hear when they answer the phone for me.
Well, they do make jokes about my friend Nnanna Kalu when he calls
from Nigeria. But that's only because he doesn't call me La Vonda.
He calls me Amaka – the name their family gave to me. So, I guess it
is excusable for them to laugh when they hear a Nigerian man
bellowing, "Amaka, Amaka! Is this you? This is Nnnanna calling to
you from Nigeria!" Yeah, that is worth a little laugh.
I don't know why the sons reject the mother. I don't know why the
sons reject the mother's other sons. How can the citizens of the same
womb bear each other such ill will? They be hatin' on them foreign
dudes all the time. And I can't understand what would be a valid
reason why. All I know is this, I've exponentially increased my
opportunities by expanding my horizons. My dreams are not bound by
the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic, the Pacific and Niagara Falls. My
dreams are so big I can't carry them all alone. I know, if you think
about it, you'll feel the same way I do. And you know what's really
outrageous about the entire separation? We elected a Black man to the
highest office in this land who is the son of an African Diaspora
man. So, we vote for the son and we shun the immigrant father?
Something to consider, if only for a moment. Something to consider,
indeed.
http://lavondastaples.blogspot.com/2011/11/that-hated-on-man-in-honour-of-henry.html
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