The Tightrope

A baby is born to a teenaged, interracial couple in college. Dad, an African graduate student, leaves before the baby can form complete sentences. Mom gets her degrees and eventually moves home --to lily-whitest Kansas, where her parents can help her raise her family. There, the little boy gets a solid Midwestern upbringing; ten commandments, good neighbor, pull your weight, earn/save/spend, study hard/work hard. The tightrope is fully formed; but it is a faraway feature, the furthest tree in a distant forest. The boy has the luxury of being “just” an observer.

To his benefit, the boy probably misses the “You’ve gotta be twice as good to get half as far” lecture that would’ve been the staple in Big Mama’s house. There are other lectures that a white grandfather gives the golden-hued progeny of his freethinking little girl. It is probably for the best, considering this boy, because he has been born with twice as much potential anyway. The tightrope is closer, but the love that surrounds him, properly shields him from its danger.

The adolescent awakens to the wider world, and steps out in it. By appearance, he is black, and by many accounts beautiful. Part of a sizable community of men who statistically underachieve, he accomplishes an impressive young adulthood; post-graduating with honors from the Ivy League, simultaneously trying to discover the nuance of navigating a polarized culture from inside his mulatto skin. He is beginning to understand the tightrope, but wisely finds other ways to negotiate the chasm.

He chooses to embrace his appearance; to own the darkest side of his birthright, rather than fighting the unwinnable war of persuading those who see him--that he is not what he appears. He selects the most bittersweet piece of a chocolate city in which to make his mark. These … ghettos … always have a battle in progress, and a battle or two lying in wait. He engages. He finds a strong black woman with an intellect to match his own. He marries her. He fathers and she bears two beautiful little girls. He has now acquired the balancing pole that will be his most useful tool, should he ever have to walk across the tightrope.

He joins a church tended by a cleric old enough to be his black father. A masculine man with a manly past who stands in the pulpit each week facing a congregation culled from a community where fathers are like tooth fairies; everyone has seen what they leave behind, but only a small percentage have ever caught them in the act. Recognizing this vacuum, the pastor has an obligation. Tradition requires that the black Shepard must risk ridicule. The black preacher says from the pulpit the things that black fathers have always said to their black children. But the aging Reverend is forced to say them in the light of day, and into a microphone without the protection of beer, or bedtime stories, or barbeque.

He doesn’t know it now, but he will one day have to sacrifice the manhood of this black father on the altar of public outcry. Yet, these are the words that every black child who has a black father recognizes as “what my daddy told me we believe. " They are the legacy of black--in America. The man hears the words, and through them is formally introduced to the net that will catch him should he ever fall off the tightrope.

Years pass, and this mulatto man’s quest for identity is as resolved in his own mind, as it is unsettled in the streets on which he walks. The perfect storm of educational pedigree, politics, good looks, and eloquence find him on the biggest stage of the world; the General Election for President of the United States of America. He is a pioneer in every sense of the word.

And he awakens in this moment for which he has dreamed, calculated, and planned--standing on the tightrope. He is too far from his humble beginning to turn around, and too far from his destination to believe he can simply sprint to the finish line. He will have to walk—stabilizing pole in hand—cautiously, carefully, and deliberately to the other side.

From one side, the billowing wind of white America; intrigued by his intellect, captured by his eloquence, and hungry for his potential. The same white America wary of his hue, shackled by the tint of a shared history, and terrified by the legacy he can rightfully claim. They know part of him is white, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

From the other side, the steady pitter-patter of black America; choired in chords from a community in chaos, straining at the seams for signs that THEIR long national nightmare will soon be over.

They comprehend, while they would NEVER say so into a microphone, that he cannot fully be one of them. They do not consider this an insult, this is their perception of reality. They welcome him, they admire him, they applaud him, they support him. But they KNOW that many men wear black skin but lack black souls.

Theirs is an experience from birth. It lives in barbershops and beauty salons, but it isn’t born there. It shows up at family reunions and around the water cooler, but that isn’t its home.
Being black is not a shirt to be selected and worn. It is a skin that is assigned once. It is to heralded on good days, and endured when things go wrong. It is an identity that walks with you through trial, but precedes you in every other moment. These people know that part of him is black, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

And his tightrope walk continues.

A wiser man with the benefit of history will have to tell you if he makes it to the other side. I can only tell you that he has all the external tools he needs. This journey is treacherous even without the tightrope. Many great men have failed to successfully traverse it from much more solid ground. Like everyone else at the circus, I’m here for the show. I want to see a good performance, and I want my money’s worth. He has my support, and my admiration. But he’s got to walk the tightrope … alone.

Peace,
--Stew

photo:
http://blogs.itworldcanada.com/security/files/2007/07/j03863031.jpg