Words For Race

The preferred word to describe people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  How we, as a culture, perceive and treat people of African descent has changed several times since I was born.  I was blessed to live in interesting times.

Currently, I mostly use the term African to describe people of the African Diaspora.  For one thing, it's the most accurate.  My genes are from Scotland.  I am Scottish.  Their genes are from Africa.  They are African.  To be entirely honest, I'd much rather break it down to what part of Africa they come from, but for people living in the US, what goes on inside the great continent of Africa is a complete mystery.  Were they asked to name countries or cities in Africa, they'd be at a loss.  I'll be completely honest with you, most of what I know about Africa started with my interest in Tarzan, a character created by a man who had never been to Africa himself.  I've informed myself since then, but that's how it started.

Using the word "African" also describes the elephant in the room itself, the place called Africa, ironically also where elephants come from.  The idea of colonization and colonizing that created these bad ideas and bad feelings about race that we live with began with colonization, and no place on earth was more poorly treated and received less in return than Africa.  The cradle of mankind has not been treated too kindly by the people who migrated out of there.

What might currently be the preferred term for people who are African is "Black."  While historically often used, it came into preference in the seventies and probably became a favorite from the use of the phrase "Black Power," which spoke to the ideas of upward social movement, self-determination, and solidarity that were popular then.  A short and square word, Black ends with an aggressive K sound.  I get why it's liked.

My problem with Black is that it was originally used to exaggerate the otherness of African people and suggest that they are somehow the opposite of Europeans, who were described as "White."  We are good; they are bad.  We are enlightened; they are in the dark.  We are civilized; they are slaves.  We are men; you are animals.  All of these ideas were real and common for a very long time.  I genuinely dislike the use of "White" as well.  Leave white to the White Walkers.  It also squashes all the cultural and ethnic, and genetic diversity of Europe into one big pot.  I don't like being lumped together with the English, much less the Finns, the French, or the Flemish.

Both of my preferred words to describe Africans are no longer in favor.  They're no longer in favor because they were used so long to condescend, and there came a time when African people began to demand we stop condescending to them.  Besides all the crap we were already doing to them, that became an insult.  I get that.

For me, "Negro" is a beautiful word.  For one thing, its origin is probably French or Spanish or both.  It has a musical shape and sound to it, like a viola.  "Which wine would you like, Madam?"  "What is your best bottle of Negro, Garcon?"  Besides being condescending, Negro fell out of favor because it degrades into something horrible.  First "Negro", then "Neegra," then, you-know-what is next.  

Some writers type it easily.  I do not.  Even when my fingers are making words spoken by a character or relaying what someone I actually saw actually said, it's uncomfortable.  If I'm honest, it's not because I'm enlightened or nice or anything admirable.  My grandmother taught me to never use that word because it made me sound ignorant, and she said it with a face that made it seem so much worse than just ignorant.  Evelyn Flowers was most of the time as gentile as a flower, but she could be as harsh and aggressive and unmoving as a lion on some things, and me being "ignorant" was one of the things.

Colored is my favorite.  Who wouldn't want to be colored?  If your choice was to have color or to have none, you'd choose color.  "Colored lady" or "Colored gentleman," or even "Colored baby" are some of my favorite phrases.  They express a friendliness, both on the parts of the speaker and of the person they are describing.  If you're white and from the South, and I use the phrase "colored lady" it's most likely going to invoke memories of someone who loved you and was kind to you.  

The system of having African "aunties" or maids in white families was itself problematic, as described by Kathryn Stockett was very real, but she also did a great job of describing the sometimes cruel problems that came from it.  "Colored" is archaic, and it's problematic, so even though it's my favorite term, I really only use it when I'm making a point, or speaking for a character.

Ultimately, white men like me do not make this decision, and that's the way it should be.  I may be made of words, but these are real people with real lives, and I respect that.  The preferred word will probably change again in time, but "African" will always be accurate.  

Don't call me white, though; I am a Highlander.

True Love and Caramel Cake

My parents started "dating" when they were in the sixth grade at Power Elementary under the watchful eye of my aunt Sara Catherine, who ran the cafeteria, and her husband Luther was the favorite of everybody in daddy's generation, which was all boys except for two hold-outs.

From sixth grade until the day daddy died, neither of them had ever been involved with anyone else.  It's been my mission to make up for all the romantic gregarity daddy missed out on.  I may have invented a word.  Meriam Webster is telling me there's no such form of gregarious as gregarity.  I'll never be recognized for my genius in my generation.

When Daddy died, Momma was on vacation with my cousin Libby in Florida, they chose to drive, even though we had a plane and Libby worked for Delta. (my family can be odd.)  There were carphones in those days, but Momma refused to get one.  They were intrusive, she felt.  She was probably right.  She also confused Cell Phones with the Radio Phone that Rowan Taylor had, and somebody with a police scanner caught him calling a judge an asshole, so he never trusted them again.

As they entered Alabama, Libby called daddy's office to let him know they'd be home in x number of hours.  She was transferred to James Carr, who told her what happened but not to tell Mother until she got back to Jackson.  He thought that'd be better than her sitting all that time in a car thinking about how her life had suddenly changed.

Back at home, the house was filling up with Ole Miss KA's, Millsaps people, and whatever family we could find.  Robert Wingate drove to Jackson from Greenwood and waited for momma to get home.  Of all my relatives, Wingate always was.  He just was.  Poor Libba Wingate.  How many times did Robert have to say, "I gotta go." then disappear into the night.  He was just that kind of guy.  God, I miss him.  

As she drove up to our house on Honeysuckle, Mother saw all these cars.  She immediately assumed something had happened to one of her children, probably me.  She'd lived through this with other families before.  Turning in the driveway, the headlights lit up Leon Lewis and Brum Day.  Mr. Lewis might have been there if I died in a wreck, but once she saw Brum, she knew what it had to be.  Her fifty-year love affair had come to an end.

Fifty years is a long time.  So far, twelve years is the longest I've gone with the same person.  I think what made their relationship work was that they had a genuine sense of humor about each other.  

One time, Mother got real sick with an intestinal thing and had to spend six days at St. Dominics.  People from all over brought daddy all these casseroles so he wouldn't starve, even though he and Rowan ate steak every night.  Daddy only knew how to cook one thing, and I had to teach him how to do that correctly.  The casseroles began to stack up.  He gave me one, and I think Jimmy got one.  

Finally, momma came home.  She gave me instructions on how to heat up one of the casseroles stacked in her refrigerator, and we ate as a family for the first time since she got sick.  Martha was still living at Millsaps, but the rest of us all had our own places.  Eating the Mexican something, something casserole Jane Lewis made, Daddy said, "If you'd been sick a little longer, somebody woulda made me a caramel cake."  He got away with it.  My wife woulda made sure I wore whatever was left of the something, something Mexican casserole, but then we didn't start dating when we were ten years old.

Mother wasn't the type to let anyone get the better of her.  She took to the habit of leaving daddy a birthday card on his lavatory every year.  He would read it, kiss her on the head and say how much he loved it, then leave it back on his lavatory as he went to work.  That night, he'd come home and take her out to eat, usually at the Mayflower, and we kids were at the mercy of Hattie the maid, or my grandmother, both of which were excellent cooks.  Noticing that Daddy did the same thing every year without deviation of any sort, Mother decided to try something.

She took to collecting the birthday card he left on the lavatory and tucking it away in her desk.  The next year, she'd leave the same card on the same lavatory where he would read it, kiss her on the head, then take her out for dinner.  This went on for most of my youth. The same card, the same ritual, year after year.  Finally, in my twenties, she was lubricated enough at a dinner party that she revealed the rouse to her friends.  Daddy turned a little red-faced for a minute, realizing he'd been caught not really noticing the card she picked out all those years was always the same one.  Then, he sheepishly offered, "still counts."  And, so it did.

Playing tricks on each other can be good for a relationship.  A sick wife really should be worth a caramel cake.  You can even buy them at the store now.  Obviously, I don't know the secret to true love, but I think maybe being able to laugh at each other helps.