I Wear The Mask Like A Mutha!

Originally posted on Tuesday, August 07, 2007

I wear the mask like a mutha!
Current mood: high

(Warning...this note might not make sense to the naked eye. I am not trying to be deep. I'm having a moment of streaming consciousness and have decided to write it down. Anything that is written between these *two* thingies signals me performing the action contained within them. Wherever there is a break between only a word or a sentence in a paragraph, it means that I am envisioning what you would look like if I were saying this to you face-to-face. Get it? Got it? Good. *thumbs up* Just testing. Let's begin.)

I know we all know the phrase, "we wear the mask" from the poem of the same title by Paul Lawrence Dunbar (shout-out to my mama who graduated from Dunbar H.S. in 1964! I see ya!).

Wait?
We don't?

That's a damn shame. The public school system is f*cked up.

Well, since everyday is a great day for teaching and learning, allow me to share:

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!


I know, dry your tears. Can you believe that any one group of people could be beaten and deprived so much that one of them could feel like writing this? No?

You must be white.

*shrugging*

I'm sorry, y'all just tend to be a bit more...optimistic than Black people.

Anyway, back to the beginning of this note. So, now that you know what the phrase means, let me tell you why I was reminded of it.

I wear my Blackness like a coat of many colors. I carry my Blackness like the biggest Christmas present ever created. I feel my Blackness like the piercing sting of a venomous snake bite. I hear my Blackness like that favorite Marvin Gaye song that your mama always played when she was happy. I smell my Blackness like the aroma of ribs barbecuing on a hot July morning. I AM my Blackness like God is love.

So why then is it that at the moment that a white person enters my line of vision am I so willing to shrug it off?

Wait! Don't cast me away just yet! It's not what you think! Please don't banish me to Clarence-Colin-and-Condoleeza-Land!

I do it unwillingly. Unwittingly. Unknowingly.

Ashamedly.

It's just that, I speak a totally different language. Like, if I were saying this to a Black friend, right now, in person, it would sound totally different. Like, first of all, there would be less of the words, "like," "different," and "totally."

But since I am here, with you, and YOU might be white, I have to write it like this.

Why? Well, because, *whispering* I don't want to embarass them.*pointing upwards*

You know...them! The ancestors dummy! Ok, I know that I'm not making a good case as to why I shouldn't be perceived as crazy. But once, again, allow me to explain.

I heard what they went through. I've seen what it did to them. And I really know how hard they really tried. And they lived that life with only the hope of ever seeing freedom.

And I'll be damned if I act a fool out here in front of these white folks!

(I know probably any Black person who reads this has heard this many times in their lives. Mostly during those pre-pubscent years when you felt bold and stupid enough to say anything, EVEN IN FRONT OF THESE WHITE FOLKS!)

Wouldn't that have made it all in vain? And wouldn't that be the ultimate tragedy on top of the ultimate crime?

If my ancestors went through all they went through, and I can think of nothing better to do than allow my brotha to swipe a credit card down the crack of my ass. If my ancestors went through all they went through, and I can think of nothing better to do than allow my hand to even think of making that motion on my sista's behind?

Or worse yet, if I choose to shake my behind to the background music of this pornographical exploit?

*shrugs*

I dunno, and I can't really get into all that right now cause I need to be going to bed pretty soon.

But, I'd like to think that even if they don't know it, that I know it. I know that they went through all of that so I could graduate from 8th grade. I know they went through all of that so that I could live in a house that my mother owned. I know they went through all of that so that when that little white boy called me a "nigga," his parents apologized to my mother. I know they went through all of that so that I could be entering my second year of graduate school.

Every slight made them angrier and gave them more courage to fight back.

And what would they think if they saw that they went through all of that so that we could act a damn fool on television IN FRONT OF ALL THESE WHITE FOLKS?

So, when a white person walks into my line of vision, I straighten up. I fly right. I might drop a little jive talk every now and then just to remind them that, "yes, I am Black, and I will whoop your ass if you even try it," but they know that I am intelligent enough to go right back into "intellectual" mode.

In fact, I might even forgive their slights instead of beating their asses because I don't want them to think that all Black people are violent. (That last line goes out to the white girl who had the nerve to tell me that her grandfather used to call people, "niggers." And no, she didn't say "the n word." She said, "niggas." And I should've snatched her ass from appetite to asshole up in that, but I only turned my head, relaxed, related, and released.)

Because I just can't stand the thought of Martin knowing that the Black community is raising 100 million dollars so that a graven image of him can be erected in the capital of a country made rich off of his ancestor's blood. I believe he would wince at the notion of us not spending that on education.

(By the way, I just stopped typing this note momentarily to look at my mother crazy for suggesting that I call a Black male friend that I was close to years ago, because he's leaving for Iraq soon. Umm, I'd vote for Bush if I thought he could get us out of there!)

So, everytime I drop a bit of the King's English on em (like how I put that jive talk right there?), I wink up to Anne Durr, my great-grandmother who was not meant to be constrained by the color of her skin and fought it all her life. I wink up to my grandmother Myrtle Jones who possibly looked for love in all of the wrong places, but did find her way.

I say, "yeah, I know it hurt like hell. But even though it shouldn't mean anything to you or me, them white folks know that we're just as smart as they are. Even if just for one refined, "hello."

So, yes, I wear the mask. I'd rather not, but it's become so engrained in my being, that I cannot help myself. I can only anticipate being able to let go in front of those like me.