Boaz Brown (10 page)

Then I got into my groove at my desk and asked the Holy Spirit to take me where I needed to go in the Word. Since God had been teaching me about love, I knew I needed to be there. I just wasn’t exactly sure. I searched the subject index of my
 
NIV
 
Women’s Devotional Bible, and searched through the references pertaining to love for others.

Still beseeching the Spirit for guidance, I went through the indicated pages and read until I felt the Word speak to me. Halfway down the list, I realized that I was still “cold” on the trail. I let my eyes wander to the adjacent page and then I saw it:
 
PREJUDICE.
 
I flipped to Galatians 3:26—29 and read:

You are all Sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor
 
fe
male, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.

My heart sank as I rolled this scripture over in my mind. I tried to find a loophole—anything to
 
unjustify
 
what the Word said about prejudice. After all, I had good reason to be prejudiced. Mexicans were taking over. Middle Easterners were always bombing people. Asian people made me sick following me around their little dollar stores as if somebody really wanted to steal a cheap plastic yo-yo. The Native Americans were getting a free ride, though they deserved it.
 
And white people.
 
They stole my ancestors, sold them, used our backs to build their own wealth (mind you, never paid us for it), and the list went on and on.

I thought aloud, “It’s so hard for me to love white people.” But as quickly as the confession escaped my mouth, I knew that I could have just as easily substituted the word “black” because I truly had a hard time dealing with my own kind, too. I mentally ran down the list of our issues. Black people could sure enough get on my nerves making us all look bad. Always running on C.P. (Colored People) time like the world revolves around us. Not checking over our kids’ homework, let alone coming to PTA meetings to find out what’s going on up at the “schoolhouse.” Then we want to come up and act crazy when our children get into trouble. Empty promises, half-steppin’, all talk and no action. Kids dressed to kill in Tommy Hilfiger and CK, but they’re on free or reduced lunch. We don’t support our own, we’re always pulling each other down, we don’t vote, and we could
 
sho
 
‘nuff
 
get “ig-nut” over some money. Leave it to black folks to start a friendly family game of dominos and have it end up with somebody getting shot over fifty cents.

Yes, we could be called a lot of things, but much of it was due to the fact that we are still trying to find ourselves in America. After all, I was in the first generation of African-Americans to have
 
both freedom
 
and civil rights, the first to be able to live out my dreams with the law on my side.

With my justifications for prejudice still fresh on my mind, I closed my Bible and got back on my knees to have a little talk with Jesus. What, exactly, was He asking me to do? Was He asking me to ignore all the facts? Was He asking me to forget about the cause of black equality? Did He expect me to just put down my guard when dealing with people who I felt, collectively, intended to remain on top by keeping others down? Was I supposed to make friends with whites and Hispanics and every other type of person on the globe?

And what of blackness itself—the pride, the attitude that came with my heritage? I
liked
black things—Juneteenth,
 
Essence
 
magazine, hips, our sororities and fraternities, our churches, and those little shirts we used to wear that read:
 
It’s a
 
black
 
thing—you wouldn’t understand.
 
I paid my NAACP dues, and I was committed to making sure that every child in my church got the help they needed to be successful in school. So what if those kids happened to be black? I’m black. I wanted to help my own.

Truly, this thing in my spirit was an assault on my fabric. I prayed my own words and ended the conversation. I left my prayer closet that night without any answers, only a conviction that I did not feel was a fair one, given the history of the very land I stood on.

Chapter 5

When
 
Jonathan announced his intent to enlist in the navy, Momma was a little frightened—as any mother would be. But my parents were in no position to turn around and put a second child through college. They had already taken out several loans to pay for my education, and it was no
 
secret
 
that Daddy postponed his retirement to make sure I finished school without owing anything. Initially, Jonathan went into the military so that he could see the world and get a free college education. As it turned out, he enjoyed military life so much,  he reenlisted for another four years. This time he was off to Germany indefinitely.

Momma had that first, awkward-looking military photo hung high above the mantel. I don’t know what they do to those soldiers just before snapping that first military picture, but those people always look starved, worn out, and homesick. Jonathan was no exception. I almost cried when I saw my brother in that photo. Momma
 
did
 
cry.

“Stop all that
 
cryin’, girl.
 
They just
 
makin’ a man out of him,” Daddy said proudly.

“That was
 
your
 
job!” Momma yelled. Then they got into it again about how they would have had enough money to put us both through college if Momma wasn’t giving so much money to the church or if Daddy would stop playing the lottery. Let them tell it, they would have been billionaires if only the other one hadn’t been doing this or that.

They did, however, agree that Jonathan needed to remember at all times that he was black. The day before Jonathan left, Daddy sat him down and had a long talk with him. I heard the whole thing from the living room. Jonathan was told, in no uncertain terms, that he was not, under any circumstances, to come home with any woman who was anything other than black.

“I don’t care what you see going on around you. I don’t care what a white or Korean or whatever girl says to you, you remember—if
 
she can’t use your comb, don’t bring her home!” Daddy told him with conviction.

“You know your great-uncle Eddie George got killed behind a white girl,” Daddy said. “And he was the only uncle I had on my momma’s side.”

Momma was washing the dishes, yet managed to butt in the conversation. “Eddie George got killed ‘cause
 
he was
 
messin’ with a
 
married
 
woman.”

“She was white!” Daddy yelled. “If she
 
woulda
 
been a black woman, my uncle woulda been alive today.”

“He
 
woulda
 
been a hundred and ten years old!” I yelled from the couch.

Daddy wasn’t having it that day, though. He was serious about his talk with Jonathan, and something in me was struck by Daddy’s desperate plea to my little brother. The fear and anger in his heart caused his voice to tremble. Jonathan listened intently as he never had
 
before,
 
and Momma stopped sloshing the dishwater. Daddy poured out his life’s understandings, and the heat of his words spewed out of his mouth like steam, thickening the room’s air.

“The hardest thing in the world is being a black man in America. Nobody will ever understand that but black men. The best thing we got going for us is our women and our families. You can go off into this navy and bunk up right next to a white man, but don’t ever think he’s got your back. ‘Cause if push comes to shove, and he’s got a choice between saving you and saving a white man, he’ll save the white man every time.” Daddy stressed every syllable by slamming his fist on his knee.

“Everywhere the white man goes, he destroys people. America is the greatest example of the white man doing what he does best. He killed off the Indians; he got the Mexicans over here to work the fields in World War Two, but now he’s trying to send them back with
 
nothin’; and he worked the blacks to the bone for his own gain. And they’ve never paid any of us back. Now, you take this money they give you from the military and use it to help you and yours. But don’t ever turn your back on
a white person, ‘cause sure as
my name is Jonathan Smith Senior, they will stab you in the back every time.”

Those words were meant for my brother, but they seeped deep into my spirit.

* * * * *

 
Unlike workday mornings, I liked to get up in plenty of time to prepare for church on Sunday. I sprang out of bed, quickly prayed, and got ready for service. As I pulled up my loathsome off-black pantyhose, I let out an indignant sigh.
 
I
 
hated wearing pantyhose, but
 
I
 
knew that many of my children’s church students had been told that when they grew up, they would be expected to wear pantyhose to church.
 
I
 
didn’t want to cause any discord, so I suffered that nylon and threw on black pumps, a black skirt, and a sweater.
 

I still had to stop by the grocery store and get snacks for my children’s church class, so I rushed out without eating breakfast. Most of the R
 
&
 
B radio stations played gospel on Sunday mornings, so I gave my CDs a rest and listened to the latest in gospel music while driving to church.

Something about the drive to church always calmed me. It was as though I were going to an old friend’s house—a place I had always known and cherished. A place where I could be me, only better.
 

Sometimes, if I lay in bed too long, I would consider skipping a Sunday or two. And even if I did stay home for whatever reason, the part of me that longed to be in my Father’s house couldn’t rest well knowing there might come a time when I couldn’t get to a church and then I would regret all the times I’d lazed in bed on Sunday mornings. No, I had to be there.