How to Be Black (2 page)

You're probably familiar with the popular concept of blackness: hip-hop, crime and prison, fatherless homes, high blood pressure, school dropouts, drugs, athleticism, musical talent,
The Wire
, affirmative action, poverty, diabetes, the Civil Rights Movement, and, recently, the U.S. presidency. Some of these concepts are stereotypes. Some are true. Most are negative. But in the age of President Barack Obama, all of them are limiting and simply inadequate to the task of capturing the reality of blackness. The ideas of blackness that make it into mainstream thought exclude too much of the full range of who black people are. Whether it's musical taste, dancing proficiency, occupation, or intellectual interest, all nuance is ignored for a simpler, often more sellable blackness. In this book, I will attempt to re-complicate blackness, exposing the challenges, the fun, and the future of being black in the United States. It's also a convenient way to make you care about my life story.

My name is Baratunde Thurston, and I've been black for over thirty years.

I was born in 1977 in Washington, DC, in the wake of civil rights, Black Power, and
Sanford & Son
. My mother was a pro-black, Pan-African, tofu-eating hippie who had me memorizing the countries of Africa and reading about apartheid before my tenth birthday. My Nigerian name was not handed down to me from any known lineage, but rather claimed and bestowed upon me by parents, who demanded a connection, any connection at all, to Mother Africa.

Yes, I grew up in the “inner city,” at 1522 Newton Street, and I survived DC's Drug Wars. Yes, my father was absent—he was shot to death in those same Drug Wars. But it's also true that I graduated from Sidwell Friends School, the educational home of Chelsea Clinton and the Obama girls, and Harvard University. I love classical music, computers, and camping. I've gone clubbing with the president of Georgia,
the country
, twice.

My version of being black adheres as much to the stereotypes as it dramatically breaks from them, and that's probably true for most of you reading this—if not about blackness itself, then about something else related to your identity. Through my stories, I hope to expose you to another side of the black experience while offering practical comedic advice based on my own painful lessons learned. For example:

In “How to Be The Black Friend,” I shine a light on the type of black person who quietly does as much to promote positive interracial relations as any prominent civil rights activist ever could. In my opinion, The Black Friend is a national hero and should be honored for exemplary service.

In “How to Speak for All Black People,” I give you the lowdown on how to break into the exploding world of black punditocracy on cable news. There is always some black-related thing happening somewhere in the world, and journalism can't fill all those television programming hours, so those cameras might as well be pointed at you!

“How to Be The Black Employee” prepares you for life as one of the few minorities in an office setting, reminding you that you actually have
two
jobs—the one on your business card and being black—and offers key dos and don'ts for the all-important office holiday party. Here's a hint: dancing is involved.

Other chapters include “How to Be The Angry Negro” (because sometimes it's necessary) and “How to Be The (Next) Black President”—it could be you!

But wait, there's more!

The idea of a book that claims to cover “how to be black” is, of course, preposterous, but I'm doing it anyway, and I'm not alone. Because the topic is so large and because my experiences can't comprehensively represent those of millions of people, I recruited a few other voices to help this book live up to its title.

I interviewed friends and colleagues I felt were strong new models of “how to be black.” These are seven people who do blackness well, and together they form The Black Panel I call upon throughout the book to weigh in on important issues.

Cheryl Contee
is the cofounder, with me, of the blog
Jack & Jill Politics
and a partner at Fission Strategy, where she specializes in helping nonprofit organizations and foundations use social media to create social good.

damali ayo
is a conceptual artist, author, and comedian. She created Rent-A-Negro.com in 2003 and is the author of
How to Rent a Negro
and
Obamistan! Land Without Racism
. She is also the creator of the participatory performance piece
National Day of Panhandling for Reparations
.

Jacquetta Szathmari
is a comedian and writer and creator of the one-woman show
That's Funny. You Didn't Sound Black on the Phone
. She's also a Libertarian.

Elon James White
is a comedian and creator of the Web video series
This Week in Blackness
and the Web radio show
Blacking It Up
.

W. Kamau Bell
is a comedian and creator of the one-man show
The W. Kamau Bell Curve: Ending Racism in About an Hour
. He offers a two-for-one ticket deal to those who bring someone of a different race to the show.

Derrick Ashong
is a musician, entrepreneur, and television host. He cofounded the band Soulfège and hosts
The Stream
on Al Jazeera English. He was raised in Ghana, Qatar, Brooklyn, and suburban New Jersey.

Christian Lander
is the author of
Stuff White People Like
. He isn't black. I had to include one white person to defend against the inevitable lawsuits claiming reverse discrimination, and also to establish a control group.

As you can see, this is a rock-star panel. To its members, I posed questions such as “When did you first realize you were black?” “How's Post-racial America working out?” and “Can you swim?”

They have done more than provide color commentary for this book. They have helped me find the heart of it.

In the final chapter, “The Future of Blackness,” I combine my own conclusions with those of the people I interviewed and humbly lay out a complete Grand Unified Theory of Blackness with a vision for a people and a nation. I did not set out to do this, but it happened, and it's kind of awesome.

If you are black, many of these stories and lessons and hopes will ring true to you. Maybe you prevented a race riot in your school by employing diplomatic back-channels to ease tensions between black and white students. Maybe you renounced your blackness for a few hours after being told by other black people that the thing you do so well makes you not black. Maybe your coworkers think you've just
got to
have an opinion on every single move President Barack Obama makes. This book is yours.

If you're not black, there is probably even more to be gained from the words that follow. They may help answer the questions you'd rather not ask aloud or they may introduce a concept you never considered.
*
You will get an insider perspective, not only on “how to be black” but also on “how to be American,” and, most important, how to be yourself. This book is yours as well.

Finally, just in case you were wondering, no black people were harmed in the making of this book.

Yours in blackness,

Baratunde Rafiq Thurston

@baratunde on Twitter. And the book's hashtag is #HowToBeBlack

Where Did You Get That Name?

B
arry. Barrington. Baracuda. Bartuna. Bartender. Bartunda. Bartholomew. Bart. Baritone. Baritone Dave. Baranthunde. Bar— Brad.

This is a representative sample of the world's attempts to say or re-create my name. For the record, it's Baratunde (baa-ruh-TOON-day).

I've trained for decades in the art of patiently waiting for people to butcher my name. It's often a teacher or customer service official who has to read aloud from a list. I listen to them breeze through Daniel and Jennifer and even Dwayne, but inevitably, there's a break in their rhythm. “James! Carrie! Karima! Stephanie! Kevin!” Pause. “Bar—” Pause. They look around the room and then look back at their list. Their confidence falters. The declarative tone applied to the names before mine gives way to a weak, interrogative stumbling:

Barry? Barrington? Baracuda? Bartuna? Bartender? Bartunda? Bartholomew? Bart? Baritone? Baritone Dave? Baranthunde? Bar—? Brad!!

The person who called me Brad was engaged in the most lazy and hilarious form of wishful thinking, but all the others kind of, sort of, maybe make some sense. This experience is so common in my life that I now entirely look forward to it. Like a child on Christmas morning who hasn't yet been told that Santa is a creation of consumer culture maintained by society to extend the myth of “economic growth,” I eagerly await the gift of any new variation the next person will invent. Can I get a Beelzebub? Who will see a Q where none exists? How about some numbers or special characters? Can I get a hyphen, underscore, forward slash? Only after letting the awkward process run its public course do I step forward, volunteering myself as the bearer of the unpronounceable label and correct them: “That's me. It's Baratunde.”

I
love my name. I love people's attempts to say it. I love that everyone, especially white people, wants to know what it means. So here's the answer:

My full name is Baratunde Rafiq Thurston. It's got a nice flow. It's global. I like to joke that “Baratunde” is a Nigerian name that means “one with no nickname,” “Rafiq” is Arabic for “really, no nickname,” and “Thurston” is a British name that means “property of Massa Thurston.”

In truth, Baratunde is derived from the very common Yorubwa Nigerian name “Babatunde.” A literal translation comes out something like “grandfather returns” but is often interpreted as “one who is chosen.”
*
Rafiq is Arabic for “friend or companion.” And Thurston, well, that really probably is the name of the white guy who owned my people back in the day.

Of all the groups of people who react to my name, I've found that white people are the most curious about its meaning and origin. Upon hearing of its origin, they want to know when I last visited Nigeria. Other non-black people are nearly as curious, assuming “Baratunde” to be a family name that goes back generations, that was passed to me through a series of meticulously traceable biblical begats. Black Americans, on the other hand, rarely even pause to ponder my name. Considering how inventive black Americans have been with their own names, that's not very surprising.

Where I never expected any particular reaction, however, was from Nigerians themselves. Nigerians have very strong opinions about my name. They don't like it, and they want me to know. Constantly.

I call this phenomenon the Nigerian Name Backlash. Rarely does a week go by without a Nigerian somewhere on the Internet finding and interrogating me. I first encountered the NNB when I was twelve years old. I called my Nigerian friend, who went by “Tunde,” on the phone, but he wasn't home. Instead, his
extremely
Nigerian father answered, and our interaction proceeded as follows:

“Hello, who is calling?”

“Hi, sir, this is Baratunde.”

“Where did you get that name!?”

Let's pause the exchange right here, because you need more context. Father Nigeria did not simply ask where I got the name as one might ask, “Oh, where did you get those shoes? They're really nice. They're so nice that I need to know where you got them so I can possibly get myself a pair.” No, that was not the tone. The tone was more along the lines of “Who the hell do you think you are coming into my house, stealing my gold, priceless family jewels, my dead grandmother's skeleton, my porridge, and attempting to walk out through the front door as if I would not notice? By all rights, I should kill you where you stand, you thieving, backstabbing boy.”

Shocked by the question, but determined to be both honest and respectful, I answered.

“I got it from my parents,” I told him.
*

“Do you even know what it means?” Father Nigeria asked me in the same way you might ask a dog, “What model iPad do you want?” Fortunately, I knew exactly what it meant, and I proudly answered, “It means grandfather returns or one who is chosen.”

He reacted swiftly and loudly. “No! It means grandfather returns or one who is chosen.”

As I was about to explain to him that I'd just said the very same thing, he launched into a tirade: “This is the problem with you so-called African-Americans. You have no history, no culture, no roots. You think you can wear a dashiki, steal an African name, and become African? You cannot!”

Remember, when this self-appointed Father Nigeria decided to indict, judge, and reject all of African America for its attempts to rebuild some small part of the ancestral bridges burned by America's peculiar institution, I was twelve years old and not in the best position to argue that maybe he should calm down and stop acting like a bully.

His reaction stunned me, but it also prepared me for the regular onslaught from members of the Nigerian Name Backlash community. While he made a sweeping dis against all black Americans who sought cultural identification with Africa, most other Nigerians I've encountered have more technical complaints. Every few weeks a new batch finds me on the Internet, usually Twitter, and swarms with the same basic set of questions and challenges:

“Are you Nigerian?” they excitedly ask.

“No. My parents just wanted me to have an African name.”

“You know your name is Nigerian, right?”

“Yes.”

“But it is wrong, your name. What is this ‘Baratunde'? You mean ‘
Baba
tunde,' right?”

“No.”

“Where did you get that name?”

Sigh.

My name has served as a perfect window through which to examine my experience of blackness. For non-blacks, it marks me as absolutely, positively black. However, most of the vocal Nigerians I've met (which is to say, most of the Nigerians I've met) use my name to remind me that I'm not
that
black.