: lower black pain
: lower black pain.
672 Hours Of Fun.
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672 Hours Of Fun.

The Narrative Responsibility of Survival.
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This February 19th, around 7:30 PM, I showed a film to my family, “Watermelon Man”, about a caucasian fellow in the 1970’s who, after a traumatic tanning bed mishap, wakes up as a black man; and the ensuing hijinks which follow immediately thereafter.

It was part of our homespun Black History Month Film Festival, where each February we watch all kinds of cinema influenced by / starring / written and directed by / or vaguely associated with African Americans. It’s part of my Dad job to teach the good and the very very bad in as honest I way I can muster without inspiring pre-teen alcohol abuse. There are pauses to add points of historical clarity, and most of the fare, even that which is in no way comedic, engenders pride and joy.

But my daughter’s political experience began with Barack Obama and then sharply segued to the Trump administration. Black History Month was All The Time. The marches were local, the frustration palpable, the issues unavoidable. And the weight became, well, pretty heavy.

“Why are the people all running after him now? It’s the same bus he took yesterday.”

“Well, he’s black now.”

Silence. Then, whisper-spoken in a sigh with origins far deeper than her 10 years on the planet,

“Ugh. Black History Month.”

Right there. That.

That right there. The idea that Black History Month isn’t a carnival of joy to be gleefully anticipated every year, with stories and memories that one will forever treasure, but instead an annual crash course in the survival and navigation of oppression.

My coping mechanism is associated with time and repetition. The first time someone calls you a mean word is The Worst; the two hundredth time we call Thursday. For a child born in an age of miracles it seems unfair to subject her to ignorance and a little irresponsible to completely shelter her from it.

And no, we didn’t just watch deeply disturbing civil rights allegory movies. The Nicolas Brothers danced, Ella Fitzgerald sang, Nichelle Nichols explored the universe, Tessa Thompson defended Asgard, and Zendaya… well, did just about everything.

But the bad has to be taught with the good, and while we are depending on and defending our rights to discuss these events academically it is important that, as a black parent, I provide context and reasonable navigation. My emotional stability surrounding all this history is rooted deeply in art, of all kinds, both experiencing it and creating it.

So this column stands against the idea that a human experience on this planet as a black person is solely focused in struggle and loss, focusing an issue, event, or circumstance inspiring anger to instead stoke the fires beneath the forge of creation (#stormbringerreference).

I believe diversity is best defined as our passions, experiences, and choices – what we deeply care for, what we’ve seen, and what we’ve decided to do is ultimately who we are. We are verbs, not nouns - it’s what we do that defines us, and African Americans have a history of wonder, invention, adaptation and creation that could easily fill 28 thousand days.

Each day I understand the heady responsibility that I am, every moment, creating black history, and I would like anyone who stumbles onto the remnants of my path to see my contribution as support rather than weight.

©2022 Jd Michaels / CabsEverywhere Productions

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: lower black pain
: lower black pain.
Life’s lemons into rich, dark chocolate.
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