The AGomes Project

If a man will lie, he will steal, and if he will steal, he will kill.

Martin Luther King Jr.

In January 2021, one year after the COVID 19 virus proved beyond doubt that the world’s populous is indeed an interconnected mass, my colleagues and I were discussing the MLK holiday and how our mutual workspace could aptly acknowledge the day’s significance.

On Nov. 3, 1983, President Ronald Reagan signed a bill marking the third Monday of January, as Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

The day’s significance is that it honors the thoughts and deeds of a visionary far more advanced than the contra-powers of his time. It took 20+ years for congress to make the acknowledgement of his birthday the law of the land. Typically highlighted on the third Monday of January, are the notions of non-violence and civil rights as a pathway to social justice.  Often organizations will focus on one of the more popular speeches of this masterful orator. So, we typically hear excerpts from the “I Have a Dream” speech delivered at the March on Washington [for Jobs and Freedom], August 28, 1963 and see the visionary at his podium. 

As I studied the march and its organizers more than fifteen years ago, I learned about another leader, Bayard Rustin who was the chief organizer of the march. If you have not heard of Bayard, there is a reason.  He did not receive adequate acknowledgement for his skills and contributions to the march or the movement because his persona as a gay man was deemed too controversial-perhaps even detrimental-to the cause.  Each January, I spend time thinking of Dr. King’s legacy, but it’s not the only time I think of the magnitude of his impact on our nation.

It often strikes me when speaking to ordinary white Americans, how little they know about MLK beyond what is presented in history books. Do you know that Stevie Wonder wrote his version of the “Happy Birthday” song in honor of Dr. King’s birthday, which is actually January 15^th? In my family, we sing this version on our birthdays! Or, that Wonder worked with Coretta Scott King to bring MLK Day to the masses? I also think about the humanness of Dr. King which was magnified a thousand-fold on April 4, 1968 the day of his assassination in Memphis, TN. I was seven years old; I saw my mother’s tears and my father’s anger and felt my own tender confusion.

Two months later, even at the age of seven, I like millions of Americans, expected Robert Kennedy to ascend to the Presidency of the United States and continue the fight for racial equality. My parents were talking and listening to news on the radio about the seeming heir to the White House.  Then he, too, was murdered.

After Robert Kennedy’s assassination, I was on the schoolyard during recess. I stayed to myself since most of the other kids were not interested in playing with me. I was one of two black children in my elementary school. The other was my brother. My second-grade teacher was talking with another teacher about the terrible loss of a promising leader through such violent means. One remarked, “I can’t imagine who would want him dead. Everybody loved Bobby Kennedy.”

“Not everyone,” I responded, “cause somebody shot him.” I was listening intently; although my teacher experienced it as unacceptable eavesdropping. Needless to say, I was reprimanded and sent to the principal for punishment. But what I said was true and I knew it.  So did the principal; he sent me back to class without incident.

In 1926, three years before MLK Jr. was born, “Negro History week” was established by Dr. Carter G. Woodson. One of the preeminent scholars of his day and the second African American to earn a doctorate from Harvard University, Dr. Woodson founded the Association for the Study of African American Life and History (ASALH) whose purpose was and still is to disseminate information about the black experience.  It is this non-profit entity that sets the theme for Black History Month each year. The 2021 theme is the Black Family: Representation, Identity and Diversity. Next year, following two years of a national health crisis that clearly showed the deeply embedded health inequities within the United States health care system, the theme will aptly focus on black health and wellness.

In 1976, less than a decade before MLK’s birthday became a national holiday, Negro History week became Black History Month laying the groundwork for the segue from MLK Day in January to Black History Month in February. As a former educational professional, I was charged with elevating the understanding and awareness of Black History Month for our constituents.  Through collaborations with students and faculty I was able to plan, support, coordinate, and offer events with little funding. I was directed by my white counterpart in the marketing and communications department to use “African American History Month” rather than “Black History Month” on promotional materials because it aligned with some professional guideline or format that the organization must adhere to. I had used the two terms interchangeably until the youth culture around me complained that African American History Month didn’t capture the diasporic nature of our history – a solid argument to say the least. So, I pushed back on the use of “African American History Month” and was overruled at the executive level, which at the time, was occupied exclusively by white people.  Regrettably, I complied and changed the header on my marketing materials, but only after creating a footer with the youth-designed Black 365 tagline:

a reminder that you may call us “African American,” but we are black 365 days a year. Our identities may be usurped in February, but we live our truths every day.

I am often asked by white people how I celebrate Black History Month, or how they should celebrate it. As a long-time Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion professional, I understand the curiosity and have welcomed it. I like questions; they lead to answers. When my children were young, I discussed the significance of black history with them and addressed their questions. Why is Black History Month in February? They were teased by white students in their schools about being given the shortest month of the year in which to celebrate the accomplishments of their race. We did the research to learn that Dr. Woodson chose February as an homage to two extraordinary American leaders Abraham Lincoln and W.E.B Dubois whose birthdays are in the month – not because white supremacy would only “give” the month with the fewest days to host this honor.

For more than a decade, I honored the heritage of my own African roots by organizing and promoting various activities to inform my workplace and its surrounding community.  There were black history trivia games, community service projects, lectures, performances, and delicious Jollof rice and Jerk chicken. In my professional life, I planned events for every week, sometimes every day of Black History Month.

Then in 2012 Trayvon Martin was murdered by a deluded vigilante on February 26^th, three weeks after his seventeenth birthday.  His death altered Black History Month for me – forever.  The reality was (and still is) that despite all the celebrated history and accomplishments of black citizens in America, they could still be murdered without provocation or consequence.  Black history is simply peripheral to American history in the minds of most.  The month-long commemoration is valuable, I believe that, but it is not even close to being adequate. I try not to be angry about it. It was established for the world to know of the superior intellects, faiths, creativities, and strengths born of the black body.

After George Floyd’s public lynching in May 2020, I was sickened by a flood of emotions. The imagery was nearly unbearable – nearly but not completely. We have all become too accustomed to negative images of black folks – beaten, shot, hanged, naked, crammed in cargo holds, chased, arrested, selling drugs, impoverished, laboring in fields.  In her book, Caste, Isabel Wilkerson writes about a well-known photograph of a lynching in the state of Florida:

The girl in the front is looking up at the dead black man with wonderment rather than horror… Lynching scenes became a burgeoning sub-department of the postcard industry.

Caste, Isabel Wilkerson

None of my white family members or friends reached out to me after Floyd’s murder until I called out their silence.  Then the responses began.  One wrote, “I’ve been thinking of you . . . what a time in history . . . Praying for better days ahead for the black community.”

I was not consoled. What this friend fails to understand, I understand all too well. We are all members of the community at large.  It is our collective consciousness that needs “better days ahead” not solely the “black community.”

I have compassion for white folks whose ignorance grows generationally through the lies perpetrated in history books and taught to their children.  This is what I think about in February. Children are a gift for the future.  They are resilient; we can and should tell them the truth and show them how to love each other, not despite it – but because of it. As a young student, I withstood the lesson on black history; black people were slaves, (then came the slave ship picture) they toiled as laborers under harsh conditions and were freed by Abraham Lincoln. For quite a while I thought Jim Crow was a man.  I sat conspicuously in my classroom learning that the part of history I occupied was barely worth study.

My first-grade teacher told me there were no such thing as black angels. I give thanks to my mother and father. They showed me that I am history in the making. My true relationship to American history came into focus at home – Crispus Attucks, Benjamin Banneker, Charles Drew, Sojourner Truth, Shirley Chisholm – these were the flash cards of my home schooling.  Once the education became personal, I grasped it with both hands and have never let go. I am learning for life and black angels do exist.

The 1696 Historical Commission was signed into law on July 1, 2014 and was tasked with developing a comprehensive African American history curriculum for Rhode Island public schools from kindergarten through grade 12.

In my opinion, African American History is what happens when black people are vanished from American History. The strength and ingenuity of Africans and their descendants built this country. This is the only nation I have ever called home and I want it to be better. I want to be satisfied with America.  Satisfaction will come for me when reparations are made for the damage done to the generations of black families who have been systematically traumatized by the atrocities of racism.  If your thoughts are jumping to financial payments – okay, but reparation can come in many ways.

My youngest son revealed one way – compassion for children who, through no fault of their own, are systematically desensitized to the oppression (violent or otherwise) of others. My challenge to readers who are parenting or otherwise caretaking children, particularly white caretakers, is to actively think about black history beyond February. Ask yourselves:

Do you talk about the underlying relevance of racism and white supremacy to historical and/or current events?

Do you insist on curricula from pre-school through graduate study that is holistic and honest?

Do black lives matter?

Speak the truth to children they can handle it – probably better than you can. Please, let them know that race was constructed to justify the brutalization of human beings; black people directly contributed to the immense wealth of this nation; black people invented things they use every day; humanity originated in Africa.

Let us be dissatisfied until integration is not seen as a problem but as an opportunity to participate in the beauty of diversity.

Martin Luther King Jr.

salt water squeezed through microscopic holes,

forced through the tiniest of holes

by the pressure of muffled screams

stifled so deep they cannot be heard

only tasted through the corner of my mouth,

on the tip of my tongue.

These strong hands that hold me close and save me from a fall
from grace and dignity but that's certainly not all . . .
They comfort me in times of need and though they are not soft,
they secure me from the fires and carry me aloft.
Big and thick and powerful - most people just cant see
how feeling them caress my skin is not a threat to me.

These strong hands that struggle so to have a gentle touch - 
when you rely upon them, they mean so very much.
Let me then soothe them and protect them with this oil
for tomorrow they once again must be used to toil
through all the tasks that have made them callus, not unkind.

These strong hands are yours and you, my love, are mine.

for Marc. please read it at my funeral.

I need to talk. It is in my nature to be effusive and thoughtful. So, I pay a therapist because most of the people in my life don’t have the time or desire to listen to me as much as I want them to. In fairness to myself though, I am also a solid and sincere listener often formulating a “never too humble” opinion.

Recently I told my therapist that I wish I could (at least sometimes) flip the racism switch in my mind to the off position.

When I told my partner I liked the new hand soap except for all the lathering which didn’t seem likely for a plant-based cleanser, he said “yea, and it kinda bothers me that it’s not white.”  Like him.

I’m not sure what he meant, but my thoughts instinctively went to race and the cleansing purity of whiteness. It pissed me off, but there it was. Reach back, stress and flex to flip that switch.

My mom’s second husband liked to take her to the movies. But she never understood why since he would always fall asleep before it was half over. She remembers wondering why he continued to suggest it – if he was just going to nap. He would cross his arms and get comfortable. Sometimes he’d snore lightly and she’d gently caress him. At the end of the movie, she nudged him awake and later she would tell him what he missed.

My mom usually did not initiate a trip to the cinema. She was doing it for him. Then one day she asked,

“If you’re just gonna fall asleep, why do you want to go to the movies?”

It really perplexed her.

“I enjoy it.” he said.

She thought about his reply for days. Was it the darkness or the quiet of the theater, that seduced a welcomed slumber?

The next time he suggested a movie, she said “yes” and off they went.  It had occurred to her that if he enjoyed it, her part was easy.

So, yeah I am in New York for my 31st wedding anniversary. My husband and I are going to see Hamilton on Broadway. It’s a bit extravagant, but he’s trying to make up for not giving me a gift for our 30th anniversary. Which I must admit stung a bit. I had gone out of my way to surprise him with a customized gold monogram ring to replace the one his mother had given him which had been stolen from him many years earlier. I made all the arrangements for a trip to Maine (from RI) and he figured that the get-away was gift enough for the milestone.

Anyway, a year later we are in New York. Only this time he has made all the arrangements – accommodations in Time Square and a Broadway play.

On our first night we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant in the square. The brisket tacos were delicious. We got dessert to-go. When trying to hail a cab back to the hotel failed, we started walking, slowly. I have Multiple Sclerosis and slow is always my best plan for walking.

Let me set the stage. I am a black woman in my late fifties. before I left for NYC, my Senegalese friend hastily fashioned four twists with gray extensions in my hair and put a bun at the base of my neck. My husband is a few years older and while he is fairly handsome with attractive green eyes, he is otherwise an average, aging white man – without the gut. Even within the diversity that is New York, among the multitudes of people that crowd the streets of Times Square 24 hours a day, we are a noticeable couple walking hand in hand.

The first person that speaks to us is a dark-skinned man in his late twenties or early thirties. He moves next to my husband. He is talkative and though I am not listening closely through the din of Times Square, I hear him comment on my husband smoking and ask if he has a light. We stop strolling so this dude can get a light.

“Where are you guys from?” the young man asks.

Speaking to strangers just because they speak first is not my style.

“Rhode Island,” my husband responds.

“Nice. When are you leaving?”

My husband gives me a look like here we go.  ‘”Whenever we want to,” he says.

“Do you like comedy?” the stranger asks.  Obviously, he wants something.

“If its funny,” I say. We all chuckle and I take my husband’s hand again.

“You want to check out the Comedy Club, Wednesday night at 7?” He pushes a discount ticket toward my husband.

“No, thanks,” he answers.

As we near the curb to cross the street, the man turns his attention to me. He is handing the ticket to me now. “It’s a great show and I can save you on the entry.”

I look down at the ticket and then up at the man. “I’m gonna pass on that,” I say.

People start to cross the busy intersection and we follow.

“Of course,” the man retorts, “your light-skinned.”

Me? I’m light-skinned?

As my husband and I step into the street to cross, the man stops and I hear him say, “Uh huh, you a house negro.”

A house negro!  

“Did you hear that?” I ask my spouse.

“I heard it,” he says. Then we hear a car horn and look to our right at the traffic coming straight at us. We had just blindly followed people walking against the signal. My partner pulls me toward the curb on other side of the street and while we avoid being hit by a car, we step in front of two bicycles. The two young male cyclists stop short and put their feet on the road. As I step up – onto the side walk, I make eye contact with one of them. He looks at me then my husband.

“That’s the best kinda couple right there. That’s where I come from!”

Racial insult to exaltation within 60 seconds – only in New York.

I am not Jewish; my children are. So many feelings about being a Jew in America today. . . Passover begins tonight – Good Friday evening. This year Easter and Passover, share a weekend of religious observance. I am writing about this because Judaism has been influential in the growth and development of my family. My partner is of Jewish descent. He grew up culturally Jewish but no longer practices the tenets of his childhood faith. If he did he, we might not have married since I am a gentile. But, here we are in an inter-religious partnership of sorts.

Tonight I will sit among Jews and observe a holiday that they feel is not mine. But, I claim the right to every holiday; and don’t dare call my children “half Jewish.” Their Jewishness is not half of their identity it is one of their many identities.

This Holy Saturday, the Great Sabbath is the first night of Passover and the eve of Easter Sunday. Christians will solemnly recall the Crucifixion of Christ and rejoice in his resurrection while Jews will acknowledge their exodus from enslavement by the Egyptians. My husband and I share a kosher meal at his sister’s table. Everyone contributes something to go with her delicious home-made chicken soup (it’s the best!). I make macaroons for dessert, another crowd-pleaser. My oldest son joins us with his cousins, one a lawyer and two others who work in real estate, and marketing. The Seder (in Hebrew means “order”) is a lengthy meal where the story of the exodus is recounted with symbolism and tradition both to remember the lore and to educate the youngest members of the family. This is the second Seder of the holiday for most in attendance and no children are present, so formality gives way quickly to eating. We stay for an hour more than we expected while the oldest adults smoke cannibas after dinner and the younger adults chuckle about this dynamic.

Passover is an 8-day observance. The following day is Easter Sunday, the third day of Passover. I cook dinner for my mother, the observant Christian in our household and invite her Jewish friend to dine with us. I like to cook and serve lamb shank, salad, and baked acorn squash and try to enjoy the moment.

Easter Sunday, April 21, 2019 CBS NEWS online: “At least 207 killed in blasts targeting churches and hotels in Sri Lanka on Easter Sunday.”

Saturday, April 27, 2019 the second sabbath of Passover 2019, New York Times Headline: “One Dead in Synagogue Shooting Near San Diego; Officials Call it Hate Crime.”

Shabbat Shalom.

They buried Daniel this week. I cried at the thought of him being gone. My mother said, “as you get older it happens more and more” – you are saddened by the loss of people that you didn’t even realize had such a profound impact in your life. He was everything the folks at his memorial said of him: kind, loving, intelligent, witty, gentle, brilliant and loved.

I worked with Daniel for over 20 years and was pleased to congratulate him when he got tenure. His voice was so alluring. The tone of his words were naturally calming. You wanted to hear him. He could tell a student that they would be a successful scholar, they just needed to try harder, and make it sound magical because he meant every word.

I wish I could have known Daniel more intimately. Especially after hearing about all the fun he had with his closer friends. Apparently he enjoyed a good time without regret. I think he lived his whole life that way.

As I was driving to his memorial, I thought of Elton John’s song (Daniel) and how I wanted to listen to it very loud in celebration of the professor’s legacy. Later his younger sister shared the story of when she was in grade school and her very cool, high school-aged brother introduced her to Elton’s song. That song has since been very special to her and will remind me of Daniel from now on.

I thought that Daniel was a couple years younger than me, making his sudden death even more sobering. Actually, he was two months my senior about to enter the final year of his fifth decade. “Daniel, my brother, you are older than me.” We had many things in common an appreciation of learning, very diverse families, southern roots.

Our last conversation was you wishing me well. We were both sick, but I was leaving our work and you nudged me to remember the multitudes of people we helped with our good work together over 25 years. Thank you for that and so much more. Your life has impacted me in ways I did not expect. I’m so grateful.