What comes to mind when you hear the words, "Sandusky, OH"? I think of my childhood. Of movie theater
popcorn, with real butter. Of corn dogs, the advent of Buffalo wings, Icees,
Cedar Point Amusement Park, Orange Julius, Mister Misty's at Dairy Queen, push
up popsicles and jacks, and skinned knees and sandboxes, a town small enough
that all your friends lived just one street over, of dark green cars and orange
shag carpet and plaid #everything. Of the original afros, and disco music, and
roller skates and bell bottoms, bubble
gum and pig tails with afro puffs and cheese doodles, penny candy and
now-and-laters, Rolos and donuts and cotton candy, ice cold Kool-Aid and
stripes, The Jackson 5 and walks to the corner store to get a bag of chips and
an Italian ice. Brick homes and tall trees and honeysuckle, racing on foot,
riding bikes and big wheels, Honey Combs cereal, Apple Jacks and apple jack
caps. Red popsicle stains on little
faces and tears when I got knocked off my bike. Of racism and the Klan riding
past my house, slowing down so we could see their hoods and capes, of the fear
and the anger that they almost hit my daddy with their car. Of being afraid and
angry at the same time, but not really knowing why.
Of loving the world while
hating the realities that unfolded with each year of maturity...wishing I could
undo the pain, of my friend's mom dying, of discovering that I was different
from my schoolmates who had straight blonde hair, and some of them liked me
just the same, even though my skin was a different color, but some of them were
afraid to drink from the water fountain after me, and how some asked what it
felt like to be a "blackey," and why does my hair feel like that, and
of asking do black people believe in Jesus, and do we pray to him at night like
they do? Of being the only brown face in
a sea full of white, the brown face with brown eyes, orange corduroys and
Buster Brown shoes. Of knowing that I
was not allowed to go to school in "raggedy" clothes; the feeling of
being neat and clean and dressed your best, with a nervous tummy still full of
the Cream of Wheat your mommy made you eat so you wouldn't be hungry. Of having
a brother to look up to, to ask questions that you didn't quite want to ask
your parents, of him knowing exactly what you meant, because he'd had the same
question, of asking him how he feels being the only brown face in a sea full of
not browns. Of having plenty of friends
who weren't brown like me, and didn't understand my brown-ness; some were
cruel, some were curious, but none were brown.
Of hailing from Pennsylvania,
where hayrides, fall festivals, firewood, the smell of cinnamon and candy corn,
apple cider, caramel apples, pumpkins
and squash.... the stone steps that led from the porch outside the kitchen to
the garden below....the plush green warmth of 228 East Hamilton Avenue, where
there were rooms of every single color....blue, orange, green....steps in
between....hard wood floors and wooden steps that were polished so clean, you'd
slip on them in your sock feet. of being the child of a pastor who started an
outreach for the students who were brown in that college town...not only for
those who were brown, but a haven for those who sought to understand God...and
themselves...to grasp what it meant to be young, brown and striving for higher
education, reaching for a greater component, a nugget of knowledge to empower
oneself among those who only saw the color of your brown skin...to be
surrounded by smart, fresh faces of brown descent, who without anger or hatred,
pressed forward with unspoken pride in an identity that was threatened every
day they lived....to see them advance to levels in government and academia,
find their firm footing in arenas where they were not welcomed...without
combativeness, knowing they were well equipped and had every right to be
there. To watch your father, a brown preacher,
teach these young faces to embrace their colors (all of them) and offer the
world their genuine souls and righteous efforts. To know that these were the beginnings of better
days for the brown people.....
....to fast forward 30 years, to know that the brown of your soul has never
left you, nor has it robbed you of an appreciation of souls of all colors...to
know that this is how you had to find your footing as a brown around many other
types of souls...the wave of experiences, being followed around a department
store for an hour, while you tried to browse the store's merchandise, and when
you needed help with something you found, the store clerks acted as if they
didn't see you...to being passed over for promotions that were given to
less-qualified, non-brown counterparts, and given other reasons as to why this
occurred....to being faced with the controversy wherein so many want to deny
the differences for their own comfort. You
are now an adult, comfortable in your own soul, fully knowledgeable of the life
of melanin...deeply longing for honesty...realness...acceptance of the evil
that still lurks, and seeking valiant, concerted efforts to put these demons to
rest. Crying tears for the lives that
have been lost, seeds that have been exterminated...seeds that mirror you, your
family, your friends...wanting an appreciation and value in that which is you,
understanding that the honest embrace is more trustworthy than a blind eye.
Decades past skinned knees, bullies and bike rides, there is still a road to
travel. My brown soul is willing, my heart is able, I have plenty of love and
acceptance, a dose of realism and optimism…and even a little penny candy for
the ride.
