This I Believe

I believe in many things. But there are some things I know.

I believe in a lottery ticket. I know my chances of hitting the number are slim.

I believe my father isn’t a homophobe. I know you can’t come out to a man who wouldn’t give you the MC Hammer “Action Figure” that Christmas because McKindra men don’t play with dolls.

I believe in artists sharing a stage. I know Josephine Baker dancing in Paris, her breasts bared, in a skirt made of banana peels. I know the Left Bank, where Richard Wright and Baldwin were exiled, where they died, when they could not come home.

I believe in melting pot connectedness. I believe in working so hard to be one the air around you smells like sex sweat. I know that American cities are always mapped, that there’s always a black ghetto, a boys town, a “Little This”, a “Little That.”

I believe in Huck and Nigger Jim on the raft, On the Road, headed down the Mississippi. I know that Nigger Jim is still there, crying out from the wilderness, “Come back to the Raft, Huck Honey.”

I believe in diversity. I believe in a meritocracy. But I know Kaplan Study guides are expensive. I know that Princeton Review courses are not cheap. I believe in seats of learning, where one strikes out to know more. But I know taunts of Affirmative Action baby cut deep, I know the peace of mind waiting at the Africana House, the Third World Center, the yard at Howard.

I believe in running a good race, in fighting a good fight, in swinging your hammer until you can’t swing anymore. I’ve seen Jesse Owens racing horses with four gold medals flapping behind him. I’ve seen Ali daring someone to bruise his pretty face, but not able to because he won’t shoot at colored boys born at a different Delta. I’ve seen John Henry swinging against steam engine, only to fall over and die. I don’t believe in martyrs. I’ve felt my legs go lame, my breath shorten. I don’t believe in living that workmen might sing your name.

I guess I just believe in chaos. I guess I believe that even if the sight of me causes a shock of fear, a feeling of insecurity about who you are, a reaction of violence, at least you’ve seen me, acknowledged the space that I occupy, that we’ve both made the invisible visible. And that’s something like love, Right? I mean even if you see me and clutch your purse, maybe after you’ll feel some lust, wonder if the myths are true, wonder about my shoe size. Maybe. Maybe not.

I believe at 21, I’m world-wisened. That I know about dreams deferred. That I’ve seen mothers see their sons unmanned, despite their efforts to the contrary. That I’ve seen boys with hoop dreams at the playground everyday, and still there 20 years later, practicing those same shots, finding their applause in dime bags.

I know I’m a cynic. I know that it’s the only way we Americans can survive. To look away and not acknowledge, to crash and not embrace, to rape and not make love. I left the South for Bright Lights in the Big City four years ago, and this is what I’ve come to know. But hey, Three 6 Mafia just won an Oscar, and I, like my mother before me, still open my Publisher’s Clearing House Envelope, and watch the halftime at the Super Bowl, hoping and waiting, believing even, that i’ll hear the doorbell ring.