Copyright © 2000 by
Michael
Segers, All rights reserved
Brought to you by Peanut.org
I
never thought that I would learn some great lessons about American culture in
the Metropolitan
Museum of Art, that bastion of European culture on New York's Upper
East Side. But, one pleasant Sunday afternoon, over twenty years ago, escorting
two friends from Georgia, I had a very American experience at the Met that I'm
still trying to understand. We ran into Owen Dodson, an elegant gentleman who
lived in the same apartment building as a friend of mine and who was known for
his elegant, gentle novels. I was delighted to see him--yes, you can run into
people you know in New York's crowds--and I presented him to my friends as
"an outstanding black writer."
To
this day, I do not know why I said that. My friends were not blind. They could
see Owen was black, just as they could see that he was in a wheel chair, but I
did not refer to him as a "handicapped" writer. His books are
outstanding, no matter what color their author or characters. I often thought
about asking Owen how he felt about my introduction, but he died before I got
the nerve to do so.
The
lesson I learned, under the gaze of the lady in a favorite Vermeer painting, was
that no matter what, even in terms of a person whom I liked and a writer whom I
respected, there was something about his color that was very basic in my
perception of him. Of course, there are people of all different colors who would
say that that is a good thing, but I'm not so sure.
Anyway,
I think we need Black History Month, if only to make me stew over my own
problems with race. There is no Generic White Boys' Month, but there is no need
for it. White and male are the defaults in our society. If you do not think it
necessary to dedicate a month to black history, how about giving black history a
try for just a week? I've snooped around on the Internet and come up with links
to correspond to seven days of a scaled back commemoration of black history.
Give it a try. You may learn something. I know that I have.
Oh, no, it's Monday, and that means we have to go to work. So, how better to begin Black History Week that with a look at one of the hardest working and most successful people in American history, Madam C. J. Walker, who was America's first woman of any color to make herself a millionaire.
The New York City neighborhood of Harlem was perhaps the first home of the black middle class. At "Home to Harlem," you can tour this fascinating neighborhood, unfortunately, without all the good smells that waft out of the restaurants there.
Let's
get serious on Tuesday with a look at the contributions of some black writers
whose works you may not be familiar with. One of the people in New York I most
enjoyed being around--he was an active member of the literary organization for
which I worked--was Albert Murray. Like my father, he has a background in the
Air Force. He is a fellow southerner, a jazz historian, and a social
commentator, regarded as a teacher and model for a generation of young black
conservatives. But, unlike most conservatives, he can sustain a spirit of
celebration and joy in his writing that makes me want to say, "Amen,
Brother Murray," when I read his work. You can enjoy a delightful interview with
"the unsquarest person
around."
To balance a conservative male writer with a woman of a different political persuasion, consider the author Toni Cade Bamabara. Enjoy a great site dedicated to the great "Poets of the Harlem Renaissance and After."
I was disappointed to find very little about Owen Dodson on the Internet, but there is a memoir of him by one of his students. Like his friend Marguerite Young, he was a legendary teacher who gave so much of himself to his students that we probably have fewer books with his name on them than we should have.
See, this can be fun, and if you need any more evidence, let's dedicate Wednesday to comic strips drawn by blacks, Curtis, Wee Pals, and my favorite, Jump Start, which always has some pertinent remarks about Black History Month.
As
I've mentioned before, I take comic strips very seriously as indicators of what
is going on in American culture. The comic pages are among
the most segregated in the newspaper. It's not just in the art museum that we
learn lessons about our society.
So,
if this is Thursday, this must be Africa, and I found such a wealth of good
African sites that I could have done a whole article. Let’s begin with the
very thorough Africa Online.
So,
Friday at last in our Black History Week, and you know what that means. Thank
Goodness, It’s Friday, and let’s have some fun and games. Oh, yeah, we all
know, black folks are good players. But, chess? Just ask Maurice
Ashley, the
first black Grand Master (won’t it be good when someday Mr. Ashley can be
identified as Grand Master, not as the first black Grand Master?).
I've named the file for this article (see the URL) in his honor. But, I could
have named it in honor of Fred
Whitfield, who is, yep, the first black All Around Cowboy
Although professional football is a sport more often associated with black players, it is a sad reality that there are not many black coaches. But, everybody of every color can be proud of a good, decent man like the former head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Tony Dungy [as of the writing of this article; 2004: head coach of the Indianapolis Colts], a pro football coach for people who have no use for pro football.
Saturday night, and everything is all right! Let’s have some music. For some perhaps unexpected sounds of music by black performers, how about the great William Warfield, who not only was married for some years to the black soprano Leontyne Price but also performed some years ago in nearby Albany, Georgia. For another type of black music, let’s tune in Huddie Ledbetter, known as Leadbelly, not only a great composer but also a great conservator of all-American tunes. Wow, what a night, time to go to bed, and just think of all the great black musicians we haven't honored.
It’s Sunday, and no matter what happened on Saturday night, it’s time to consider the impact of religion on the life of black Americans. Since we are cramming out celebration into one wee, let’s remember just one person, Malcolm X, whose Autobiography is one of the most powerful stories of human growth and development, in matters spiritual (Islamic) and otherwise, that I know of. I rambled around the Internet, getting increasingly unhappy with what I found about this great black man who happened to be American, this great American who happened to be black. Then I found a website that could stand as a model for websites, a cyber-memorial appropriate for "Brother Malcolm," who came to understand before his death that he was a brother to us all.
I remember once watching with my father a report on the mysteries of "soul food," the hearty, resourceful cooking of black Southerners or Southern blacks. "Gee," my father said, unconsciously echoing the Moliére character who had been speaking prose all his life, "I’ve been eating soul food all my life… and I never knew it!" See what you’ve been missing or maybe lucky enough not to miss at Chitterlings.com.
This
has been a particularly difficult rave, even worse than what followed my seeing The
Beach last week. As I look back on the experience of writing this article, I
find the most hope in my honest admission that I am not comfortable with my
attitudes about race. I hope that with my dry feet, the inherent nobility of the
thoughts with which I try to fill my heart, and the soulfulness of my southern
soul (an attribute that I share with so many black people), I can muddle on
through inflicting as little pain as possible. Perhaps I can do some growth,
some good along the way.
I
hope.