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Are We There Yet?
"Have we overcome?"
By Steven Ivory
We were sitting at E.B.'s bar one evening when he asked this out of
the blue, not with the collected aplomb of the well-groomed,
40-something, expensive suit and gold Rolex watch-wearing litigation
lawyer that he is, but like an innocent, inquisitive child wondering
aloud from the back seat of the family sedan if they were there yet.
Of course, the word "overcome" referred to the classic folk song,
“We Shall Overcome," that, as soundtrack for the ‘60s American civil
rights movement, reflected the yearnings and dreams of a people.
His cynicism notwithstanding, I've always been enamored with my
man's engaging mélange of academic acumen and street savvy. However,
on the Overcome issue, he seemed lost. He said he’d asked himself
this one morning a few days ago and was surprised when he couldn't
answer decisively.
I, on the other hand, was definitive in mine: Hell no. Black
people in America have come a long way, I said, but there's plenty
road yet to hoe before we proclaim ourselves Overcome. Just the
other night on the news I saw Black folks assembled somewhere in
L.A. about something, holding candles, signs and each other, and
singing that song.
My associate listened to my declaration intently, but he wouldn't
cosign it.
"Whether or not Black people have 'overcome' should be obvious to
one of us, shouldn't it?" He was only half joking. We ordered
another round and pondered the notion.
First thing we had to do was define just what Black people were
"Overcoming."
Inequality, bold and unmitigated, was an answer we could agree on.
In the late '50s and early '60s, when freedom marchers locked arm in
arm and marched across America singing, "We Shall Overcome,"
post-slavery Blacks considered themselves having come a long way in
this country--even while being routinely treated as subhuman,
without the same rights and opportunities as Whites.
Today, Blacks are integral to the fabric of American life, running
major corporations, owning successful businesses. They are doctors,
lawyers, professors and police chiefs. A driving force in modern
American culture artistically and socially, Blacks are thinkers,
politicians, architects, pop stars and priests.
And while we marveled that arguably two of the most powerful people
in America, Oprah and Condolezza, happen to be Black and female, to
my crony, a more defining moment of the Black man's rise in this
country was when O.J. Simpson was acquitted of murdering two White
people, his defense brilliantly run by Johnnie Cochran, another
Black man. In an earlier time, my comrade reasoned, both Simpson and
the infamously accused Michael Jackson, no matter their celebrity,
money, guilt or innocence, would be UNDER the jail. Or dead.
We considered it a sad and ironic sign of the Black man's
advancement in America that New York radio personality Miss Jones--a
Black woman--could make venomous racist mockery of the tsunami
tragedy, yet keep her job.
"Maybe we've already overcome and you and I just didn't get the
memo," said my buddy.
In any case, despite progress, many things haven't changed. Like the
young, cosmopolitan-looking White woman at the bar sitting next to
us with two girlfriends. When I sat down, she smiled warmly and
nodded--before discreetly reaching for her handbag on the bar, and
holding on for dear life.
When my friend joined me shortly afterward, she went from merely
holding her purse to strangling it. If she'd held that poor bag any
tighter, Louis Vuitton would have made choking sounds from the
grave.
As a Black man, I am familiar with this woman's reaction, but I
never get used to it. Thank God I am not responsible for the
ignorance some people choose to nurture because of my hue.
And so, an hour and a couple of drinks later, the lawyer and I
concluded that while the playing field is far from level, the 20th
century Black man's courageous and hard-fought passage has made
today--right now--an exciting time to be Black in America.
However, we also decided that today, from a certain sector of the
country looms a collective negative force more ominous than any
hurtle White America could ever impose: The Black man has to
overcome himself.
He has to stop hating himself. He has to stop blaming The Man, and
call to task the man in the mirror. He has to cease self denigration
through his speech and music, and stop killing himself in his
neighborhood. He has to realize that there is no Promised Land to
reach, that finally, he's standing on it. And while he cultivates
his golden terrain, he needs a new song to sing--something
beautiful, memorable and dynamic that doesn't implore "Someday," but
rather, right now.
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