CW: Trauma (Edited 2/4/2024)

Up until this entry, I had my reasons not to share any racial identity during the blog’s run. I may go into that in a future entry. Chances are it’s fate that this is the first entry to do it on the first usual entry day during Black History Month.

I bring this up because I recently started reading a book called Self-Care for Black Men: 100 Ways to Heal and Liberate, by Jor-El Caraballo. I’m early into it, but there was a section titled “Define Blackness For Yourself” that hit deep.

It hit that way because the question had mentally arrived as fast as it went throughout my life. Like my mind was not ready to dive deep into what definitions were forced onto me, or uncomfortably believed.

Those definitions were even made by non-Black folk that would also label me an “Oreo” or “the whitest Black guy they’ve even known,” and other degrading reviews of my nature and tastes.

Sometimes they came from older black people, a few I remember being old enough to be alive for those that may not or didn’t “speak Black.” These were historical figures who spoke with passion, intelligence, and a desire to leave behind inspiration for our people to do the same.

And as much as I felt there was something to say about the whole experience, I chose to be in spaces where that kind of talk was not invited to the parties that even I was lucky to be welcomed to.

The characters at those spaces would range from “I don’t see color,” some trashy pun on “Black Lives Matter.” Or the biggest one, thinking you’re “safe” to use the N-word around without being judged on site, sometimes because they think I (am allowed to) use it.  

Thankfully in recent years I’ve been more vocal about that last bit when it’s necessary.

But this is a short list of what I thought about when I read that entry in the book. I had to think of how I can define it, combined with how I’ve been able to define personal accounts of trauma and triumphs, abuse and comfort, and triggers and glimmers since the blog began.

With that said, here’s what I wrote in my notebook in a stream of consciousness to define what Blackness means to me:

“Blackness is to feel your worth even when surrounded by those that want you to feel unworthy. To feel the emotions that society and generations claim you shouldn’t feel, because your skin is your armor.

Blackness is the chance to see what the world could be in your influence, gifts, and unconditional love that was denied by our ancestors, friends, and family.

Blackness is the chance to hear how deep the pain and miseducation of our people is more praised than persecuted, and to choose the progressive path in spite of its dangers.

Blackness offers me a voice, a perspective that means more to breaking cycles and bringing peace to the war that was put into my heart.

Blackness is reclamation of time lost to the hurtful, history corrupted by the tainted, and assurance that how we choose to speak, what music we enjoy, the arts we perform, and truths to be revealed, come from a source that the modern world owes infinite thanks to. ”  

I don’t expect many to agree with me on my definition as much as many judge(d) my “Blackness” on cultural activities, behaviors, and knowledge. I can think of a few people that will attempt to redirect my definition to theirs, much as they’ve done with other topics since knowing them.

Even they have to know that we each lived different lives, and processed the good, bad, and neutral things about our emotions, and our Blackness differently. If processed at all.

I’m glad to be in a place where I can look back on this entry alone and be the voice that was denied by those before me. And in the same strength, be the voice that I denied myself for too long.

D.F