The other day I got a phone call from a brother new to my area. He was perplexed, disappointed and a little angry.
“I thought this was supposed to be one of the most conscious cities here? What’s wrong with the people?” he fumed.
I grimaced, because I knew just what he meant. I’ve been where he’s now treading. I know what’s at the end of the road.
I also know every emotion he was battling with. It’s an emotion only derived from battling against the asinine actions of my people–and I use “my people” loosely.
When I first arrived in Atlanta, I was elated based on what I’d been told: “A world of consciousness awaits you”; “You’ll see so many natural Afrikans here–this is the land of opportunity for being your Black self”; “You’re going to be right at home, amongst your people.”
With accolades like that, I was wondering why I hadn’t been here all my life. It didn’t take long to find out that my definition of consciousness was quite different from those walking in and out of the shadows of Atlanta’s “conscious” community.
It is in Atlanta where I ran into the part-time revolutionaries. As long as there were panels, debates and other events where only talking was required, these part-time revolutionaries did not, would not, miss the opening curtain.
But the minute lanes changed and someone wanted to begin taking action, the tone changed and the seats emptied. It’s been during my time here that I’ve also noted something else–many of us always want our “captors” to know what we’re doing, what we’re planning on doing and how we plan to do it.
One event comes to mind. Following B.O.’s election, a panel of Black scholars was created to discuss what B.O. owes black people. Now, first off, I say he doesn’t owe Black people a damn thing because he never promised them anything–end of discussion.
But, for some reason, someone thought they needed to “talk” about it. It was at the end of this “talk,” which seems to be the only real thing happening in the “conscious” community, that my husband looked back, tapped me on the leg and beckoned over his shoulder. I turned around and my mouth dropped open.
Here we are, supposedly planning for the building of a nation within a nation, and we’ve got european jews as vendors in the back. A “Black” function, but europeans are allowed to purchase vendor tables. No wonder the tables were sold out when I called–the europeans had them.
What kind of evolution is that? If you’re wondering what kind it is, it isn’t. It’s the same old, stale-assed revolving Black people have been doing for years.
To evolve means that we will have to undergo a drastic whiteout process. Whites out of our discussions. Whites out of our child rearing. Whites out of our homes. Whites out of our family affairs. Whites out of our Motherland. Whites out, period.
Pass the brush.
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