The Black Man is O-V-E-R
Today, I ventured out of the house. I needed my favourite cereal and decided to take a quick ride to the supermarket. As I walked the aisles, focused on finding the right late night snack, I stumbled upon a sight that would rest heavily on me for the entire day.
I saw a dark complected black male with a white, young, blonde, male child. I peeked at them while pretending to read the ingredients for Honey Nut Cheerios. The black male hoisted the child on to his shoulders and began helping him to “sound out” the words on the box. He laughed heartily and swooped the child in his arms for a kiss on the cheek.
The child clung to him and they proceeded to shop together like any loving father and child.
But this boy wasn’t his.
He is helping to raise another man’s son.
He is helping to teach another man’s son to read.
He is assisting a white woman in the difficult task of raising a child in these perilous times.
I walked away in deep thought and they followed me to the juice aisle. The boy wanted to know what was on the juice box and he patiently told him.
As I watched them together, my mouth went sour and my blood began to boil. Now, don’t get me wrong, this has NOTHING to do with the baby. It has everything to do with this black male.
As he picked him up and read the juice box to him, my mind had a flash:
- My sister raising my nephew by herself because her HUSBAND walked out with zero child support.
- My best friend crying at her kitchen table when she found out she was pregnant and her boyfriend disappeared.
- My nurse practitioner telling me she raised all three of her children by herself while putting herself through nursing school because her HUSBAND, “Didn’t want this life anymore.”
- The black women on my old block, all single mothers, all on welfare, all desperate, all poverty stricken, all defeated.
Then I saw this man.
This black man.
This dark skinned, black man who was raising ANOTHER man’s child as his own and loving every, single moment of it. He grinned from ear to ear, delighting in the blondness of a child that didn’t look anything remotely close to him.
I walked away from the juice section forgetting my cranberry juice and went to stand in the canned foods section alone. I needed a minute. I needed to calm down. I needed to collect my thoughts and compose myself.
I paid for my Cheerios, peaches and raw nuts and left.
As I sat in my car, I thought about how the black male has used the black woman for millennia. I thought about how we fought side by side against white invaders both on and off the plantation. I thought about how we struggled together in raw poverty only to have this shit.
The black man is o-v-e-r.
I’m not sure if HE knows it but we know it. He’s done. Finished. Finito. Bye-bye.
Once you develop another tribe and blatantly ignore your own, it’s just a matter of time before Karma sees your ungratefulness and takes you out. After all, if you don’t care, why should She?
Maybe, after all that has happened, it’s not such a bad thing.
The one question that lingers in my mind as I type this is:
Does he realize how ridiculous he looks fawning over a bloodline and later on, a Patriarchy, that doesn’t belong to him?