My Daddy Was Like Malcolm X (‘Til He Hit Me With That Martin Shit)

“I don’t give a damn if all they buy is fried chicken with it. Give us our damn money.”

We were having a debate on reparations. I was about 18 or so years old. Back then, my position was that programs should be created like free college or free healthcare (or both), because too many of us would just put the money right back in the wrong hands. His was: “Cotton wasn’t sold for healthcare and college. It was sold for that green!”

Me: “We just gon’ blow it on shoes and cars.”

Him: “I don’t give a damn what we blow it on. It’s ours!”

My daddy felt like Malcolm X to me.

“How much should the government step in to help those living near the poverty line?” I was even younger at this time. Maybe like 15. I felt like maybe, just maybe, the assistance was keeping us relying on them. That, if we ain’t have it, then it’d be a sink or swim and our natural response to surviving would kick it, and we’d make shit happen on our own. His position: “You too blessed to see how much welfare help people who need it.”

Me: “What about people who take advantage of the system?”

Him: “Reparations.”

When Trayvon Martin’s murderer was waiting on his verdict, my daddy just knew they were gon’ lock his ass up. I didn’t feel that way though. That white lady in Florida had just got off the hook for killing her daughter (or at least being involved in it). When the non-guilty verdict came out that judge’s mouth, I said “I told you.” All he could say was “damn,” followed by the fact that…Sometimes you gotta get ya own justice. (Take the maroons, for instance.)

I agreed that time. I actually agreed with him more than not. As a rebel, I just liked to argue. (And baby, God gave me a son just like that and…whew, Lord.) But I loved his Malcolm X side. Hearing him come home from work and talking about what some white man on the job said to him and what he said back. I loved how he “hit ’em where it really hurt” and sued one of his old employers. Loved the stories about his uncle, a Tuskegee Airman who was dishonorably discharged for killing a white man for assaulting his wife. Loved the picture of his teenage self throwing up the black-power fist.

Then he’d hit me with some nonviolence shit at the most confusing time.

Like the time I was blatantly disrespected by a teacher in high school. I stood up for myself, but he didn’t back me up. He thought I was wrong. Then there was the time that an officer asked for my name, address, and social security number over some shit that had nothing to do with me. Instead of giving up the information, I called my daddy. While waiting on him, and even after he got there, I insisted on asking why my information was needed for something. Instead of backing me up, he damn near begged me to just do what they were telling me to do.

At the time, it broke my heart. Now that my children are older and I can totally see them responding to situations like that, including those with police, I get it. You don’t want them to end up in a situation that they can’t reverse. Young black people are being murdered by police left and right. You don’t want that to be your child. Teachers can be disrespectful, downright nasty sometimes, but what good can come of a child mirroring that?

You start wondering if you created a missile that’s bound to self-destruct.

This journal entry ain’t to try to resolve that problem. Raising a 16-year-old and a 12-year-old, I’m still feeling through it myself. This ain’t to put Malcolm X on a pedestal or Martin in a corner either. Both of their perspectives, which they learned from their elders and ancestors, got us to where we are today. And, yes, I know Martin changed his mind on some things. Malcolm X did too. Allowing your position to change is a beautiful thing.

It’s an inevitable thing too, if you’re willing to be as open and honest as good leaders need to be.

[Artist credit for featured image: Chuck Styles]

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