I was going to write about love and sex, two of my favorite topics but, instead I am going to write about Leon Walter Tillage. When I saw his book lying on a table with other donated books for my teens (whom I teach dance to) I instantly knew that no one was going to pick the book up but me. The book entitled, “Leon’s Story,” is the coming of age story of Leon Walter Tillage who grew up in the rural segregated South but that’s not the reason why I knew no one would dare pick up his book. It was the cover, his picture, a black and white photograph of a smiling young black boy no more than 11 years old with coffee colored skin much like my own. You see, we are conditioned as black people to reject images of ourselves, anything that shows our blackness or some would say African ancestry and Leon is BLACK (definitely of African descent).
I watched my children, class of teenagers, run eagerly to the table of donated books to make their selections then gleefully choose several books. After they were done I was invited to make my own selections and I did, there was one by H.G. Wells, another one called, “A Fungus among Us,” and still another about African American women. When I saw Leon at first glance I gave it a pass. I thought it was about a child living in rural Africa and I wasn’t interested. I considered myself pretty well informed on the subject and it held no interest for me and, to be quite honest, I thought it was going to be about how (insert bad fake African accent here) he was so poor but happy and how men came to his village to build an irrigation ditch and a school, etc… you know, the typical portrait of a child growing up in rural Africa.
As I was walking away with my selections, my supervisor invited me to take more books that were left over and so I took more books… one about a child growing up in Nazi Germany and a couple more about a young black girl and her mother and finally…, “Leon’s Story.” I picked it up out of guilt and shame because as much as I mentally mocked what I thought this book was about the real reason I didn’t want to pick up this book was because I didn’t want to read the story of the little black boy who so very much looked like me. See, I can dance around the issue all I want but the truth of the matter is that at first glance I saw nothing beautiful in Leon’s photograph. I thought it was average and lacked anything remarkable. Instantly, I felt ashamed because I was passing this book by for the same reason the children were because he is so… BLACK.
Now my friends and other people who know me will probably find my statements shocking because not only do I have an African name (Swahili, to be exact) and practice a traditional African (Yoruba) belief system but I also study traditional African dance. I don’t hide from the sun, I revel in it and can be often overheard saying, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice…” I mean, I am supposed to be the poster child of a healthy African (black) identity but, I am not. I am a product of this society and our culture just like everyone else and my psyche, like yours, has taken a beating.
Growing up dark skinned in America is rough, a hard knock life. Thankfully, I came into the world in the 70’s after we discovered “Black is Beautiful” but, even that had taken a back seat in our consciousness when I was growing up. In the 80’s my skin color was the topic of many conversations and the source of many insults from BLACK FOLKS. A male cousin told me I was too dark to be a cheerleader and another time when I and some other cousins were playing in my aunt’s makeup I was told I looked pretty because the makeup made me “not look so dark.” Neighborhood kids made comments about me playing in the sun, “‘cause I would get too black.” Boys would say “ugh… she’s too black,” then secretly want me to be their girlfriend. And when someone wanted to insult you they merely had to call you black or African. The only way for a dark skinned child, female or male, to escape this cruelty was to have “good hair” (long, straight, wavy or curly hair) or “pretty eyes” (blue, green, gray or hazel would do just fine). I used to stare in the sun, risking blindness, so that when someone walking past saw my eyes they appeared to be hazel.
Our objects of beauty and affection were anyone who was light skinned preferably with “good hair” and “pretty eyes.” It didn’t matter if they were cute or not they had met the basic requirement for beauty if they had any of the aforementioned physical characteristics. Seriously, I have seen some butt ugly folks be called attractive because they were merely light skinned and whatnot. If you were fortunate enough to be dark skinned and thought of as attractive people “qualified” your beauty by saying, “she’s cute to be so black.”
Now, amongst whites I fared no better. My first real interaction with whites came when I was in junior high and before that I mainly experienced them through TV (where girls nee children like me were nearly absent). In junior high I felt invisible to whites so I did my best to impress them. I talked about heavy metal and rock (which I really did love) and chatted them up about anything else I could think of but I still remained largely ignored. I was caught between a rock and hard place so, I developed a pretty healthy case of self loathing. The only way I could think of getting some love from my people was to date (and hopefully marry) a light skinned guy or Puerto Rican (white guys weren’t really “in” in my neighborhood) and boy, did I love some light skinned men though seldom did they love me back.
I carried this love throughout my 20’s as my own black consciousness evolved (separate from the one I’d inherited from two Afro centric revolutionary parents). It had become second nature so much so that I hardly noticed that I almost always chose light skinned men to adore. When my best friend pointed this fact out to me it became my shame and I felt almost powerless to reverse this often undeserved attraction. Then in earnest I began dating and I dated decent looking and some down right handsome brown and black skinned men, though I did and do still find myself drawn to a few light skinned brothers. I tend to believe it is my inner child still seeking validation from my race.
I read “Leon’s Story” and it was wonderful. I felt that the ancestors were talking through him to me, telling me that I cannot forget the cruelty our people endured to live and survive in this country and… how beautiful we are as a people. Now, when I look at Leon’s smiling photograph I am reminded of myself. He kind of looks like my father at this age smiling in a school photo, except with more innocence. I look at Leon now and see exquisite beauty, hope and joy in his photo and I’m ashamed that it has taken so long for me to find my own. I embrace him as I embrace myself and I know that I will never ever feel ashamed again.
4/2/08, 1:03am
