Category Archives: Race

The Ones I Wanted to Write About

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I wanted to write about the bishop who became the first in her denomination and the writer who is an Old Testament scholar and the one who started a black community in her denomination, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because the honor would seem like acceptance of twisted ideas. I couldn’t accept the supporting of heretical texts to “prove” scripture or the normalcy of homosexuality because of her lesbian friendship or the dabbling in a spiritual séance. To write about these Christian women would be to affirm their notions, to say the way they purport Christianity is ok. And that I cannot do.

But I will write about the journalist who spoke out against lynching and the grassroots woman who founded a democratic party and others, who, as far as I know, didn’t dilute Christianity for personal comforts. And I don’t mind writing about the likes of James Baldwin and Angela Davis because their being Christian is not the basis for lauding their righteous ideas. When you say who you are I respect that and expect your work to reflect that. These are the people I can write about and that I will do.

The realization of not being able to write about those I admire in many ways took me aback. I tried to figure out how I could incorporate disclaimers but the disclaimers would either outweigh or effectively cancel the celebration. Has something like this ever happened to you? Have you ever had to cease supporting someone you once supported because you realized that your beliefs were in conflict? I would love to hear about it. And I pray God’s power and protection for those who have given up support in order to honor Jesus Christ and His Kingdom.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

My Brooklyn Saint

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With a new car and summer job, my time in New York was supposed to be perfect, at least that’s what my friends and others thought because of my cosmopolitan ways. “You’re going to love New York. It’s so you,” they would say to allay my trepidation of leaving my up south city and going east to bright lights in a real up north city. But this 22-year-old girl from Detroit had real culture shock and homesickness when I smelled the garbage in China Town, saw street mayhem in Times Square, looked for my lost car in Brooklyn, and heard I had to work on Long Island and in Manhattan. I was somewhat petrified. Well, a lot really that I talked about cutting my 10-week internship short by eight weeks. I wanted to go home. Instead I called my praying grandmother—again—and she gave me some scriptures and words of encouragement—again—and I felt better for the moment—again, but I needed something more, someone, and I found her the day I ventured to Bridge Street AME Church.

The members smiled and greeted me after the pastor had visitors to stand and she was among them, Ernestine I’ll call her because I don’t remember her name but I remember her. She wore a brightly colored print bubu and black pants complete with rusty blond hair peeking from under a kufi. Probably in her early 60s, Ernestine gave me a wide smile, strong hug, introduced herself and insisted I call her by her first name. I felt warm and was so glad my fear didn’t cause me to stay at home. But after service, I briefly wished I had. Members hurried about to talk to friends, make dinner plans and serve at church information tables. I glanced about as my pew emptied then gathered my things to leave. As I moved slowly down the pew to the aisle, Ernestine waved to me from among a throng and made her way to invite me to spend the day with her. I readily agreed.

We went to her Brooklyn brownstone before she took me to a street fair and a lecture by the famous historian Dr. John Henrik Clarke. As she changed her clothes, I admired her wood furniture, African carvings and paintings, mahogany fireplace and a picture of her mate. He had passed a few years back, a brief illness I think. Now in a summer sweater with her black slacks, she fixed a snack of peanut butter toast and coffee and told me about her “king.” That’s what I remember. She kept saying, “He was my king!”

In that moment, I knew I wanted a love like hers, to love like her, to be in a place where I had no problem reverencing my man. I wanted sweet times and golden memories that would make me shriek “he is my king.” And I have that now, due in large part to Ernestine, a woman confident in her femininity, comfortable with her Christianity and African culture and the strength of her man where she didn’t mind calling him her king.

In New York I did come to love Chinese food delivery, hanging out in the Village and on Harlem’s 125th Street, and going to Junior’s on Brooklyn’s Atlantic and Flatbush. But above all I loved a woman whose name escapes me but the memory of her love for life and her man will remain with me forever.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Free to Love

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Henry's Freedom Box by Ellen Levine

Today I write about not who I thought I would but about Henry “Box” Brown, one of the most famous runaway slaves of the Underground Railroad because he mailed himself to freedom. Henry has been on my mind because of a statement an old acquaintance made when she found out I was a stay at home mom. Referring to her brief time off with her child, she said, “I was bored. I didn’t know what to do.” I told her that I had heard that before. With others the statement had been apologetic as if the women were sorry they didn’t have the stamina to hold their post at home. But there were no apologies with this woman. With a raised eyebrow, the squint of the opposite eye, and the slow shake of her head, she said, “Go ahead. I couldn’t do it.” Then I thought about Henry and his mom and how they would have loved to be in this woman’s place.

As a boy in the early 1800s, Henry’s master took him from his mother and gave Henry to work as a slave for his son. Henry eventually married and had children, who all were sold away from him. His heart ached for his loved ones but he realized he wouldn’t see them anymore. With the help of friends, including a white abolitionist, Henry decided to ship himself to freedom. He got into a box and mailed himself from Virginia to Pennsylvania. In 1849 he was free from slavery but neither he nor his mom was free to be with their children, something they longed to do. Now I’m sure if my acquaintance had her children stolen from her, her heart would ache and she would fight to get them back, but her attitude conveyed an unwillingness to care for her them in a hard place. And I imagine there are few harder places to care for children than in slavery.

Joshua, 7, has a mouth that moves more than his busy body. And Nathaniel, 2, grabs and seeks to destroy everything in his sight. And Justus, 3 months, needs me for everything. Yes, my children are a challenge, but I’m so glad I can hold them, be around to scold them and to pour into them my values most of the day. Henry didn’t have that. Neither did his mom or wife or thousands of other enslaved Africans. Henry is my hero and so are the other men and women whose families were torn apart but they didn’t fall apart completely. They kept on because they chose to. And we get tripped up over some crying, demanding children who God has granted us favor to have. They weren’t sold or swindled from us like some Haitian children whose parents believed would have a better life if they gave them over to an agency that promised that. I hope we reassess our attitude toward being with our children and are grateful for the privilege to care for them, even in the hard places.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Let's Celebrate Black History

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Let’s Celebrate!

It’s Black History Month. I’m black and I want to celebrate that aspect of me. I try to do it all the time, not by being over the top about it but giving a proper due to those of my hue. Some Christians don’t think race should be an issue at all. They cite Galatians 3:28. This scripture doesn’t dismiss race but affirms that all races, genders and nationalities in Christ are equal. Even though some use this scripture to say we shouldn’t celebrate blacks’ contribution to society by noting their race, I use this scripture to say the opposite. Because blacks and their works have been consistently, systematically even, marginalized throughout the decades, and because God looks at Christians the same regardless of race, I believe I am obligated to highlight black Christians. But I won’t just celebrate them but also some of my heroes in the secular world because of their biblical ideas, even if they didn’t acknowledge the Bible; truth is truth and all comes from God. Won’t you celebrate with me?

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Proper Faith

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Happy New Year!

This is the start of a new decade and, for many, the start of a new day for a new life. Some of us have been knocked down. Others of us have been knocked out. Some have been mishandled and misplaced, but we find ourselves here on this day, and I thank the Lord! Times may have been tough, but God got us through.

On this, the seventh and final day of Kwanzaa, focusing on Imani (faith), let us place faith in God and not in our black selves to be better and to live better lives. As we prepare blackeye peas and promises to do better, let us remember that God has laid the foundation for us to do well. It’s not the luck of a pea or the faith in self that has kept or will ever keep us. God has kept us, and He is the one who tells us who we are and what we should think about ourselves:

We are beautiful because God says we’re beautiful (Psalm 139:14).
Our blackness is relevant because God says it’s relevant (Acts 17:26).
We can be used to do anything because God uses us too (Acts 2:10, 8:27).

As we encounter trials this year, including white racism, let us have faith in God because He has given us the proper perspective to deal with racists and any other haters. We can be proud of who we are and have faith in where we can go because of the faithful one, our Lord Jesus Christ, who gives meaning and purpose to our lives. We can make 2010 a good one because of Him.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith