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Genuine Progress Is the Ability to Be Black and Stumble Genuine Progress Is the Ability to Be Black and Stumble
(1 day later)
I must have overslept the day most Black people learned the electric slide in the early ’90s. In the time before YouTube, you had to master dances by waiting for the music video to be played on Black Entertainment Television, then practice the moves with your friends. But I kept missing it. I didn’t think it was that big a deal. It was a fad, sure to be replaced by the next craze.I must have overslept the day most Black people learned the electric slide in the early ’90s. In the time before YouTube, you had to master dances by waiting for the music video to be played on Black Entertainment Television, then practice the moves with your friends. But I kept missing it. I didn’t think it was that big a deal. It was a fad, sure to be replaced by the next craze.
My hopes were dashed when it reappeared at every house party, wedding and cookout over the next decade, my shame increasing every time a group of Black people did the leg kick and turn on beat with the refrain “It’s electric!” The slide took up residence in the Black pantheon, alongside all those other things that through time and custom have an unquestioned place in the imagination and hearts of our people.My hopes were dashed when it reappeared at every house party, wedding and cookout over the next decade, my shame increasing every time a group of Black people did the leg kick and turn on beat with the refrain “It’s electric!” The slide took up residence in the Black pantheon, alongside all those other things that through time and custom have an unquestioned place in the imagination and hearts of our people.
That consensus provides a feeling of home and inspires nostalgia when you run across others formed by the same cultural artifacts. But the same consensus can also be confining; it can limit the possibility of individual expression. For every person it embraces, it can also exclude, creating unrealistic expectations of conformity. There is in truth no one Black culture, but Black cultures as varied as our hues.That consensus provides a feeling of home and inspires nostalgia when you run across others formed by the same cultural artifacts. But the same consensus can also be confining; it can limit the possibility of individual expression. For every person it embraces, it can also exclude, creating unrealistic expectations of conformity. There is in truth no one Black culture, but Black cultures as varied as our hues.
Nonetheless, in the Black South I grew up in, there were certain skills that one had to acquire, like the ability to make a decent macaroni and cheese or to season and grill ribs properly. Beyond proper dance moves and cooking, there were African American entertainers who by virtue of their talents had a nearly untouchable status; they were Black royalty.Nonetheless, in the Black South I grew up in, there were certain skills that one had to acquire, like the ability to make a decent macaroni and cheese or to season and grill ribs properly. Beyond proper dance moves and cooking, there were African American entertainers who by virtue of their talents had a nearly untouchable status; they were Black royalty.
My affection for them had to be verbalized and documented, adoration functioning like a key card that granted access to the Black community. And that card could be revoked. If I ever said a mumbling word of protest about Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” or any Sidney Poitier movie, my aunties and uncles would banish me to my room to ponder my sins.My affection for them had to be verbalized and documented, adoration functioning like a key card that granted access to the Black community. And that card could be revoked. If I ever said a mumbling word of protest about Stevie Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” or any Sidney Poitier movie, my aunties and uncles would banish me to my room to ponder my sins.
This devotion is not about their fame — there are plenty of famous Black people not on the list. It is more lasting than success. It is something approaching love.This devotion is not about their fame — there are plenty of famous Black people not on the list. It is more lasting than success. It is something approaching love.
When I recently polled friends about who was on the list of beloved living entertainers these days, the three names that came up most often were Denzel Washington, Viola Davis and Angela Bassett. Their brilliance was not to be challenged.When I recently polled friends about who was on the list of beloved living entertainers these days, the three names that came up most often were Denzel Washington, Viola Davis and Angela Bassett. Their brilliance was not to be challenged.
I can hop on social media and claim that LeBron James is a better basketball player than Michael Jordan. Many will disagree, but I’ll have some co-signs here and there. I can take either side in the Prince vs. Michael Jackson debate. I can express a slight preference for Anita Baker over Patti LaBelle. But if I were to say that Denzel Washington was overrated or suggest Angela Bassett wasn’t robbed at the Oscars, Black America would rise up as one to rebuke me for betraying the culture.I can hop on social media and claim that LeBron James is a better basketball player than Michael Jordan. Many will disagree, but I’ll have some co-signs here and there. I can take either side in the Prince vs. Michael Jackson debate. I can express a slight preference for Anita Baker over Patti LaBelle. But if I were to say that Denzel Washington was overrated or suggest Angela Bassett wasn’t robbed at the Oscars, Black America would rise up as one to rebuke me for betraying the culture.
But why do we do this? Why do we care so much?But why do we do this? Why do we care so much?
It’s one way we resist anti-Black racism. African Americans are still too often viewed as a collective. Our actions are rarely our own. When there is a shooting in an African American neighborhood and the gunman is Black, in the popular imagination, it seems to speak to the violence of Black people as a whole.It’s one way we resist anti-Black racism. African Americans are still too often viewed as a collective. Our actions are rarely our own. When there is a shooting in an African American neighborhood and the gunman is Black, in the popular imagination, it seems to speak to the violence of Black people as a whole.
So we wrap our arms around Denzel, Angela, Viola and others to say: If we are going to be judged by the actions of others, we at least want to choose who they are. Judge us by Serena Williams’s tenacity or Michelle Obama’s grace, by Kirk Franklin’s worship, James Baldwin’s prose or Martin Luther King’s oratory.So we wrap our arms around Denzel, Angela, Viola and others to say: If we are going to be judged by the actions of others, we at least want to choose who they are. Judge us by Serena Williams’s tenacity or Michelle Obama’s grace, by Kirk Franklin’s worship, James Baldwin’s prose or Martin Luther King’s oratory.
Our artists have the ability to tell a different story, to bring the dreams and feelings of a people to life. They force people to see us as we wish to be seen, not as others imagine. Embracing great art can be an act of self-definition.Our artists have the ability to tell a different story, to bring the dreams and feelings of a people to life. They force people to see us as we wish to be seen, not as others imagine. Embracing great art can be an act of self-definition.
I rejoice in the creativity that sprouts from such unlikely soil, a beauty that fought its way to the surface despite every effort to press it down. This resilience has occurred with sufficient regularity that we can speak of a wondrous Black culture we have created.I rejoice in the creativity that sprouts from such unlikely soil, a beauty that fought its way to the surface despite every effort to press it down. This resilience has occurred with sufficient regularity that we can speak of a wondrous Black culture we have created.
But that culture is not complete. We are like every other people on this planet in the process of becoming. And perfection is not the prerequisite for respect or love.But that culture is not complete. We are like every other people on this planet in the process of becoming. And perfection is not the prerequisite for respect or love.
Genuine progress is the ability to be Black and stumble around a bit. This is true of celebrities and ordinary folks. Everything we do should not be a commentary on our race. Genuine progress is the ability to be Black and stumble around a bit. This is true of celebrities and ordinary folks. Not everything we do should be a commentary on our race.
So while I still watch every Denzel release, I’ve decided to stop choosing representatives. It asks too much of them — and us. Our dignity and worth can’t be on perpetual trial. We can appreciate individuals who contribute to the collective culture without forcing any one person to embody it. We can leave room for difference. More than that, we can allow for the growth and maturing of our flawed heroes, family members and celebrities because they are a part of us, too.So while I still watch every Denzel release, I’ve decided to stop choosing representatives. It asks too much of them — and us. Our dignity and worth can’t be on perpetual trial. We can appreciate individuals who contribute to the collective culture without forcing any one person to embody it. We can leave room for difference. More than that, we can allow for the growth and maturing of our flawed heroes, family members and celebrities because they are a part of us, too.
Esau McCaulley (@esaumccaulley) is a contributing Opinion writer and an associate professor of New Testament at Wheaton College. He is theologian in residence at Progressive Baptist Church, a historically Black congregation in Chicago, and author of the forthcoming memoir “How Far to the Promised Land: One Black Family’s Story of Hope and Survival in the American South.” He lives in Wheaton, Ill., with his wife and four children.Esau McCaulley (@esaumccaulley) is a contributing Opinion writer and an associate professor of New Testament at Wheaton College. He is theologian in residence at Progressive Baptist Church, a historically Black congregation in Chicago, and author of the forthcoming memoir “How Far to the Promised Land: One Black Family’s Story of Hope and Survival in the American South.” He lives in Wheaton, Ill., with his wife and four children.
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