Black is Free by Lillie Watson

I was born in the desert, under July monsoon clouds and mist. My parents were young, from different worlds, different means, and tried to make their obviously disjointed pieces fit together. They didn’t last long, and by the time I was seven my father was gone, taking with him my sister and I’s only connection to our Blackness. I grew up with my Mexican and White mother, who’d been raised in Guadalajara until age ten, and our large tight-knit familia. My life was filled with the lyrical cadence of Spanish, the flavors and scents of posolé and torta ahogada, the excitement of singing “dalé, dalé, dalé” as a cousin swung for the piñata at a party that would last far into the night, and every year the quiet anticipation of Las Posadas. These are memories that shaped me and formed my foundation.

Due to moving to the states in the mid-eighties, a time when the US was being pressured by its leaders to once again be made great, and trying to achieve the Coca Cola-bubblegum-Mcdonalds dream, my family Americanized and patriot-ized. They could not completely get rid of their culture, nor did they necessarily want to, with so many loved ones and generations of history still below the border. But they learned to follow the rules, believe in capitalism and order, turned to Fox News, and supported presidents who weren’t nearly as smart or well-rounded as they were. By the time I was born in the mid nineties, they were half red-blooded American, and half crazy Mexican, somehow embracing both identities.

I can’t pretend religion didn’t play a starring role in all this. The heavy Catholic influence brought along with it many beliefs, rules, and regulations, which were passed on to me and my sister once our mother found God. Church, youth group, and retreats— some of my many trigger words— were a regular and expected part of my upbringing. No choices there. God was at the center of everything.

I say all this to paint a picture of me, and the materials I was given with which to find myself. There was color and life, love and support, but I had on blinders to the world and lived within the confines of my family’s teachings. Not that they were all bad; my sister and I always felt loved and were treated the same as the rest of our cousins. But we were missing some essential elements, namely one – any prioritizing or extra acknowledgment of our Black roots. Consequently, we sometimes felt like outsiders looking in, and there was a void, a blankness in us that we’d eventually have to learn to fill on our own. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hinder my sense of self.

We were given some scattered insights and cultural guidance. My sister and I were told our skin was beautiful and to never be ashamed to be brown. We were introduced to some Black singers and actors from a young age, lingering products of our father’s influence, who himself is a musician. But, as he and my mother split ways, by heart breaking and unhealthy means, it sort of just faded out.

I can’t quite fault my mom. I’ve come to realize a lot of her avoidance of Black topics stems from, yet again, the lingering memories of my father. She lived quite the life with him, one that was no stranger to violence and drugs. She’s never said anything bad about him, but that portion of her life was tumultuous, and I know she carries some shame.

And another strong factor is that she just didn’t know or realize that there was something more she could have been doing for her Black children. She didn’t have the background or the basis to know. Again, to no fault of her own.

I adore my mother and love her, I wouldn’t trade her for anything. She truly did her best with the cards she was dealt. I just wish she’d been dealt a better hand, one that included more of my people’s history, a deeper understanding of what it meant to be Black, especially in this country, and how to nurture that part of myself. With my father gone, subject to his own choices and generational setbacks, it all fell to her. Despite some loose ends— everybody has them— I still think she did a fantastic job.

Freedom found me in Baldwin’s tragic heroes, in Morrison’s lush cadences, and Butler’s brevity. Once I began reading Black authors, my own artistry flourished, and I realized that there’d been a block, a stoppage, somewhere in my brain, that not only choked my creative path, but my entire identity in general.

I used to just read whatever sounded good, write characters who didn’t look like me, or come from my background. I wrote about people and things I didn’t relate to when I really looked at them, fitting an image I wanted to be associated with instead of one that was true to me. My sense of identity was just as flat. Then I read Giovanni’s Room for class and my heart exploded. Though it’s one of Baldwin’s titles with a white main character, learning about the prolific and revolutionary author himself set my expansion in motion.

Over the next few years, I delved deeper and deeper into Black literature, which expanded to a more thorough Black history, and soon more Black music, etc. Throughout college, I made it a point to take as many Black-centered courses as I could. I read Beloved, and felt like for the first time I really saw slavery as the vile, sinister, maddening thing it was. I learned of the Tulsa Massacre and realized if that could be left out of high school history, I had not been taught real history at all. I encountered the distinct and commanding voices of Angela Davis and Kwame Ture, feeling empowered and awakened when I took in more about the people, history, and movements who made up one whole half of who I am.

Perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned is that the freedom and joy and pleasure that comes from nurturing your Blackness does bear its cost. There's this tremendous weight that Black people everywhere are walking around with, whether they realize it or not. We are born with the legacy of freedom on our backs, in a country still interested in penitentiary chains. But since I began to fill this part of myself, I’ve never felt more alive and aware, enlightened and happy, confident and free to express myself. I’ve gathered more friends and felt the power of walking down the street with a group of all Black people. I’ve felt the glee of being greeted by complete strangers as if we were old friends, simply for being the only other Black person in the store. I’ve found an amazing partner and realized the strength and beauty of our Black love.

There’s just something about Black people –about Blackness– there’s nothing sweeter and freer.

Being in touch with my Blackness does nothing to discount my bits of Mexican heritage, it only enhances it. I see the similarities and differences, and ways the two peoples and identities intersect. One informs the other, and vice versa, only broadening my scope as a person in this world, and giving me more to love.

I know my last stop toward real freedom. The last, and perhaps the biggest, piece to my self-searching puzzle. My father is a whole other mountain needing to be climbed, looming in the background, growing farther and closer at the same time. You’d think after so many years the damage would be, if not healed, at least scarred enough for another attempt. It just depends on the day. I’m looking forward to that freedom, when I can look at myself, my Blackness, and my relationship to it, and not feel any vacant spaces.

I know I’ll get there soon, I’m nearly there now.