© 2007
Notes From the Black-hand Side
by Linda Binns
PART ONE
“The black-hand side”. An old expression among my people, but one I haven’t heard or used in a long time. And now, as I prepare to write my part of this article, it seems apropos. For the black-hand side has gone un-represented in the latest debates across the nation, about the ‘new immigrants’. The firestorm of anger sweeping the nation, about people sneaking into the USA, to do whatever they can do, to utilize services, to work, to raise their families. This article is a response to this phenomenon, and to the editorial in last quarter’s Online Voices.
I get emails, so many emails, from well meaning, flag waving, patriotic friends, sending me the latest senatorial vote ratio, or epic essays about ‘the right way to come to America’. It gives me pause to consider why I hang back. Why my interest isn’t piqued. Why I am not angry, and why my ‘care quotient’ is nil.
I am writing this article for the SWC Online Voices, in tandem with my dear friend, and fellow SWC member, Elsie Morgan. Elsie and I are both ‘from the black-hand side’. I will first tell my story, which, while similar to hers in many ways, is still somewhat different. I will tell you in advance that we don’t necessarily come to the same conclusions, just because we come from the same place, in our hearts and in our experience. My skin is fair. Hers is dark. Still, she is my sister, my people, as I am hers. We are strong black women. We are well educated. We share an understanding. We now share our feelings with you.
My ancestors didn’t come to America through Ellis Island. They didn’t yearn to come here, to live in freedom, to raise their children in a better life, to worship freely, to work at the trade of their choice. A line from an old song comes to mind “your huddled masses yearning to be free”. My ancestors do indeed fit that particular description, though. They arrived in America in chains, on slave ships, packed chest to back on their sides. Many arrived already dead due to the conditions of their travel. No ‘Lady Liberty’ waiting to greet them. Only the slave masters, who branded them like cattle, and sold them off to the highest bidder, getting more for finer ‘specimens, or animals with no blemishes’. My ancestors weren’t viewed as human, and the most they could hope for was that some white master would find them attractive enough to work inside the plantation instead of in the fields. If you were a light skinned female (such as myself) you could even look forward to warming the master’s bed, and then, when he was done, he might let you stay at the bottom of the bed to warm his feet for the night.
People look at me and say “gee, you look white”. I’m here to tell you, I am not. People have said to me “I can’t believe you’re black, you’re so pretty!” Well, umm, I realize you think that’s a compliment. I’ve heard the gamut of comments, often from well meaning whites, often not realizing that I am black. The funniest one, that always makes me laugh and shake my head is ‘Well just think, if it wasn’t for slavery, you wouldn’t be an American today, so you should be grateful for slavery!!’ I heard that one just a couple of weeks ago, from a fellow SWC member. These people wouldn’t call themselves racist. But I do. People think racism is extinct. It’s more subtle, more covert, not politically correct but still rampant in my part of the world. I sit with a foot in 2 worlds. The rhythm of Africa pounds in my blood. I am not confused. The confusion lies with those outside; I know who I am. They look at me and ask “Are you Mexican? A half breed? What are you?” I’ve researched my geneology as far back as I could. I know what tribe my father was from. A proud Yoruba, a king. We haven’t been so lucky trying to trace my mother’s origins.
I say all this to try to give you a perspective from another point of view. I feel distanced, separated from the immigration war facing the nation. I am an American, because that’s the law, I was born here, through no fault, or effort of my own. You may say (as some have) Go back to Africa if you don’t like it here. Well, you’re stuck with me. I’ve never been to Africa, although it’s a dream, and I’ve never fully embraced America, either. I’m detached from the ‘new’ immigrant struggle. It doesn’t move me. It makes me shrug. I don’t care about the outcome. Or what laws are or aren’t passed regarding it. And that’s the way it is.
By Linda M. Binns