Brother, Sister, do you know who you are?

An essay as it ran in The Birmingham News on Sunday, July 08, 2007.

MARIE A. SUTTON

Recently, I pulled into the parking lot of my neighborhood grocery store and got really frustrated. A dirty diaper sat near my front tire and a sea of strewn paper and empty fast-food restaurant bags littered the lot.

Candy-colored cars coasted along the area’s perimeter, blasting songs with profane lyrics, one of which rang out, “Girl, I’ll rape you.” A few men stood near the store entrance. Their pants hung past their butts and they made hissing noises to women who walked by.

As I headed inside, I stood behind a woman who looked as if she was in her late teens or early 20s. Three young children followed her, and to one she showered a mouth full of cuss words. The child didn’t bat an eye. The words weren’t foreign to her.

As I strolled from the produce section to the frozen foods aisle, I looked into the faces of many of the customers. Their eyes were dead. They were angry, tired and beat down by life. I wanted to scream out: Pull up your pants. Raise your children. Get an education. Love yourself. Don’t you know who you are?

I love black people, my people, but some of us are lost. It’s as if we are sleepwalking, traveling through life without a compass. And I am convinced it is because we don’t know who we are.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think I am any better than the people I saw that day. And they, by no means, represent all black people. They are, however, a segment of our community that deserves our attention and care because they are sick, suffering from spiritual amnesia and totally clueless about the greatness that lies within them.

I wish they could realize that they are a race of strong people, beautifully kissed by the sun in a rainbow of shades from creamy cafe au lait to a robust ebony. I wish they knew that black people are creative, filled with music, creators of gospel and jazz. We are strong, with hands cracked from toiling this nation’s soil and backs wide from carrying the weight of injustice.

And Birmingham blacks are a special kind. We are the descendants of some of history’s greatest Americans. We are of the stock of the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, a fiery preacher who braved death for equality; A.G. Gaston, a business tycoon who became Birmingham’s first black millionaire. More recently, we can boast Condoleezza Rice, the first black woman to be Secretary of State and a product of the Birmingham City Schools. And, let’s not forget the man who cleans up the office buildings downtown by day and helps his children with their homework by night. Or, the female executive who makes power decisions during the week, but then volunteers to help little girls with their self esteem on weekends.

These people, my people, make me stand taller. And, they should make us all stand with pride. What I saw that day in the grocery store, however, was a far cry from who we are. What I’ve seen lately are a people unfamiliar with their greatness.

I’m tired of seeing black faces on the news: The suspect was a black male … Two black men were gunned down yesterday … Be on the look out for a black male … Some of our people have run amuck and we, from the elders to the youth, have become too passive with the state of our community. We have become the very antithesis of the generation that walked these streets only four decades ago.

How is it that, today, more than 70 percent of the city’s population is black, but we own only 1 percent of the wealth? Why is it that our schools, the majority black schools, are in trouble? Tell me why is crime in the black communities out of control? We should be mad as hell at ourselves. Mad enough to do something.

Where are the descendants of the Birmingham blacks who in 1962 launched a selective buying campaign and did not patronize businesses that didn’t treat them like human beings? Imagine if we did that today. Blacks spend millions and millions of dollars each year. What if we said we aren’t going to buy another pair of sneakers until these companies put money into our communities?

Where are the grandchildren of the Birmingham youths who in 1963 banned together by the thousands, filling Birmingham jails in the name of freedom and because they had the courage that many of their parents did not. Imagine if our youths joined together for a cause today. It could, just as it did years ago, change the face of our nation.

It’s time for us to wake up and teach our brothers and sisters about our stories. Let’s demand our schools teach lessons about heroes who look like us and not just the obvious ones like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but also James Armstrong, a courageous war veteran who fought through Alabama courts to desegregate Birmingham City Schools. Not only that, let’s purpose in our hearts to begin our own personal quests for greater knowledge about our people and the greatness that we are descendants of. Let’s also take the time to talk to our children and speak power into their souls so they can grow up feeling empowered irregardless of their circumstances.

If we do this, I am hopeful we will become a people who will change the tide of our destiny. I am hopeful that that scene from the grocery store will one day be different. Instead of cars aimlessly circling parking lots, maybe one day those drivers will be patrolling our neighborhoods, keeping watch of our children and protecting the sanctity of our community. Instead of those men standing outside, making cat calls to women, maybe they will some day use their voices to speak a word of encouragement to our black women. And instead of the young mother snapping at her children, maybe she will take on her role as the educator of the home and raise up a generation of children who love themselves and defy odds.

If we learn who we are and get a revelation that we are a great people, I believe we can awake from our slumber. For the sake of our future generation, I sure hope we do.

Marie A. Sutton, a former reporter at The News, is a freelance writer in Birmingham. E-mail: marieasutton@yahoo.com. 

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