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Tuesday, February 01, 2000
By Tony Norman
Ah, February. As the official columnist for Black History Month™, my role is to represent all African Americans, thus giving voice to roughly 35 million black people who would do wonders for the Post-Gazette's circulation if they only knew I was their designated spokesman.
Fortunately, the burden of representing the Race is mine to bear for only 29 days. Still, there's a part of me that's always wondered how Black History Month™ was shorted the two or three extra days the other months take for granted. Did black folks pick February, or was it simply thrust upon us by racist actuaries?
If I'd been a part of the committee that put Black History Month™ together, you can bet we'd all be singing "We Shall Overcome" under a sweltering sun. I would've lobbied for that stretch of days somewhere between July Fourth and Labor Day and tacked on a Soul Food Festival. Coming out of the austerity of Kwanzaa a few weeks ago, we're relieved we don't have to brush up on our Swahili before we can enjoy ourselves.
Reflection on the history and accomplishments of black people in August would at least provide some rationale for those weeklong block parties so scrupulously documented in Dr. Dre's videos.
As it stands, Black History Month™ is one cold [hush your mouth]. Ironically, the only black man who has ever really been at home in February was the late arctic explorer Matthew Alexander Henson. In 1909, Henson graciously carried his colleague Robert Peary to the North Pole. Ever the Eurocentric gentleman, Peary took credit for being the first human (not counting the thousands of Inuits who lived in the neighborhood), to step foot on the top of the world. Henson, ever generous in his virtual servitude, smiled and said "whatever."
It's only fair that the entire month of February be given over to a celebration of Henson's magnanimity, because we shall never see its like again. Black History Month™ should then be allowed to migrate to August. Once relocated to warmer climes, it could be patterned after the popular television show "Who Wants to be a Lottery Winner?" with 31 straight days of trivia about the African-American experience.
During August, we could stage historical re-enactments of controversial "events" to educate nonblacks about things they'd otherwise have a hard time believing. One candidate would be the "romance" between Thomas Jefferson, our third President, and his slave Sally Hemings, whom most scholars now acknowledge he had six children with.
Jefferson: "Sally gal, what did you think of the flowers I had the field Negroes pick for you?"
Hemings: "They're lovely, Massa' Tom. Can I have my freedom?"
We've come a long way in our scholarship from "Jefferson would never do that" to "Jefferson would never say that."
For some readers, the very existence of Black History Month™ along with its designated columnist "fans the flames of racial hatred" the way a Confederate flag never could. To these confused souls, I say, "Get over it!" Being a dark brown is a big part of my experience, so I'm going to write about it whether it annoys you or not.
Despite what many readers think, being black is very complicated. I love the new D'Angelo album, which is inaccessible to most whites. On the other hand, I have no idea why some black men walk down the street with one pant leg rolled above their calves. But that's the beauty of Black History Month™: I have a whole month to find out.
Tony Norman's email: tnorman@post-gazette.com