This piece is from a collection of speculative essays.
Adolphus Ward on:
AFRICA—AFFECTION
DISAFFECTION
My affection for Africa started while still young. I'm not sure of the exact age but my rehabilitation began before the stirring in my genitals became distractingly frequent. I was a black child in love with the outdoors before the grass, trees, birds and caterpillars began to make sense to me. I grew up in the city of Milwaukee where the seasons gave me a chance to experience a variety of weather conditions. In the winter mother packed me and my siblings in enough clothing for the North Pole and put us out to play. Dad would water the snow in the backyard and the result was our own ice skating rink. He taught us to ice-skate, and sled-ride. In the summer time, no matter the sun and heat, I lived in the outdoors. Even when my body was imprisoned in a grade-school classroom my mind and spirit were outside. And so being a black child the summer's sun only made me blacker. At this time in my life having black skin was not an asset—some people still find it a liability. No one wanted to be black then— not even me. I mean who wants something no one else wants. The history books said black was bad, the dictionary confirmed it, laws made it criminal. White folks didn't want black; Black folks didn't want it either. Some people wouldn't even have a black pet; a fuzzy little, black puppy would be turned around at the door or front gate.
I still remember the futile assertions that tried to explain away the concept of skin color. It sounded as if the asserters were quoting from the same script. It was as though they had made a pilgrimage to a godlike person, in Washington DC maybe, who was the ultimate source of all truth. "You see", the asserter would begin, "no one is really black or white." That's when the black crayon and white chalk would be held up. The black crayon would be held next to someone who was apparently not black and the white chalk would be held next to someone who was apparently not white. I remember being in a panic more than once fearing I'd get the crayon-test. I somehow missed the crayon test but ran headlong into the asphalt-test. Yes, the asphalt-test. Remember I was, still am, an outside child. And remember that I was and am black and that I get blacker in the summer. Well, the city workmen had just completed resurfacing the street in front of my house. Although the asphalt was ready for traffic the street hadn't been opened yet. This gave the kids in the neighborhood a perfect playground with no traffic to contend with. I don't remember the game I was playing but I landed face down on the new asphalt. I was slightly out of breath for a second or two but otherwise unhurt. I was about to get up when it seemed to me I'd lost an arm. I literally had to move it to be sure it was there. My arm was all but undetectable against the pitch-black asphalt and the shadow that covered it. At that moment I knew for a fact that I was black. That moment was the start of my rehabilitation. I had been set on the road to the acceptance and love of myself by new asphalt and a shadow. Along the way some experiences helped with my rehabilitation and others got in the way. James Brown was one of those people who helped me: remember "I'm black and I'm proud." What was most helpful was the discovery that some folks who have African ancestry are really crayon-black and some folks of European ancestry are really chalk-white. This evident truth gave me a chance to discard forever the god-like assertions about what color people are or are not.
What has me accepting my blackness got to do with the affection and disaffection of Africa? I think it has a lot to do with it. Experience has taught me that I can't give what I haven't got. To love another I must first love myself. When the love of self is maturing one can move outside of self to include others of the same kind. With still more maturity one's love moves to others no matter the kind. I see Africa as my ancestral home and it follows that I am of that kind of people. I am African. Since I love myself—I love others of my kind—I love Africa. That's why I pain to see Africa as the last thought on the political and economic landscape of global affairs. Human suffering seems to be accepted with a hunch of a shoulder—as if to say they are black and one shouldn't expect any more. Few eyes seem to see or care that there is no water, no food or shelter for too many living there. Few hands are raised to defend the weak against genocide. Few voices are heard to say that the immense wealth of Africa still fills the pockets of Western and European Countries while Africans look on with angry hunger and revenge.
The African American voice in the United States is all but silent on Africa. It is that still voice that gives approval to U.S. eco-political policies applied to Africa. That still voice gives a green-light for the U.S. to do little more than hunch its shoulders when casually glancing at the deadly poverty and violence existing in so much of Africa. Although African Americans don't directly create the impoverished conditions in Africa, little is done by African Americans to alleviate those conditions. Little or nothing is woven into the political agenda, set by African American leaders, which includes Africa's interest. It's as though Africa's interest are thought of apart from those of African Americans; as though what happens to one has no effect on the other. This shortsighted political mentality is evident throughout the Diaspora. To some extent the impoverished conditions in Africa is a reflection of African Americans' disaffection for Africa.
Adolphus Ward
2005
Adolphus Ward on:
AFRICA—AFFECTION
DISAFFECTION
My affection for Africa started while still young. I'm not sure of the exact age but my rehabilitation began before the stirring in my genitals became distractingly frequent. I was a black child in love with the outdoors before the grass, trees, birds and caterpillars began to make sense to me. I grew up in the city of Milwaukee where the seasons gave me a chance to experience a variety of weather conditions. In the winter mother packed me and my siblings in enough clothing for the North Pole and put us out to play. Dad would water the snow in the backyard and the result was our own ice skating rink. He taught us to ice-skate, and sled-ride. In the summer time, no matter the sun and heat, I lived in the outdoors. Even when my body was imprisoned in a grade-school classroom my mind and spirit were outside. And so being a black child the summer's sun only made me blacker. At this time in my life having black skin was not an asset—some people still find it a liability. No one wanted to be black then— not even me. I mean who wants something no one else wants. The history books said black was bad, the dictionary confirmed it, laws made it criminal. White folks didn't want black; Black folks didn't want it either. Some people wouldn't even have a black pet; a fuzzy little, black puppy would be turned around at the door or front gate.
I still remember the futile assertions that tried to explain away the concept of skin color. It sounded as if the asserters were quoting from the same script. It was as though they had made a pilgrimage to a godlike person, in Washington DC maybe, who was the ultimate source of all truth. "You see", the asserter would begin, "no one is really black or white." That's when the black crayon and white chalk would be held up. The black crayon would be held next to someone who was apparently not black and the white chalk would be held next to someone who was apparently not white. I remember being in a panic more than once fearing I'd get the crayon-test. I somehow missed the crayon test but ran headlong into the asphalt-test. Yes, the asphalt-test. Remember I was, still am, an outside child. And remember that I was and am black and that I get blacker in the summer. Well, the city workmen had just completed resurfacing the street in front of my house. Although the asphalt was ready for traffic the street hadn't been opened yet. This gave the kids in the neighborhood a perfect playground with no traffic to contend with. I don't remember the game I was playing but I landed face down on the new asphalt. I was slightly out of breath for a second or two but otherwise unhurt. I was about to get up when it seemed to me I'd lost an arm. I literally had to move it to be sure it was there. My arm was all but undetectable against the pitch-black asphalt and the shadow that covered it. At that moment I knew for a fact that I was black. That moment was the start of my rehabilitation. I had been set on the road to the acceptance and love of myself by new asphalt and a shadow. Along the way some experiences helped with my rehabilitation and others got in the way. James Brown was one of those people who helped me: remember "I'm black and I'm proud." What was most helpful was the discovery that some folks who have African ancestry are really crayon-black and some folks of European ancestry are really chalk-white. This evident truth gave me a chance to discard forever the god-like assertions about what color people are or are not.
What has me accepting my blackness got to do with the affection and disaffection of Africa? I think it has a lot to do with it. Experience has taught me that I can't give what I haven't got. To love another I must first love myself. When the love of self is maturing one can move outside of self to include others of the same kind. With still more maturity one's love moves to others no matter the kind. I see Africa as my ancestral home and it follows that I am of that kind of people. I am African. Since I love myself—I love others of my kind—I love Africa. That's why I pain to see Africa as the last thought on the political and economic landscape of global affairs. Human suffering seems to be accepted with a hunch of a shoulder—as if to say they are black and one shouldn't expect any more. Few eyes seem to see or care that there is no water, no food or shelter for too many living there. Few hands are raised to defend the weak against genocide. Few voices are heard to say that the immense wealth of Africa still fills the pockets of Western and European Countries while Africans look on with angry hunger and revenge.
The African American voice in the United States is all but silent on Africa. It is that still voice that gives approval to U.S. eco-political policies applied to Africa. That still voice gives a green-light for the U.S. to do little more than hunch its shoulders when casually glancing at the deadly poverty and violence existing in so much of Africa. Although African Americans don't directly create the impoverished conditions in Africa, little is done by African Americans to alleviate those conditions. Little or nothing is woven into the political agenda, set by African American leaders, which includes Africa's interest. It's as though Africa's interest are thought of apart from those of African Americans; as though what happens to one has no effect on the other. This shortsighted political mentality is evident throughout the Diaspora. To some extent the impoverished conditions in Africa is a reflection of African Americans' disaffection for Africa.
Adolphus Ward
2005
