The call to greatnes
The call to greatness
I reopened a massive can of worms with the woman I’m presently in relationship with. I recounted childhood and adolescent injuries and how they have shaped my life and attitude toward relationships. It started with my standard greeting to a contemporary in response to “How you doing Bro’”, which for me is “I’m getting old”. There’s been a consistent expression of desire for me to stop from my community to which I consistently reply, “It’s better than alternative, isn’t it”. My attitude makes me appear as if I’m very non-committal. I’m not against marriage, I just don’t believe in being unequally yoked. And most of the sisters who seek relationship with me come from considerably different cultural environs than I. I believe people should share most of the same values before sharing lives. This on going argument needs to be as plainly addressed as the “War on Girls”, because it has a direct correlation to many of those problems.
Which sent me back to one of the few issues of Essence I’ve ever purchased September 2003’s “Why He Won’t Marry You.”, the article is truthful but shallow. Why should a man risk committing his life to someone who is not in the battle for the same cause? At times this seems so unfair to the women I’ve been in relationships with. Yet, I don’t fit the image of success that the men interviewed then presented. Yet, I never have a problem finding women who striving to be in a committed relationship. I do however have difficulty finding a sister with a majority of common life experiences.
In many communities there is a disproportionate ratio of single available, healthy men as to women. The numbers, the facts and the resulting causes are all too plain. Still we too often fail to address the reasons for the causes, because we are busy easing the pain. I’m in my early forties now and I feel like an old war veteran when I see and embrace the men of my generation and we take time to account memories of those brothers no longer with us, especially those recently past. I hate to say it but, this is a loneliness that the women my age I know of cannot or will not approach. Sometimes it’s less painful when the cause of death is “natural”, but when it is the pursuit of material, that pain is devastating and there is no relief, except in the tears and words of a brother who stands and pours libations with you. I’m listening to the eulogy of El Hajj Malik el Shabazz and the words he left to encourage us to strive for the greatness of community, and our failure to collectively present that image in a positive light. Here in its entirety.
Eulogy for Malcolm X
The following eulogy was delivered by Ossie Davis at the funeral of Malcolm X on 27 February 1965 at the Faith Temple Church of God
“Here—at this final hour, in this quiet place—Harlem has come to bid farewell to one of its brightest hopes—extinguished now, and gone from us forever. For Harlem is where he worked and where he struggled and fought—his home of homes, where his heart was, and where his people are—and it is, therefore, most fitting that we meet once again—in Harlem—to share these last moments with him.
For Harlem has ever been gracious to those who have loved her, have fought for her and have defended her honor, even to the death. It is not in the memory of man that this beleaguered, unfortunate, but nonetheless proud community has found a braver, more gallant young champion than this Afro-American who lies before us—unconquered still.
I say the word again, as he would want me to: Afro-American—Afro-American Malcolm, who was a master, was most meticulous in his use of words. Nobody knew better than he the power words have over minds of men.
Malcolm had stopped being a Negro, years ago. It had become too small, too puny, too weak a word for him. Malcolm was bigger than that. Malcolm had become an Afro-American, and he wanted—so desperately—that we, that all his people, would become Afro-Americans, too.
There are those who will consider it their duty, as friends of the Negro people, to tell us to revile him, to flee, even from the presence of his memory, to save ourselves by writing him out of the history of our turbulent times.
Many will ask what Harlem finds to honor in this stormy, controversial and bold young captain—and we will smile. Many will say turn away—away from this man; for he is not a man but a demon, a monster, a subverter and an enemy of the black man—and we will smile. They will say that he is of hate—a fanatic, a racist—who can only bring evil to the cause for which you struggle! And we will answer and say to them:
Did you ever talk to Brother Malcolm? Did you ever touch him or have him smile at you? Did you ever really listen to him? Did he ever do a mean thing? Was he ever himself associated with violence or any public disturbance? For if you did, you would know him. And if you knew him, you would know why we must honor him: Malcolm was our manhood, our living, black manhood!
This was his meaning to his people. And, in honoring him, we honor the best in ourselves. Last year, from Africa, he wrote these words to a friend: My journey, he says, is almost ended, and I have a much broader scope than when I started out, which I believe will add new life and dimension to our struggle for freedom and honor and dignity in the States.
I am writing these things so that you will know for a fact the tremendous sympathy and support we have among the African States for our human rights struggle. The main thing is that we keep a united front wherein our most valuable time and energy will not be wasted fighting each other.
However we may have differed with him—or with each other about him and his value as a man—let his going from us serve only to bring us together, now.
Consigning these mortal remains to earth, the common mother of all, secure in the knowledge that what we place in the ground is no more now a man—but a seed—which, after the winter of our discontent, will come forth again to meet us.
And we will know him then for what he was and is—a prince—our own black shining prince!—who didn’t hesitate to die, because he loved us so”.
I embrace the idea that I am a growing tree of that seed, and so embrace the demand that I wake up, stand up and clean up. That I recognize the problems of the world and where I fit into the solutions. That I come to the understanding of my abilities to serve the greater whole and stand above the selfish desire to bring comfort and glory to myself and those closest to me. Those injuries of youth remind me and constantly reinforce my need to state sometimes angrily, demonstratively that for many a man especially black boys that never grow up to be men that the reason for us to struggle for these consumable fleeting things is to impress and win the desire of a people that will not recognize their part in the equation.
“Reality dictates and media affirms that there is nothing that women can do about the plight and state of those that chase after the things that we are taught will secure the hand of the video girl, supermodel, most desirable trophy brides, and it may be true that those who are not and never wanted to be that are not able to do anything. Still to chose to be and remain oblivious to that state makes those “good girls” even less desirable, because they know so little of the risks and benefits.
To commit a lifetime to the idea that any offspring of a relationship will be endangered by the same ignorance and myopia that diminishes the value of citizenship and increases the populations of necropolis world wide is for men like me, nothing less than insanity. To invest in a relationship that openly denies its part in a conspiracy to control a people is stupidity. To have one’s humanity valued by material, educational or social status and not wisdom experience or domestic skill set makes domestic life unattractive. To grow old and not have the benefit of the same prize is unacceptable. To achieve manhood by the standards of any religion or culture and be ignored for that single exception is a failing on the part of anyone that would have relationship with them and not ask how? To not correlate the numbers of deaths of African American young men to the desire to “get the girl” is beyond my understanding. To be a boy watching the prettiest girls faun over the bad boys who display the most reckless and dangerous behaviors, to witness hero status applied to those who survive being shot, sports injuries, self imposed auto accidents does nothing for the teachings of the “lead a good life” theory. The truth of it all is, the risk versus benefit of living a good life is the same as living the hard life. I am not asking that women take blame or responsibility for the disparity, but encourage the bookish, the nerd to see a vision that is greater than the fame and fortune and elevate the thinking man to equal status if not greater hope, for himself his people and his woman. Symbolize the desire you wish to instill in the man you desire to be with. Know your man and your competition as well as it knows you and him.
There are no famous edifices to the thinking Blackman, the Blackman that doesn’t earn his wage on in the arena of entertainers, gladiators, criminals and eye candy. Cornell West will never be as famous as Michael Jordan, Skip Gates will not ever be as elevated as Shawn Carter. My only joy is my greatest sadness, in aging my competition is diminished and the women must compete harder. What’s sad is, that in the African American community there is no visible appreciation for the aged. I am not valued for what I have learned in the school of hard knocks, I am not precious because of my ability to impart wisdom. As it is expressed by the women in my life and the media, I am a prize because I’ve survived the law of averages, I am desirable because I am nearly twenty years past the expiration date stamped on the head of brothers my generation, the clocks are ticking like time bombs and the numbers of brothers willing to chance relationship are few.
I promise there is a reason Black men my age are not willing to marry my age. A hint: accepting mercy requires understanding the terms of punishment.
I am the voice of the survivors saying “I will not be quiet, my rage will not be pacified, my hope will not be negated & my being will not be comforted with the same escapist tactics that made my contemporaries dead!” I will not settle down to a nice suburban illusion. Somewhere she screams of the import of my God given message. “We all learn to live together or we all die together in ignorance”. Somewhere she shouts like the woman at the city gates, “Know what he believes is worth dieing for and you’ll give him a reason to live!” My ancestors built and conquered empires, now a car, a gold chain and a handful of consumables make the image of all I was taught to strive for just as consumable, what’s up with that? Love that sits on porch swings can wait ‘til I’m closer to the grave. This is my second midlife crisis. I’ve out lived most of my generation. To now ignore those lessons would be blasphemy. I’ve spent this long learning to survive, it is now time that I lived. I want the toys I could not have as a boy and as a man I can show a greater appreciation for them.
I reopened a massive can of worms with the woman I’m presently in relationship with. I recounted childhood and adolescent injuries and how they have shaped my life and attitude toward relationships. It started with my standard greeting to a contemporary in response to “How you doing Bro’”, which for me is “I’m getting old”. There’s been a consistent expression of desire for me to stop from my community to which I consistently reply, “It’s better than alternative, isn’t it”. My attitude makes me appear as if I’m very non-committal. I’m not against marriage, I just don’t believe in being unequally yoked. And most of the sisters who seek relationship with me come from considerably different cultural environs than I. I believe people should share most of the same values before sharing lives. This on going argument needs to be as plainly addressed as the “War on Girls”, because it has a direct correlation to many of those problems.
Which sent me back to one of the few issues of Essence I’ve ever purchased September 2003’s “Why He Won’t Marry You.”, the article is truthful but shallow. Why should a man risk committing his life to someone who is not in the battle for the same cause? At times this seems so unfair to the women I’ve been in relationships with. Yet, I don’t fit the image of success that the men interviewed then presented. Yet, I never have a problem finding women who striving to be in a committed relationship. I do however have difficulty finding a sister with a majority of common life experiences.
In many communities there is a disproportionate ratio of single available, healthy men as to women. The numbers, the facts and the resulting causes are all too plain. Still we too often fail to address the reasons for the causes, because we are busy easing the pain. I’m in my early forties now and I feel like an old war veteran when I see and embrace the men of my generation and we take time to account memories of those brothers no longer with us, especially those recently past. I hate to say it but, this is a loneliness that the women my age I know of cannot or will not approach. Sometimes it’s less painful when the cause of death is “natural”, but when it is the pursuit of material, that pain is devastating and there is no relief, except in the tears and words of a brother who stands and pours libations with you. I’m listening to the eulogy of El Hajj Malik el Shabazz and the words he left to encourage us to strive for the greatness of community, and our failure to collectively present that image in a positive light. Here in its entirety.
Eulogy for Malcolm X
The following eulogy was delivered by Ossie Davis at the funeral of Malcolm X on 27 February 1965 at the Faith Temple Church of God
“Here—at this final hour, in this quiet place—Harlem has come to bid farewell to one of its brightest hopes—extinguished now, and gone from us forever. For Harlem is where he worked and where he struggled and fought—his home of homes, where his heart was, and where his people are—and it is, therefore, most fitting that we meet once again—in Harlem—to share these last moments with him.
For Harlem has ever been gracious to those who have loved her, have fought for her and have defended her honor, even to the death. It is not in the memory of man that this beleaguered, unfortunate, but nonetheless proud community has found a braver, more gallant young champion than this Afro-American who lies before us—unconquered still.
I say the word again, as he would want me to: Afro-American—Afro-American Malcolm, who was a master, was most meticulous in his use of words. Nobody knew better than he the power words have over minds of men.
Malcolm had stopped being a Negro, years ago. It had become too small, too puny, too weak a word for him. Malcolm was bigger than that. Malcolm had become an Afro-American, and he wanted—so desperately—that we, that all his people, would become Afro-Americans, too.
There are those who will consider it their duty, as friends of the Negro people, to tell us to revile him, to flee, even from the presence of his memory, to save ourselves by writing him out of the history of our turbulent times.
Many will ask what Harlem finds to honor in this stormy, controversial and bold young captain—and we will smile. Many will say turn away—away from this man; for he is not a man but a demon, a monster, a subverter and an enemy of the black man—and we will smile. They will say that he is of hate—a fanatic, a racist—who can only bring evil to the cause for which you struggle! And we will answer and say to them:
Did you ever talk to Brother Malcolm? Did you ever touch him or have him smile at you? Did you ever really listen to him? Did he ever do a mean thing? Was he ever himself associated with violence or any public disturbance? For if you did, you would know him. And if you knew him, you would know why we must honor him: Malcolm was our manhood, our living, black manhood!
This was his meaning to his people. And, in honoring him, we honor the best in ourselves. Last year, from Africa, he wrote these words to a friend: My journey, he says, is almost ended, and I have a much broader scope than when I started out, which I believe will add new life and dimension to our struggle for freedom and honor and dignity in the States.
I am writing these things so that you will know for a fact the tremendous sympathy and support we have among the African States for our human rights struggle. The main thing is that we keep a united front wherein our most valuable time and energy will not be wasted fighting each other.
However we may have differed with him—or with each other about him and his value as a man—let his going from us serve only to bring us together, now.
Consigning these mortal remains to earth, the common mother of all, secure in the knowledge that what we place in the ground is no more now a man—but a seed—which, after the winter of our discontent, will come forth again to meet us.
And we will know him then for what he was and is—a prince—our own black shining prince!—who didn’t hesitate to die, because he loved us so”.
I embrace the idea that I am a growing tree of that seed, and so embrace the demand that I wake up, stand up and clean up. That I recognize the problems of the world and where I fit into the solutions. That I come to the understanding of my abilities to serve the greater whole and stand above the selfish desire to bring comfort and glory to myself and those closest to me. Those injuries of youth remind me and constantly reinforce my need to state sometimes angrily, demonstratively that for many a man especially black boys that never grow up to be men that the reason for us to struggle for these consumable fleeting things is to impress and win the desire of a people that will not recognize their part in the equation.
“Reality dictates and media affirms that there is nothing that women can do about the plight and state of those that chase after the things that we are taught will secure the hand of the video girl, supermodel, most desirable trophy brides, and it may be true that those who are not and never wanted to be that are not able to do anything. Still to chose to be and remain oblivious to that state makes those “good girls” even less desirable, because they know so little of the risks and benefits.
To commit a lifetime to the idea that any offspring of a relationship will be endangered by the same ignorance and myopia that diminishes the value of citizenship and increases the populations of necropolis world wide is for men like me, nothing less than insanity. To invest in a relationship that openly denies its part in a conspiracy to control a people is stupidity. To have one’s humanity valued by material, educational or social status and not wisdom experience or domestic skill set makes domestic life unattractive. To grow old and not have the benefit of the same prize is unacceptable. To achieve manhood by the standards of any religion or culture and be ignored for that single exception is a failing on the part of anyone that would have relationship with them and not ask how? To not correlate the numbers of deaths of African American young men to the desire to “get the girl” is beyond my understanding. To be a boy watching the prettiest girls faun over the bad boys who display the most reckless and dangerous behaviors, to witness hero status applied to those who survive being shot, sports injuries, self imposed auto accidents does nothing for the teachings of the “lead a good life” theory. The truth of it all is, the risk versus benefit of living a good life is the same as living the hard life. I am not asking that women take blame or responsibility for the disparity, but encourage the bookish, the nerd to see a vision that is greater than the fame and fortune and elevate the thinking man to equal status if not greater hope, for himself his people and his woman. Symbolize the desire you wish to instill in the man you desire to be with. Know your man and your competition as well as it knows you and him.
There are no famous edifices to the thinking Blackman, the Blackman that doesn’t earn his wage on in the arena of entertainers, gladiators, criminals and eye candy. Cornell West will never be as famous as Michael Jordan, Skip Gates will not ever be as elevated as Shawn Carter. My only joy is my greatest sadness, in aging my competition is diminished and the women must compete harder. What’s sad is, that in the African American community there is no visible appreciation for the aged. I am not valued for what I have learned in the school of hard knocks, I am not precious because of my ability to impart wisdom. As it is expressed by the women in my life and the media, I am a prize because I’ve survived the law of averages, I am desirable because I am nearly twenty years past the expiration date stamped on the head of brothers my generation, the clocks are ticking like time bombs and the numbers of brothers willing to chance relationship are few.
I promise there is a reason Black men my age are not willing to marry my age. A hint: accepting mercy requires understanding the terms of punishment.
I am the voice of the survivors saying “I will not be quiet, my rage will not be pacified, my hope will not be negated & my being will not be comforted with the same escapist tactics that made my contemporaries dead!” I will not settle down to a nice suburban illusion. Somewhere she screams of the import of my God given message. “We all learn to live together or we all die together in ignorance”. Somewhere she shouts like the woman at the city gates, “Know what he believes is worth dieing for and you’ll give him a reason to live!” My ancestors built and conquered empires, now a car, a gold chain and a handful of consumables make the image of all I was taught to strive for just as consumable, what’s up with that? Love that sits on porch swings can wait ‘til I’m closer to the grave. This is my second midlife crisis. I’ve out lived most of my generation. To now ignore those lessons would be blasphemy. I’ve spent this long learning to survive, it is now time that I lived. I want the toys I could not have as a boy and as a man I can show a greater appreciation for them.
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