Hibah Berhanu
I squinted and scanned the contents of the scoreboard to see that I had fulfilled my concession stand duties just in time to catch the fourth inning. I hopped from the booth’s protective shade and stepped into the unmerciful heat. My caramel-colored skin and religious apparel were enough to set me apart at this baseball game; however, I decided to play dumb to the audiences’ glares. I looked up the bleachers, my eyes met my friend. She was waving for me to join her and some other friends. As I took the first step onto the metal stair, a low rumbling voice stole my attention. That’s when I heard this:
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“America frowns down upon your face.”
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I looked at him and he looked at me and I froze. The disgruntled face came with a pair of eyes that fixed themselves on me for several seconds. Without turning his head, the bloodshot eyes scanned back to the field unaffected, unbothered.
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The only thing I could think to do next was pretend I didn’t hear him and go pretend to have fun with my friends. That played over in my head for a really long time.
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***
My identity has often been questioned. I used to wonder if I could really ever say and feel that I am American. In comparison to other factors, I feel that this is selfish. I embrace so many freedoms and privileges that come with the status of an American, yet it is difficult for me to feel welcome within these borders, on this soil.
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Even though myself, my parents, and my siblings all have citizenship and even though my dad was basically a rancher when he lived in Texas for college and even though I can count the number of time I have left the States on one hand, I would counter those facts with “well, not really” because I’m am still a first-generation American and the real Americans have been here for much longer and, “well, not really” because I am not at all white and the ideal American is pale with Pantene hair and, “well, not really” because I don’t celebrate Christmas, but rather Eid.
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By my senior year in high school, I had assumed I had it all figured out. For me, reading, learning and regurgitating the things that I learn introduces me to solace. Oddly enough, this made college applications quite entertaining. I told myself that I finally had the attention of people who were in charge of making significant decisions and that, more importantly, they had to listen to what I had to say. I used college essays as a time to pour my heart out about the struggles of identity--what it meant to be black, and what it meant to be East African, what it meant to be a woman, what it meant to be a Muslim, what it meant to be a hijabi--and what it meant to crave representation.
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And though I understood my personal dynamic within each of those separate spaces, it was not until college, with a ludicrous beginning, that I began to genuinely know, embody and feel authentic in my skin. The missing piece that I would come to know was interrupted by events that, still, I am not sure of the way in which they catalyzed my understanding.
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***
Seven and a half hours away from the trauma, I had just woken up in my safe-and-sound, pale-walled, shared bedroom in Metro-Atlanta, GA. It was amidst a slothful, 1pm, Eritrean breakfast of my mom’s unbeatable, honey-drenched “fit fit”, both spicy and sweet; this was my favorite breakfast dish. The aroma of ginger tea swept through the first floor and made my deep breathes and prolonged blinks function in unison. Within the woolly, neon, tangerine socks that were far too embarrassing to step out of the house in, my toes curled in contentment. On the opposite end of window pane were faint giggles and the flex of rusty springs that signaled to me that Yusuf, my three-year-old brother, was spending his first hours of the day on the trampoline. I decided to open up the Twitter app for the latest relatable memes from Black Twitter and whatever CNN updates that happened to make their appearance. The immense level of comfort I felt within my customary routine should have foreshadowed the absurdity that was headed my way.
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It took what seemed like a split second for my mouth go completely dry. Dryness. This state quickly traveled down my throat. Charlottesville? I thought to myself, Is there more than one city with that name? I don’t know Virginia that well…. this can’t be UVA Charlottesville, right? My home for the next four years, Charlottesville?
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It was two days before my college orientation--two days before move-in. In disbelief and silent shock, I continued to scroll down my timeline. I felt as though I was living a daydream. My thumb must have been numb at this point. I saw spine-chilling images and the words “KKK” and “neo-Nazi”. I kept on scrolling-down, down, down my feed.
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I knew all too well how my opinionated family, friends, family-friends, neighbors would react, so I tried my best to be proactive and tone down the craze with shrugs and “let’s-change-the-subject”s. Alas, one can only suppress national news for so long. Before I knew it, everyone in my life had a piece of advice to give me. “It’s not too late to stay in-state” they said, and, “You could go online for the first semester.”
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Still, and apparently, I made the decision to persist at UVA. It took a stern conversation with myself--one in which I removed the cognitions of fear and passion from the equation. By the end of the night, I was convinced. I would not allow the very people who wanted me to fail have the pleasure of watching me walk away from a vigorous, education.
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And after all, the bigots were outsiders, right? Charlottesville promoted acceptance and love, not hate or violence, right? It was Band-Aid remarks such as these that were ripped off of me as I began to witness the University’s lack of accountability. It was not long before I picked up on the University's response to unacceptable events. As a community, UVA affiliates were encouraged to ignore, disregard, and let it happen. The implications of not fighting against such immoral, dangerous conduct should have proven to me much about the administration. Still, I made up my mind. I moved on. I tried to forget.
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Less than two months later, I woke up for 9am Arabic to see flyers posted all over Grounds. Anti-Muslim rhetoric polluted the campus I was meant to make my home for the next four years. To put another Band-Aid on the situation, Teresa Sullivan, who I quickly learned students shortened to T-Sully out of consistent frustration, sent out an email that seemed insensitive and far from genuine. Again, I took the situation with a grain of salt. I tried to feel comfortable. I tried to move on.
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It wasn’t until the Thomas Jefferson statue was covered with tarp that I could no longer refuse my feelings of their right to be expressed. From T-Sully‘s passionate reaction, I could tell the University was livid. Muslims students got a paragraph of politically correct, but insensitive, remarks about what happened with the flyers, but the tarp? For some reason, the tarp deserved an essay of emotional passion. And not that the founder of this school does not deserve credit, but that a rapist, slave-owning, white supremacist was more protected than minority students had been. For me, this series of events showed me more than enough where the administration’s values lie.
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Finding solace meant healing in the places that were shaped and created for me. Though I cannot say if I will ever completely feel welcome and accepted at UVA, I know that there is a Black Student Union, an OAAA, a Muslim Student Association were I could find a home away from home. After these particular events, I found myself at the Multicultural Student Center. There myself, along with other students, vocalized what we were all feeling. The upperclassmen told us the familiar patterns and the underclassmen listened intently as they sized up what they were in for.
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***
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I rapidly became conscious of my identity on an unfortunately exclusive campus. When I consider my blackness, it is difficult to separate that aspect of my identity from the other characteristics of my being. From a young age I, quickly learnt that I could not simply be a girl, but a black girl. I never had the option of embodying just a Muslim at the mosque, but a black Muslim at the mosque. My role as the child of immigrants, my habits as a student, my posture as an employee--all rooted and un-removed from my blackness.
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The missing piece was allowing myself to be one hundred percent myself in every realm, every aspect, every identity of my being. Yes, I could identify with each group, but only from the standpoint of a person who had and has many other complexities. Unfortunately, it took for nonsensical circumstances for me to see this.
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Looking back, I feel bad for myself. It took me so long to come to terms with the fact that my black, Muslim, first generation self was wholeheartedly American. Even if I didn’t think I was, even if he, from the old baseball game, did not want me to be.
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Author’s Note
One of the most priceless elements of humankind, or at least I believe, is perspective. There is no way we could truly ever understand the genuine ethics or understanding of another person, but taking the time to listen and hear a viewpoint contradictory to your own is crucial to the way in which we can live harmoniously or make change. I believe that this makes the experience of a marginalized member valuable. I hope that I was able to transport even a single reader into the shoes that I walk so that maybe they could experience something new or change the way they naturally think or maybe even, and it would make me thrilled, make someone feel represented.
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Untitled
As young scholars attempt to grasp an authentic meaning of experience and perspective, utilizing the works of writers, such as June Jordan, allow these scholars to deepen their understanding of constructs including race and identity. Academically analyzing the methods that Jordan uses in "Nobody Mean More to Me Than You and the Future Life of Willie Jordan" can give readers insight into the specific techniques she employs.
After reading the piece several times and becoming progressively comfortable with unmasking the communicative strategies Jordan uses, I found it less and less difficult to come to terms with the content. In fact, I hope that a large portion of this project clearly dedicates itself to “understanding and representing its argument” (Harris 5). This task, however, became increasingly difficult considering the vitality I believe resides in each and every sentence. In order to accurately translate every idea, navigating through Jordan’s text chronologically was the most fruitful method.
From the beginning of the text, Jordan jumps to the point that, “Black English is not exactly a linguistic Buffalo” (Jordan 160). This almost serves as a confession that every idea following this claim should be perceived under the assumption that the qualities of African-American Vernacular English, which Jordan calls Black English, are deep-seated and far more concerned with upholding values than of any sort of grammatical significance. Jordan then tackles the disparity that exists when the historical and social angles of Black English collide--that what is customarily and naturally essential is, unfortunately, invalid amongst systems of accepted intelligence and privilege.
Jordan scoffs at how universally inappropriate Black English has become. The language was not just seen as uneducated at an institutional level, but even those who utilized it internalized the speech as defective. In Jordan’s class analysis of The Color Purple, the students gawked at how the language sounded “funny” and did not “sound right” (Jordan 161).
What happened next in the sequence of Jordan’s narrative, to me, was quite magical. In attempting to translate Alice Walker’s writing, even the students knew how absurd the Standard English conversion played out to be. Jordan writes that the students were hysterical. Black English conveyed the, “syntax and diction of sentences” as well as the “probable age and sex and class of speakers, and even the locale” and without it, how could the writer’s intent or storyline be interpreted properly (Jordan 162)? It was after this moment that Jordan makes the decision to try her best and teach her students Black English. This scene depicts an epiphany on the side of both the students and the professor where the youth are provoked and challenged, and the professor commits to an opportunity.
At this point, Jordan introduces a keen character named Willie Jordan. He is a muscular, young Black student who embodies sage and wisdom as he sits out of back and forth dialogue, but instead prepares his arguments at home. Not only was Jordan enthralled by the Art of Black English, but he was even dedicated to an independent study project concerning the South African apartheid. Though Jordan shows fascination in Willie and describes his project and engagement with the class, she strategically moves on from this particular student and zooms out to the large scope of her class. To this reader, this can foreshadow a later conversation about Willie, as we are now intrigued about his studies and particular contribution to the class.
Jordan focuses on a student who she does not name to funnel the direction on the piece to the specific rules of Black English. From elements of the Black Lexicon that are more abstract, such as, “Rule 1: Black English is about a whole lot more than mothafuckin,” to instructions on syntax such as, “Rule 4: Forget about the spelling. Let the syntax carry you”Jordan sophisticated the language by allotting it regulations (Jordan 165). These mandates became extremely powerful when the Black English juxtaposed and actually corrected Standard English. Retrospectively, there where twenty guidelines created for Black English.
Jordan confesses that the students finally picked up on the language that had been beaten out of them, and instead, they learned to formulate, dictate and pursue Black English. Amidst the wave of excitement and relief that may be experienced by this point in the reading, Jordan directs the readers to a new complication. All the while, Willie had missed class consistently for a week. Jordan, worried and confused, did not know whether his absence was due to Willie being suddenly distressed by the South African fiasco or if he had become suddenly overwhelmed by the workload of classes and his independent study. It was not long before Willie phoned Jordan and disclosed that his absence was far more severe than either of the two.
“Brooklyn police had murdered his unarmed, twenty-five-year-old brother, Reggie Jordan” (Jordan 166). Willie’s older brother was killed by the police, and though horrifying, the devastation was only a trivial matter in the eyes of the press and local government. To highlight the injustice of the circumstance even further, Jordan presented the case to her Black English class. Every student was familiar with the ins and out of such a storyboard. The epitome of a Black community alliance is evident here where the students are united in the face of police brutality. This objective event could even redefine the cultural significance and necessity of a Black language. While that thought may have lingered in the minds of readers by said point in the text, it is reaffirmed by the students response to the situation: they collectively decide to write a statement in Black English to the family of Reggie Jordan. The power invested in Black English here proved more than simply connotation or punctuation or figure of speech. Black English became the best way to express utmost concern, respect and condolence. The same could be said for the individual messages that were sent to the police and those that were sent to Newsday--both of which were in Black English.
Again, a new complication arose. Jordan had to ask the class which would be the most appropriate way to open the letter to the police. Would it be in Black English or in Standard English? There was no flip-of-a-coin resolution. Jordan and her students were possessed by pain and struggle and panic to know that a message so paramount could easily be catered and fed to the company of murders who killed Reggie. Writing the opening of the letter in Reggie’s native tongue, however would have been at the expense off an all to familiar negative perception. Jordan portrays that the love and passion for Black English would be toyed with yet again and forcibly delegitimized. At the time where both the students and the readers recognize this, the students make the decision to write in Black English. During the journey of such an immense tussle, Jordan alleviates anxiety from the analytical reader.
A visitor who happened to be sitting in on the class that day sees the expedition taken to get to that decision. This visitor happens to be a Black Officer named Charles. On the side of law enforcement, Officer Charles clears his name and makes the issue simple. “’That's all it is with the brother. Over-reaction. Didn't have nothing to do with race’” (Jordan 168). Jordan expresses an atmosphere of collective of betrayal after experiencing a disturbing grin from the officer. There was no remorse in the loss of a life. The scenario played into the theme of a lack of understanding from even Black people about the Black struggle and the necessity of Black English.
Jordan asked Willie Jordan to finalize his thoughts and “frustration and amazement” from the loss of his brother, Reggie (Jordan 168). From attacking the oppression of the apartheid in South Africa to the police brutality in the States, Willie is exquisitely able to draw a connection between the similar, modern and relevant racism he has personally witnessed and been affected by. There is injustice in the system by the officers lies on accounts of the murder and from this Willie sheds light on the truth[MOU1] . There is no way to accurately come to terms with the ample amount of authentic pain and wholehearted mournfulness evident in Willie’s letter. Though it is strange how Willie is able to end his letter on a hopeful and demanding note, he expresses a call to action—that “we do have the power to make a change” (Jordan 169). Jordan then dedicates the piece to the future life of Willie J. Jordan Jr instilling a sense of pride, ambition and expectation in the reader. Choosing to close with this dedication not only concludes with the thoughts of Willie, Reggie and their family in mind, but also the strife and triumph of the Black community and of Black English.
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I believe that Jordan was astounding in allowing the audience to connect to her piece. While I read and analyzed her words, I could not help, but question whether a non-Black English speaker could follow as easily as I could. Though she was not speaking in Black English and that she did explain the grammar rules of Black English, it was almost impossible to imagine a non-Black English perspective being able to sympathize with the endemic that Jordan writes about. Nonetheless, Jordan’s ability to weave through each aspect of her storyline—from the historical standpoint, to the classroom setting, to Willie Jordan’s character, back to the classroom, etc.,—one of her strengths in this piece was undoubtedly cultivating the various scenes and using elaborate characterizations and descriptions to build a foundation for what the reader grasp onto.
Though rather difficult to conceptualize something that Jordan could have improved upon to enhance the piece, looking back, I found that the transitions were partially difficult to follow. Some of the transitions are definably smoother than others. In the way that Jordan beginnings on page 160, English as a study and the student’s first experience with Black English as an academic study and the transition between those two ideas was quite seamless. On the other hand, the first time we are introduced to Willie is quite abrupt. I can remember seeing the line, “He looked like a wrestler,” and assuming that I had accidentally skipped over a paragraph (Jordan 162). Though this may have been written to project a certain emphasis to Willie’s character, I more confused than redirected. In other explanations of Willie, such as on page 165 with, “Where was Willie Jordan?” the transitions are less unforeseen and allow for more of a flow.
The piece would have spoken to more of my aims and interests if it went into more depth on page 163 where Jordan explains her first encounters with Willie. She mentions that she needs to attain departmental approval presumably from her administration or institutional deans of some sort. I understand that the complexities of the piece already weave in two stories together--that of Black English and that of Willie Jordan, however encouraging the institution to see that Black English is, in actuality, a respectable subject area and convincing them of its approval is hugely interesting to me. I am intrigued to know the process behind getting such a controversial and typically academically unacceptable language approved. That may have been an entirely different text altogether, however I am engrossed in the response from such a request.
In hopes of more clearly establishing my own stance with the study of Black English, I am elated that an attempt to recover and restore the language is an active process. As its essence, looking at the global history of African Americans, there is a constant and unbeatable pattern of customs, language, culture, rights and freedom being stolen away from Black people. I think that this still exists today, maybe more subtly than in retrospective history, however still prevalent. With magnifiers such as The New Jim Crow, disenfranchisement, police brutality and the list certainly goes on, I am certain that holding on to any and every aspect of Black culture is worth writing for and advocating for. Jordan writing a piece on the imperativeness of Black English signals to me the authority granted back to Black Americans and I can only hope that more writing about this topic and about a Black repossession exist so that maybe I can learn more, teach more and perhaps even write more.
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Author’s Note
Speaking Black English amongst my friends and relatives all of my life, I will say that I had no idea the term was coined. I was simply under the assumption that there was a right English and a wrong one. I will say that the experience of living in a first-generation American household absolutely played into that. My parents attempted to correct our grammar at any chance they could based off the English they knew would allow us to be the most eloquent and acceptable. Looking from this standpoint, this may have been due to the fear that we would not assimilate enough to be accepted by American society. On the contrary, I feel that speaking Black English thrusted me into a community of peers, neighbors and friends who I could instantly bond with and am still able to. Having a much more academic understanding of Black English, I am fearful of its extinction. Though it may never be the case that students in classrooms and employees in offices can go without code-switching from Black English to Standard English to be considered classy or educated enough, I want the language to live on and fulfill its purpose.