Every time I’d come home after a hard day, I would hear the sweet tender words of my grandmother, “Oh Grandson” she would say.
A beautiful Black woman, with big glasses that covered her face, inextricable was her lipstick that seemed to always find its place. A smile that could brighten any room. Yet a fierce side-eye that would indicate, stop that deviant behavior or start digging your tomb. A phenomenal woman, who’s on par with the likes of Maya Angelou on any given day, with her angelic voice that would lull me away. A voice that was soft as a gentle breeze that would cradle my pain with a nice tender squeeze. When I recollect my grandma’s mortal existence, “oh grandson,” a phrase I recall with such persistence. Persistently, this phrase was used when it was time to have a “talk” like a father has with his son, leaving his child bemused. Bemused is the expression I’d see on her face when she allowed me space to let her in on my issues. Issues with my identity, hold on y’all, get me some tissue. I need them when I pray to God in hopes he will tell her, I miss you. You know, thinking back on it, tissues and “Oh grandson” are inseparable, despite the discomfort of having these difficult conversations, there was no discourse she wouldn’t commit to. To be honest, the validity of this phrase never needed my convincing. Convincing the world that a young Black boy has value, now that is something that is missing. Missing is the truth in our classrooms and textbooks. Thus, it blinds the ignorant by the masses for centuries, allowing them off the hook. Hooked and bamboozled by our history, you can’t talk unarmed truths without the raw power of reminiscing. Reminiscing is just what I am doing here, sharing my story, not realizing until I got older, these experiences were not abnormalities to some of my peers. In fourth grade, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when I came home in tears, as a teacher found me guilty, unequivocally siding with one of my White peers. Am I a liar? In the sixth grade, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when I was confused, witnessing someone I loved being abused. On the ground with a look of disappointment, pinned down by the police, this certainly was no anointment. What did he do? In the ninth grade, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when I came home, furious and in tears when I observed my girlfriend’s embarrassment because she had brought to light her parent's deepest fears. Am I not good enough? In the twelfth grade, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when I was stereotyped and dejected. A parent told me, “no matter what I do, I’d never be enough,” and like that, I was tossed aside and rejected. Am I not worthy? In my undergrad, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when my advisor informed me, that the university doesn’t believe you can cut it here. “That’s okay,” she said, "you watch and see, you’ll show them, my dear." Am I smart enough? After college, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” when she reassured me she was proud, when I told Christ he is who I strive to be, and I’ll share his name aloud. Am I doing the right thing? Pursuing grad school, I remember hearing, “Oh grandson” before she gave me her last earnings, so I could embark on a journey to another college to further my learning. Am I going to make it? And it was that sweet tender phrase, “Oh grandson” that would tell me on the phone one last time, “I love you, my boy,” right as I began to ascend into my own scholarly climb. Am I able to do this without her? What you need to understand is my grandma helped shield me from some of the evils she already experienced in her life. She made sense of the world when it seemed full of strife. It’s been some time since she passed away. Yet, every time my world becomes perilous, I hear her in my mind “Oh grandson, get up and go lead the way.” When I watch my Black brothers and sisters lose their lives to the senseless acts of malice and crime, my eyes shed tears and my heart mourns every single time. As I read my brothers and sisters 162-characters full of heat, I realize this is where the intersection of traumas and triggers meet. Attempting to leave space for the ignorant and silent, I try to help them make sense of all the riots. Even by trying to love and teach, my racial battle fatigue continues to peak. All the while, I close my eyes to remember that sweet gentle voice whispers, “Oh Grandson” one more time. Now, look beyond this metaphorically written account of my lived experiences and reread these crucial questions below and take inventory. How many times do you ask yourself these questions on a given day? Am I a liar? What did he do? Am I not good enough? Am I not worthy? Am I smart enough? Am I doing the right thing? Am I going to make it? Am I able to do this without her? I am certain every person who reads this list in its entirety has asked themselves these questions countless times. We are more alike than different, but one day you’ll see, Black as well, is sublime. Maybe when more folks start empathically listening, is when history books will start sharing, we too as Black people, are some of Heavenly Father's greatest beings that ever existed. Don’t you think if the Almighty has room for us in his vision, shouldn’t others follow suit and stop with the racial excisions?
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