Fictive kinship will always be with us, it seems.
We don’t have to be present, or personally involved in a thing in any way, but we respond as if we are; as if everything is our collective business.
We are fa-mi-ly.
Oppression did a number on us; so did assimilation. We’re really hard on each other when we’re hard on each other.
With our collective reputation always on the line, we are compelled to tune-in to all things Black.
We are the inventors, and frequent users of whataboutism. It’s an answer to injustice and hypocrisy.
We absorb shame, embarrassment, fear, anger, grief, disgust, and joy.
We pray, if there are atrocities occurring, that no one who looks like us is the ringleader.
We’ve been conditioned to be each other’s critics, therapists, covers, keepers; defenders, saviors, judges, juries, and executioners.
We have to keep each other in line; make sure we’re all “acting right”, and not making each other look foolish in the eyes of a world that expects us to act like fools.
We monitor success.
We measure humility.
We keep score.
We read minds.
We discern intentions.
We’re still fighting to prove we’re equal; just as good; just as human; just as competent.
We’re still looking for recognition at ceremonies; seats at tables; security and freedom in high places.
We’re still struggling to be heard; still trying to fit in, and belong.
We’re still trying to play a game by rules that weren’t written with us in mind, and are always subject to change—especially if we look like we are winning.
We are deeply affected by the missteps of anyone who looks like us.
We can’t get away from being perceived as a monolith. We fight against that so much, that we often go too far to be different. We code-switch like crazy until our speech is mind-numbingly fake, cartoony nasal, and harsh.
It’s exhausting being us.
We study ourselves and everyone else, but we can’t shake this hue that apparently says we’re supposed to think, act, believe, and feel the same.
We are taught to keep secrets; protect family business, and collectively call out, correct, and shun house slaves, coons, Uncle Toms, mammies, bed wenches, snitches, sellouts, bootlickers, Republicans, and anything, anyone, or any behavior that sets us back a century or two.
Some, however, have refused to board the fictive kinship bandwagon. They are tired of, and don’t want to be identified or labeled any longer.
They’re weary of all things racial.
They’re in denial about the formulas and optics they satisfy.
They’re tired of walking on eggshells.
They’ve overcome--or at least, that's what they tell themselves.
They’re often the “only” in the room.
They think their work can speak for them; that there’s fairness, respect, equity; that rules of engagement are universal; that everyone in the corridors they navigate are colorblind; that the content of their character is the first thing people see. They move confidently, arrogantly even, until they are abruptly reminded that, even with all of their skill, accomplishments, longevity, degrees, awards, notoriety, philanthropy, and expertise, they are still Black—and not the least bit indispensable.
It’s sad to see them hurled back to Black Earth after they were so warmly embraced over “There” and led to believe they’d arrived and overcome.
Fictive kinship has spurred the current dragging of a well known journalist, and the apologetic backpedaling is no surprise.
Remember how she was praised for her handling of “Robert”? So, it’s my guess that she was tossed the latest Black man story, too.
Someone wanted a scoop at the expense of a grieving WNBA player—who kept her composure, but her eyes told it all. “Oh, no you DIDN’T! You’re one of us! How COULD you?” She was not going to tarnish the memory of her friend, or be backed into a corner for the sake of ratings.
I'm sure the journalist forged on under the guise of being professional and impartial, but she went down Juicy Tabloid Road, and abandoned compassion.
She wasn’t aware of her gaze or tone.
She forgot that pesky, “We gotta stick together” rule. She forgot that fictive kinship overrules “I was just doing my job.”
She crossed the line that gets people tagged with that tap-dancing Daffy Duck meme.
It’s often too late and very sad when those whose statuses make it seem like we’re in a post-racial America, realize that doing their jobs actually means being props, plants, and puppets.
Doing their jobs means maintaining the status quo; personifying the perceptions, parroting the rhetoric, promoting the stereotypes, and doing the dirty work of others.
Viewers wanted the journalist to, at least, pretend to be a fellow mourner (after all, it’s Black History Month). Black America wasn’t looking for “tea” to be spilled, or a fishing expedition in the sea of forgetfulness. The questions were too soon, inappropriate, and the very dirt seekers that guarantee the “asterisk” spoken of by comedian Eddie Griffin.
The late White House press corp journalist, Helen Thomas said, "...what is a journalist without energy, enthusiasm, and integrity, plus insatiable curiosity, and courage?" The operative word is “integrity”.
A journalist can be serious, hard-hitting, and objective without being petty, catty, insulting, offensive, or a jerk.
Some reach heights in their professions, and think they have the okay to do what all the others do; they inflict hurt and then declare “it’s not personal”.
They think the machine will always defend them. Wrong.
When you don’t own the machine, there will always be someone poised to tell you that you’re getting too big for your britches.
The machine doesn’t like liabilities or pushback.
No matter who you are, throwing your own under the bus for the entertainment of others, and dragging for the dead is always a bad look.
Social media is having a field day.
Black Twitter Cancel Culture is already rescinding cookout invitations, and proposing an immediate trade for Mitt Romney.
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