“Yo. Where you from again?”
I was in the employee breakroom, on March 2015 at my retail job in New York City, eating my soggy sandwich on my lunch break when my colleague came up to me and asked me this question. I couldn’t remember his name then (or now). But I knew he had asked me this question before, so exasperated, I told him,
“I’m from Ghana.”
He smiled and responded, “Trust me, I know that. But where you from, here?”
My soggy sandwich had already fallen from my hands by then.
“My guy, I’ve already told you this. I am from Madison, WI.”
In NYC, after I would tell Black people where I was from, they would playfully joke about beer, cheese, Brett Favre and the fact that there were no Black people up there (my presence in front of them was not a factor). If they had some extra time on their hands, they would repeat the Chris Rock joke from his stand-up special, Bring the Pain:
“Ain’t no Black people in Minnesota. Only Black people in Minnesota is Prince and Kirby Puckett!”
I would tell them that I was from Wisconsin, and that Minnesota is a whole other state, but by then they had either lost interest or shrug and say “same shit.” I was fully expecting the jokes to come flying out again, so I waited patiently as my lunch break was about to be over soon. But he put his hand on my shoulder, leaned over and whispered,
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Heard about what happened. If they killing us out there, then I know we definitely live there. Stay strong, my boy,” There was a knowing look that we both shared, and I nodded, silently acknowledging him as he nodded as well and headed back to work.
He was referring to Tony Robinson, who was yet another young Black unarmed man killed on March 4, 2015 by a police officer who faced no charges. That moment always resonated with me because it made me understand something that I inherently knew. Black people in America are united by our joy, our music, our laughter. That is not to say we are all the same, but even in the ways that we are not similar, we still embrace our differences. But in the same way we are united by our triumphs, we are also united by our pain. Our suffering. Our tragedy. My colleague at that moment was able to recognize an unfortunate truth which is that we are always under threat from the state, which by extension is the police and as he said, “if they killing us out there, then I know we definitely live there.”
Last year was the 10th anniversary of Tony Robinson’s death, but I choose to remember him always, not just on his anniversary. In the same way, I suppose that is the way I look at Black History Month. It is a special month and deserves our honor, but I choose to remember Black people in the U.S. always, not just this month. That history is part of me just as Vel Phillips, Colin Kaepernick and Tony Robinson are a part of me, and a part of my work colleague as well. I choose to celebrate and revel in Black America and also to remember and reflect. That is why I look upon the depravity of ICE, the cruel policies of the Trump regime and, admittedly, America not with surprise, pessimism or apathy, but resolve. For Black history is American history, mixed with joy, pain, triumph, suffering and a future the ancestors dared to fight for. And so should we.