Young, gifted and smacked, but black lives matter
The recent death of George Floyd at the hands of the police in Minneapolis led to public outcry in American cities not seen since the 1991 beating up of Rodney King, again by the police. Neither event is rare, and sadly racism persists.
My first experience of race in the US came in 1999 when I visited Dalton, Georgia, on business. Work done, I requested my hosts to arrange a car to travel to Atlanta. My taxi arrived and I greeted the driver, a tall, mature Afro-Caribbean. “You remind me of cricketer Clive Lloyd,” I opened, and received a bemused reaction. He opened the rear door, while I motioned that I wanted to sit in the front.
My efforts to engage the driver with small talk were all stonewalled. Some 15 minutes later, he suddenly spoke. He wanted to know why I chose to sit in the front seat. I replied that I had hoped to chat on the two-hour drive. The ice having broken, the driver suddenly pointed: “Look over there! That’s where I was born.” I gazed at a non-descript road of a poor neighbourhood. “My grandfather was a slave,” he said. To me that seemed a stretch given that slavery had been abolished in 1865.
I asked him whether matters had changed. He said: “A little. I walk into a Walmart and I know that as a black person I will be followed by security cameras. It doesn’t happen to whites.”
Our conversation touched upon education, dietary supplements, public housing and health care. He was an informed fellow, capable of far better things than society had allowed him to do.
The dialogue was inspirational with profound words that I recall to this day. I felt my driver, a stoical grandfather, lived to survive in spite of society. He said: “Sir, we have surrendered everything to the white community. We have accepted their names, religion, clothes, food, in fact their entire culture, yet we feel rejected.”
Finally, we reached the hotel in Atlanta. I invited him to come in for a drink and a snack. He said: “Sir, these places are not for us. They may allow me in today as your guest, but tomorrow is a different day.” My eyes were moist. With difficulty I held back my tears, offered a tip, which was rejected, and then said goodbye.
All these words, from the grandson of a slave, underline much of what is wrong in America even today, something that a black President could not fix in eight years. I relay this story often to migrant Indian communities when I am asked to speak at weddings, with the message for the youth that our distinct culture needs to be cherished and preserved for future generations. Surrender your culture and lose your soul. Integrate, but not at the expense of your identity.
Protest happens not from opportunity but from need and grievance. As long as disparities remain, there will be protest. Inequity is the breeding ground for resentment that cannot be permanently contained. However, young and bright you may be in America, if you happen to be black you will get smacked. Sad, but true.
SURRENDER YOUR CULTURE AND LOSE YOUR SOUL. INTEGRATE, BUT NOT AT THE EXPENSE OF YOUR IDENTITY