THE HIEROPHANT CHRONICLE

Thinking of classification, my mind thought of race, and the names that are associated with my “Color.” I went through the changes, as my race classification changed on the “National Stage.”
Growing up from the time of birth to about ten race had no meaning to me (1952 to 1962). I was known as the “Colored” boy, if one did not know my name. To me this was not a problem,  it was a badge of honor, if you will, because of my mother. She told me that God took his time when I was created. He gave me a color of brown skin. So therefore when I was called colored. She would say, “Smile and think it would be funny to be called brown boy.”  Colored I am and colored I be and that was fine with me. Living in a western state, Colorado, there was little, if any, racial tension. None that would provoke anger at being called colored. I recall Chet Huntley or David Brinkley, NBC newscasters, describing an event where some “Colored people” were involved. So being “Colored” until the age of ten for me was cool. However, that was soon to change.

It was suttle and seemed overnight, as I went from “Colored” to “Negro.” Yet I still was the same or was I?  “Negro” brought a sense of responsibility or something of that nature.  This was between the age of ten to sixteen (1962 - 1969). A feeling of no longer being “Colored;” but gaining a value of a person with a named race. Along with the growth of the Civil Rights Movement came an awareness that others of my race were going through a rough time, because of our color.  A short note here-I was blessed to have a family that was strong in faith, and was taught it is not the color of one’s skin; it is the relationship with the Creator that matters. He created us as equal.
Classed as “Negro,” there was knowledge that was brought to light, such as the first, martyr of the American Revolution  Cripus Attucks a “Negro.” He raised his cane to strike the British soldiers that came to our soil. The word “Negro” also brought another word, one I was clueless about.
Being “politically correct”, the “N” word came from John, a classmate. Not knowing this word, he took liberty, in greeting me with the “N” word whenever we would first meet. We were in the third grade. I asked my mother, “What was the “N” word?” She wanted to know where I had heard this. Relaying my story, I was given instructions. The next time I was greeted that way, I was to ask why he was using his mother’s name. As fate would have it, John was sick for a few days. The day he returned, he was with his mother. Without thought on his part, he greeted me with the “N” word. Following through on what I was told, I shook his mother’s hand asking, “Mrs. Nigger why does John call me your name?” With red face, John’s mother slapped him, and stormed off the playground with him in tow. Sharing the incident with my mother, she laughed until she cried. Taking a dictionary, she showed me the meaning of “Nigger.” The next day John returned to school and we never spoke again. “Negro” became a part of learning, a race of people-my people. .
Thinking, I am a young educated “Negro,” Wham! We are reclassified again. “Now I’m Black.” This was hard to incorporate into the Negro me, between the ages of sixteen to twenty five (1968-1977). The value of being complete in race was to understanding what the acceptance of “Black” meant to others and me. Two Black men, were standing on a podium at the Summer Olympic Ceremony in 1968 with medals around their necks, black gloved clenched fists held high in the air, heads bowed, while the American National Anthem played.  This was a statement to our country, given in front of the World. The fist lifted to fight the silent and not so silent oppression of the now “Black Race.” No longer would we be demoralized or degraded by “Whitey.” A call for equal rights for all, a level playing field in all areas of life was demanded. Injustice would no longer be tolerated, without a voice of justice. “Black Power” was the rule of the day. Dr. Martin Luther King, shot dead; Malcolm X shot dead, Robert Kennedy shot dead.” Black” was difficult to assimilate, with the young educated “Negro” me.
A fight within, a need to belong, “No longer Colored, No longer Negro, Definitely not the “N” word,” I needed help. Wanting to represent my race with pride  and who I am, the mind was needed here. Understanding and becoming part of the heritage, deeply imbedded within the fabric of our lives here in America, again I arose. Standing proud, a “Black Man,” I know who I am.

“Afro-What? Give me a break!”  Yet another classification in the year of 1978.  I wondered has any other race gone through this. However, this was easy being called “Afro-American,” having acknowledged who I am. Accepting the little “Colored Boy,” the young educated “Negro,” and the “Black Man,” all became part of me. Honoring our place of origin was the right thing to do for me. For others it was demanded. Some of my kind feels the majority population of our country should pay. Others feel that an apology needs to be made for the atrocities done by their ancestors.   
“Colored,” “Negro,” “Nigger,” yes lets call it what it is “Black,” and “Afro-American” words. Each had a meaning that brought a category of thoughts, feeling, and values.  I am blessed to have had a family that was strong in faith. They taught me now internalized; it is not the color of ones skin. It is the relationship one has with God that matters. In the Creator, I am a child of the Holy Family. In God’s eyes, I hope that as a sinner saved by His grace, I am growing into a good and faithful manservant.  If they come up with another classification for my race, so be it. I will stay with what I have become, a child of God!
 

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