Brian's Soapboxed Summation

Written by Brian Clarke

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“Elvis was a hero to most, Elvis was a hero to most, Elvis was a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me, he was a straight up racist, the sucka was simple and plain.” Fight the Power by Public Enemy

 

I hate to step up on a soapbox, but what is a blog without a little unabashed self-righteousness?

It is impossible to study modern Indian history without an in depth analysis of Gandhi's influence. He's everywhere, from capitol to the rupee bill. He's the father of the constitution. Studying Gandhi was not surprising or hard.

Liking him on the other hand, was nearly impossible. 

When most of us were young, we were introduced to Gandhi as the saintly sage who liberated India from the oppressive British rule. No one can deny his impact on Indian history, but his hatred for blacks and characterization of people of African descent as inferior was something I couldn't excuse. Statements like:

“Ours is one continual struggle against a degradation sought to be inflicted upon us by the Europeans, who desire to degrade us to the level of the raw Kaffir¹ whose occupation is hunting, and whose sole ambition is to collect a certain number of cattle to buy a wife with and, then, pass his life in indolence and nakedness.”

In other words, the diapered one was not very fond of blacks, even using the most derogatory epithet to describe South African people. So on the strength of his statements against black people and his insistence on their inferiority, I could not bring myself to see him as my hero. But for the purposes of the Sub-continent, he was the best thing that could have ever happened to it. I tried my best to release my frustrations about Gandhi and my alternative point of view by writing my essay for class on his racial politics in South Africa. Although I rid myself of some of the frustrations of the class and him, my experience in India was going to be vastly different than most of my classmates. To mindless believe that a 250lb. black male would be treated the same as a 6'1 165 lb. white male was irresponsible. I'm just a little different, a little difference in India went a long way.  

As far as Gandhi is concerned

"Gandhi was a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me, he was a straight up racist, the sucka was simple and plain.”

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Like most students attending public school, I was given the luxury of learning about American history and society through a predominantly white lens. I have no complaint about that, the winners get to tell history and the last time I checked, until China or India develop into superpowers, it remains a White Man's World. I can live with that. However, I can't help but think that as a black person, you can only accept that point of view for so long. Somewhere along the line, your race begins to play a huge role in how you define yourself and the way in which you see the world. For years, I've ignored the fact, but it eventually it catches up to you. Except for me, it happened 5,000 miles away from the comfort of Brooklyn.

In my limited wisdom, I've seen three ways in which the American ideal or dream can be dealt with as a black man. Completely internalize and project the teachings and principles of the American construct and regurgitate it for all whom are willing to oblige (See Michael Steele). Reject them unequivocally, while preaching that the American ideal has never been achieved for all. Instead of internalizing the history as evidence for promotion of the American way, you demand a more balanced and “Afro-centric” reinterpretation of the social history of America. (See Reverend Wright) Or understand the shortcomings of the Anglo-centric teachings, work with and around the problems to try to reconcile the good and the bad that come with it (See Obama's speech on race).

Only time will tell which category I may fall into, but that is not to say that I believe there is no gray area within these three artificially contrived categories I've presented. Here I'm not attempting to speak for all African-Americans, but I am trying to reconcile my own feelings towards it all. And as I've learned in my ten weeks in India, I can't speak for America either. I am not America. Even as I attempt to represent my country of birth, the other continent that makes up my identity creeps closer and closer into my conscience than I anticipated. 

When approached alone in India, I'm asked if I'm Tanzanian, Nigeria or Kenyan. As of December 4th, I have never been asked if I am American by any Indian. Even when I unveil that I am American, it's accepted with great hesitation, followed by disappointment or further interrogation. I have to prove that I'm American. African by sight, American by revelation.

African-American.

By no means can I describe any of my interactions in India as racist (aside from a child hurling a rock in my direction, while making monkey sounds [Even that made me chuckle more than cower in horror]. Although by the American standards of political-correctness as it pertains to race, it could be considered as such. When the American representatives on television and in the magazines are Chandler, Ross, George Costanza, Phoebe, Jerry Seinfeld, Rachel etc., not Martin Lawrence, Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle and company, it becomes easy to see why America could be seen as a homogeneous place. Of course there are exceptions, like Oprah, Obama and Beyonce, but they are either international powerhouses or fair enough to “pass”. But I figure in a country where caste is still at the heart of the collective conscience, it could be hard to approach it any other way. Especially when the media promotes that the fair skinned men and women are the most desired.

The black is beautiful movement skipped over a subcontinent.

In fact, black seems not to be defined in terms of skin color, but more along the lines of misery. I only suggest that through the pervasive obsession with finding alternative means to become fair skinned. I have yet to be able to get through a commercial break without seeing an advertisement promoting bleaching cream. Artificial acidic creams are encouraged because of the fear of darkness. How can I not diagnose this as a cultural aversion to black people? I can walk in the streets some of the most populated urban centers and find “Jolly Nigger Banks” and black-face memorabilia sold (my favorite being of a British soldier holding a gun to the head of an African and with the click of a button, the British soldier shoots the African dead). The cultural disconnect is so strong that the store owners attempt to sell the coon dolls to me, as if I feel some connection to the caricature, because of its skin color. For all that, I have seen some famous representations of African-American figures in India. I call them representations, because the men and women in the advertisements are far lighter than their true complexions. This could be a paranoid perspective, but given the evidence preceding those discoveries and how obviously altered the photos were, it's hard to believe that they weren't altered. For example: Michael Jordan was depicted as light as Barack Obama with green eyes and Halle Berry's skin tone was as fair as Shakira.

A little off?

I tried to reconcile where I fit in within the greater scheme of this conflict. The answer that emerged is that I don't. I'm to experience it from an outsider's interpretation. Although I'd love to apply the "fight the power" fervor to India, it isn't my fight.  I don't think either parties have much to gain from my immersion into the Indian world, but I enjoyed the ride.

When I raised the question of the treatment I felt from some of the Indians, I was met with confusion by my classmates. Almost everyone said they had very positive experiences with most people. While, I can say that 75% were encouraging, the other 25% were definitely questionable at best. We shared our experiences back and forth and one of the justifications my classmate made caught my attention, she said “well you know your a westerner, you're American, of course it will take them some time to warm up to you.” Then I understood the disconnect. I realized they were never questioned as to whether or not they were truly American. I was. They weren't assumed or told that they were anything but American. It was all about perspective, a perspective I didn't embrace. I assumed I was American, because I felt American. It was only when the others didn't hold the same assumptions did I realize we were coming from vastly opposing dispensations.

To aggregate these streams of consciousness into a coherent statement is nearly impossible. For I'm cursed with an appreciation and an unexpected attachment to Indian culture and India. For all of its staggering beauty, much like America, has some disconcerting faults. Fraught with a color complex, India's opened the door for a deeper analysis of my own system of reality within the frame of color, race, privilege and America. Without a doubt, I'm left riddled with more questions about India than I ever had entering the country and more curiosity about caste than I thought I'd ever care to have. But I still have a lasting question.

How would my experience in India changed if I didn't have the comfort of being surrounded by other white americans? During the Apartheid era, whenever a foreign black guest visited South Africa, he was deemed an “honorary white man” by the President. Sometimes I think I got that privilege on this trip when I traveled with my fellow classmates. I never had to justify my nationality, by virtue of my association, I was just as American as they were. But what if they weren't there, my pass burned and I had to walk the country-side without an American verifier, how would I would I be treated? Has their presence been a gift or curse? The enigmatic nature of the African-American has not yet been unraveled or fleshed out in India yet, I'm living proof. But I doubt it ever will, or needs to for that matter. 

I may not be able to have a workable to go bank to because of the economic crisis, but luckily for me a shopkeeper in the town of Colva found  a bank that fit my needs and that I could relate to!

At least someone was happy
Stepping down...