Old School.

Me: "Are you from Georgia?"
Her: "No. I'm from Alabama."
Me: "Really? Where 'bout?"
Her: "Tuskegee."
Me: "No way!"
Her: "Yes indeed."
Me: *I lean forward and pluck my lapel for her to see my Booker T. Washington pin*
Her: "You went to Tuskegee?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am! The pride of the swift growing south!"
Her: "So you went to Tuskegee AND you my head doctor, huh?"
Me: "Yes, ma'am."

She beamed at me. And I beamed right back.

After that she asked me to take my lapel pin off so that she could see it better. I did as I was told and held it out to her in my palm. She raised my hand up to her eyes, squinted at it carefully, and rubbed her finger over it.

Her: "It was called Tuskegee Institute when I was in school there, you know. I graduated before you was even born! And probably 'fore your parents was born, too."
*laughter*
Me: "You know. . .all the folks who went when it was Tuskegee Institute call themselves 'old school.' So I guess that makes you old school, huh?"
Her: "Nah. That ain't old school. Mother and Daddy? Now THEY was old school. They was there when it was still called TUSKEGEE NORMAL"
Me: "Whoa. Tuskegee NORMAL? Now that IS old school."
Her: "Mmm hmmm. . . It was THE TUSKEGEE NORMAL SCHOOL FOR COLORED TEACHERS." She annunciated every word when she said that and then she let out a sigh. "Mmmm hmmm. You could be a teacher or a farmer--or do home economics. That's what I did. Mother, too."

After that she just sat there . . . first staring at the pin in my hand and then back up at the stiff lapel of my white coat. A complicated expression washed over her face followed by a wistful smile. Then she closed my fingers around the pin, patted my hand and gave it a loving squeeze.

My patient didn't say much more after that. But honestly? She didn't have to. I strapped her onto my back along with the rest of my ancestors and vowed to go even harder.

Damn right.

I love this job.

____________________________

The Tuskegee Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I

Tuskegee, thou pride of the swift growing South
We pay thee our homage today
For the worth of thy teaching, the joy of thy care;
And the good we have known 'neath thy sway.
Oh, long-striving mother of diligent sons
And of daughters whose strength is their pride,
We will love thee forever and ever shall walk
Thro' the oncoming years at thy side.

II

Thy Hand we have held up the difficult steeps,
When painful and slow was the pace,
And onward and upward we've labored with thee
For the glory of God and our race.
The fields smile to greet us, the forests are glad,
The ring of the anvil and hoe
Have a music as thrilling and sweet as a harp
Which thou taught us to hear and to know.

III

Oh, mother Tuskegee, thou shinest today
As a gem in the fairest of lands;
Thou gavest the Heav'n-blessed power to see
The worth of our minds and our hands.
We thank thee, we bless thee, we pray for thee years
Imploring with grateful accord,
Full fruit for thy striving, time longer to strive,
Sweet love and true labor's reward.

I just looked around and he's gone.

Martin Luther King, Jr. and James Weldon Johnson.

"How can you know where you're going 
when you don't know where you've been?"

This mama was very proud.

Warning: I'm in the mood to unpack some thoughts here. . . .

Okay. First, this. As promised, I've uploaded the clips of Zachary and Isaiah from their black history month presentations last week. This was a part of the "Living Black History Museum" that the kids participated in as a part of the Atlanta Chapter of Jack and Jill of America. It was seriously one of the coolest things ever, man.

Confession: This might have been one of the proudest days I've had in a very long time.  Therefore I should give the disclaimer that while it may not seem earth-shattering to you, the mama in me was over the moon.

Over. The. Moon.

Let me tell you why:

See. . . . it's really important to me that my children are comfortable in their skin. I want them to be accepting and welcoming to all people regardless of their ethnicity, orientation, or socioeconomic status. But I also want them to be equally as accepting of who THEY are. I think it's possible to create a space for everyone without divorcing yourself from who YOU are. Or at least where your people have been and what it took to get you where you are.

Jackie Robinson and W.E.B. Dubois

You know? Sometimes minority kids fight so hard to assimilate with the mainstream that they look exhausted. Like really, truly exhausted. Then there are some others that don't seem exhausted with assimilation at all. Starting from the earliest age they morph so beautifully into the majority that every trace of their cultural heritage becomes invisible. And then habitually ignoring who they are culturally to fit in becomes the default. 

Yep. 

This is common, too. And while it may not be really egregious and is more pervasive, it happens a lot. So if no one is reminding them about the "where they've beens" then it eventually disappears. Again, in subtle ways. Like drifting so far away that your eyes can't see someone like your mother or your grandmother as the beauty standard. Or reaching a point of feeling paradoxically uncomfortable in situations where you aren't the minority.

It doesn't have to be that way. It doesn't. But stand by idly and it will.
 
I feel so fortunate to have been exposed to things growing up that didn't put me in that camp. I know it makes me a better doctor at Grady and a kick ass liaison for those cultural nuances unique to the patients I care for with our residents and medical students. If I wasn't okay with the similarities I share with my patients, imagine the teachable moments I'd miss! The Grady elders and their Jim Crow struggles are my uncles and aunties. The woman talking on the phone in the hallway was one of the girls I double-dutched with until the street lights came on. And the music rattling the speakers of the hooptie driving by the front of the hospital? That was from the block on which I grew up. So no. None of that is foreign to me at all. And it sure as hell doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I thank my parents for helping me with that. Helping me to be alright with me and the "where I'm from" as well as the "where we've been."

Look--I'm all ears when you start telling me your story, too. I want to know all about the state your parents came from in India. I am interested in the stories your grandmother told you of her time escaping persecution as a person of Jewish faith in Europe. Tell me all about your celebration that you'll be having at the end of Ramadan and describe what it means to eat halal meat. Oh, and please, my African sister--don't hesitate to explain the differences between what it means to be Igbo or Yoruba. Break it down for me how even though you are Nigerian, that those distinctions still matter to you because that better describes who you and your family are. And you know? Even if you think your background is more American vanilla than ethnic sprinkles and you can't think of any unique features culturally--know that I still want to hear about it. Talk all about the pies your mama made on the weekends or better yet, the TV dinners you had instead. Whatever it is, I want to know. Because all of us have culture and things that make us who we are. And all of us should be able to hold on to a piece of that without hiding it behind the shadows of what seems standard.

So share it and I will listen. I will.

Frederick Douglass

But please. Sit at the same rapt attention as I speak of my people in months beyond February. Welcome my children to embrace you and yours but offer them plenty of room to stand tall in their heritage, too. Their rich heritage. I never want them to shrink. Or know more about Miley Cyrus than they do about the Middle Passage. Or even worse, just become completely indifferent altogether to all things that aren't culturally nondescript.

Yeah.

Dominique Dawes, gymnast

I don't want that. I really, really don't. And no, this doesn't mean that I take issue with families filled with mixed heritages or that I'll shun a future girlfriend who doesn't look like me. Actually, quite the contrary. But that said. . . .I just don't want my boys to grow up counting their own people out. Looking through certain girls because that's not a part of their "beautiful" definition. And that happens--it does--so, so much with some of our beautiful brown boys. It's like. . .I don't know. . .they don't even see the girls that look like their sister as viable options. And I'm not making a sweeping statement about ALL brown boys in primarily majority settings, but I am saying that it's not too unusual for that to happen. I guess I just want my kids to grow up seeing everyone--and counting themselves in that number of who they see. I mean, why shouldn't someone like your own mother have a fighting chance at being seen as your ideal?

Sigh.

Anyways. I guess I just think the world is so much more interesting when people celebrate their differences instead of hiding them. Or worse--just ignoring them to the point that they have no idea how to even begin to celebrate them.

See? This is some complicated shit. And since we are all thinkers here, I think it's a good dialogue. It kind of brings me back to "The Nod." I guess I'm just hoping my boys grow up instinctively giving it.

Wow I'm rambling. And majorly unpacking.

Man. Sorry about that. But what better time than February, right?

Okay. Let me get off of that soapbox and onto my proud mama soapbox instead. I was so, so proud. My Isaiah can get nervous speaking in front of crowds. So for him to choose Martin Luther King, Jr. and then knowingly put himself in a position to have to talk to person after person like that was a huge deal.

And as for Zachary? He wanted to learn "Lift Every Voice and Sing" so that he could sing it to his class and during this presentation. That was his idea. And you know? It's one thing to sing it once for your first grade class--which still took a hell of a lot of courage--but it's an entirely different thing to stand next to a presentation board and sing it over and over again to all who came to visit your station. Not just adults either. Kids, too. And we all know how kids can be. He must have sung that song fifteen to twenty times. And each time, he sang it like he meant it, just like his Grandpa told him he should.

He messes up a few prepositions. But otherwise? It was perfect. A perfect way to honor the "where we've been." Isaiah stood right by encouraging him each time he had to sing. Giving him thumbs up and smiling. You can even catch it in the video if you pay attention. And Isaiah did that each time.  (Unless, of course, somebody was looking for their old friend Martin.)

Heh.

So here are the clips which I assure you are short. I'm glad I uploaded them because they will remind me of a promise I made to myself today. It's my goal to try to keep my sons so aware of the "where they've beens" that it never even occurs to them to ignore or forget it.

Or allow anyone else to make that part of them so invisible that they start believing that they should too.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday-almost-Tuesday.

Zachary's Lift Every Voice and Sing from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

Isaiah as MLK Jr from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

And this, for those who are so young that they don't get the references to "my old friend Martin." Or to the reference in the title. This is my favorite version.



This version is for Sister Moon. It's my second favorite. 


BOB DYLAN - Abraham, Martin And  John (1980) by giemmevu

Lift ev'ry voice and shout hallelujah.

The late, great Ray Charles

"I got somethin', y'all

in my bones. . . . .

Make me wanna shout hallelujah!

It's in my bones. . . ."

~ Ray Charles

________________________________________________

My friend and fellow Grady doctor, Neil W., is the world's greatest Ray Charles fan. He loves Ray Charles so much that when he got married to his wife, Tam, he actually jumped through five trillion hoops in a serious attempt at securing the legend for his wedding reception. (Seriously.) His wife loves her husband so much and knew he loved Ray so much that she also tried to get him to perform at their reception. (True story.)

Turns out that Ray was getting a hip replacement that weekend. But, hey, it was definitely worth a shot.

Ray Charles died in June of 2004. Fortunately, he lived to see a wonderful movie made about his life that even won somebody an Academy Award. That movie is a beautiful depiction of what's on my mind today. Today I'm reflecting on black history.

It's pretty apropos that I'm thinking of this today. For starters, February is "Black History Month." Those of us who work at Grady Hospital know that we see black history in three dimensions every single day. We see it in the elders who tell you of the days when there was a "colored Grady" and a "white Grady." I recall one ninety-something year old woman who told me that because of her fine hair and light complexion that "so long as she wasn't with her husband" she'd go on over to the white side "cawse it sho' was a lot nicer." I also remember another man who told me that every member of his (very large) family was born at Grady. From him (the "Paw-Paw") all the way down to his little "great-grands." Yeah. Grady just oozes black history.

Which makes sense considering a stroll around the corner from Grady Hospital puts you directly onto Auburn Avenue--the very street where both Martin Luther King, Jr. and his father, Martin, Sr. preached in the pulpit of Ebenezer Baptist Church. A rocks throw (literally) from Dr. King's childhood home and the building where he helped organize the SCLC.

Literally, not even a mile away from Grady. Talk about in being in the epicenter of some sho' nuff black history!

Our congregational hymn in church today was "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing." For those unfamiliar, this song is what many know as the "Negro National Anthem." We all learned it growing up, and sang it loud and often. I'm not sure if kids still learn it today, but I'm thinking I will teach it to Isaiah and Zachary after revisiting those lyrics this morning.

More than ever, this morning I could feel the words deep down in my bones. I'm no singer at all, but the more I thought about what I was singing, the louder and prouder my voice became. I kept seeing the faces of my Grady elders, of my parents and grandparents, of grainy photos of slaves, and etchings of those dreadful ships that brought a reluctant people to a completely foreign land. By the final verse, I was crying. . . very close to ugly crying, even. I almost felt embarrassed, until a grandmotherly woman reached across the row and rubbed my back. Something about the way she touched me and the knowing nod she offered told me there was nothing awkward about my emotions. That, and the tears that were in her eyes, too.

So, it seems, that I'm not the only person that feels moved by those words. When Ray Charles sang his version of "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" on a television talk show back in 1972, he felt it in his bones, too. So much so that it made him "want to shout hallelujah." Now that I think of it, the very idea that Ray Charles, a blind, black man raised by a single mother during the most Jim Crow of times would even have the audacity or opportunity to get on a national program singing a remix of the negro national anthem is a.) reason enough to make him your hero like Neil has, b.) reason to have at least tried to hunt the dude down to play at your wedding, or c.) reason to at least shout hallelujah.

So, today, I'm with Ray. I'm shouting hallelujah. . . . .

• I'm shouting hallelujah for the stony roads that were trod so that I could be where I am.
• I'm shouting hallelujah for selfless parents who expected the world of me until eventually I expected it for myself.
• I'm shouting hallelujah for life experiences that have made me look at the skin I'm in and give it a thumbs up because that's how God made me. . . . and simultaneously give yours a thumbs up for the same reason.
• I'm shouting hallelujah for authentic friendships with authentic people--some of whom share my race, but many of whom do not--and how much better we all make each other.
• I'm shouting hallelujah for the acceptance that makes me okay with even telling you all of this--instead of disappearing into shadows of self hatred, fear, or aching need to assimilate.

Yeah, man. I'm shouting hallelujah. And if you even knew the half of what it took for me to get here. . .man. . . . you'd be shouting hallelujah, too.

Worth lifting my voice for.

***

Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing (lyrics written by James Weldon Johnson)

Lift every voice and sing, till earth and Heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet,
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered,
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered;
Out from the gloomy past, till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

**(The point where I always start crying)**

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou Who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou Who hast by Thy might, led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.
Shadowed beneath Thy hand, may we forever stand,
True to our God, true to our native land.

***

Alright. . .out of those seats--whether you're black, white, blue, brown, or green-- and lift your voice, too! Hey and while you're at it, why not shout hallelujah to Ray Charles singing this uplifting version . . . .

Amen to that!

Happy Black History Month!