No Black People
Topic: WC - Daily Practice
Sunday 5:57pm 15Oct06

The 1980's were my militant years. My X decade. Some people may remember that I held on to it softly by ending my emails as Shelley X in the 1990's.

I moved to Toronto on October 22, 1982. The first thing I enjoyed about Toronto was the Buffalo radio station WBLK. To listen to black music every single day all day did something to me. It made me mad for not having that right my whole life.

I found Third World bookstore on Bathurst Street North of Bloor. The first time I was in the store, of which I stayed for 4 hours, I had several conversations with Mr. Johnson. He told me that once he'd retired from working on the trains all his life that he discovered that his wife didn't like him. ha ha. So he worked/ran the bookstore to keep out from under her feet driving her insane. I bought books. I bought Alice Walker's books of poetry. I bought Toni Morrison's books. Maya Angelou. Richard Wright. James Baldwin, Ntozake Shange. I bought Roots, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Malcolm X Speaks, By Any Means Necessary, The Last Year of Malcolm X - The Evolution of a Revolutionary, I Write What I Like (Steve Biko) and much more.

I loved reading all those books. Mr Johnson was a black God for giving me the place to go to buy all those books and hang out for hours discussing writers. And I was even madder for being deprived of all this wonderful writing that reflected my skin color my whole life.

I was mad for being fed bullshit from society as a whole (more North American society) that in subtle ways and harsh ways told black people that we were dumb, slow, too ugly to be represented, criminals. Through out the 1980's I didn't go to any movies that didn't have black people in them. I refused to pay for any movies that had a white person rescuing black people. Eventually I stopped putting any products in my hair to straighten it. I shaved my hair off and wore it close to bald for many years then in dreads for several years and now I wear an afro.

My poor mother wondered aloud quite often, "What did they do to you in Toronto?" I'd changed so much.

It was overwhelming to read black history and black writers. Especially poetry. Poetry that I could relate to. So the pendulum swung. I went from no knowledge to over saturation of knowledge. From accepting but not loving my blackness to hating any thing that seemed like it was denigrating black people or ignoring black people to loving my blackness. A few years ago my best friend in Montreal said that he was scared to read any black history books because when his younger brother did his brother turned so angry and militant. I told him the same thing happened to me. "It's the shock of realizing, I come from beautiful people."

I come from beautiful people.

It took me at least ten years to become normal again. I didn't have too many white friends. I wouldn't tolerate any stupid talk from white people about black people. In my militant days I would have hurt someone for calling me Buckwheat. Now I just say, only white people think that's funny. And move on. I'm calmer now. I know that no matter what the world may say about black people or how the world may portray and betray black people that I come from beautiful people. Despite the people that still insist on ugly-fying (I like making up new words) our race.

I no longer need to embrace my race with anger and a black power fist but if pushed against the wall I will pull that black power fist out of the vault and knock yo lights out. If I need to...

EY