There has been a lot of discussion lately about what it means to be black in America, sparked by words from Jalen Rose and Grant Hill. In the ESPN documentary about the University of Michigan's Fab Five, Rose spoke on his feelings at the time about Duke University and more specifically black athletes that went to Duke. Rose, who was raised in extreme poverty, said that he "felt like they (Duke) only recruited black players that were Uncle Toms." In the week since the documentary ran, Rose has been slammed in the media and around many water coolers as being stereotypical, perhaps ignorant, for saying something so obviously wrong and hurtful. Hill himself wrote a classy but quietly scathing response to Rose that ran in shortened form in the New York Times, in which he expressed his pride in his heritage and his university and cautioned Rose against making such sweeping and "pathetic" statements.
The questions that arise from stories like this have roots that go back 400 years. What is the difference between integrating into society and selling out your race? Where is the line between ignorant, crab-in-a-barrel syndrome and forgetting where you came from? Is it more important to stay "down" with your downtrodden roots as a black person in America, or to do what it takes to try to move yourself and your family on up to the East Side, to a deluxe apartment in the sky? At its heart, just exactly what does it mean to be black in America?
These issues are relevant on a daily basis to every black person that you know. It is something that we all face, and all have to find our own answer to, because there IS no just one correct answer that fits all. But this story in particular hits close to home for me, because my life has been just a step away from both Rose and Hill.
I am a black man, just a few years younger than they are. I went to school at the University of Michigan. I currently work at Duke University. I did not grow up in the abject financial situation or single-parent home that Rose did. But I had family that did. I had friends that did. Many of the people that I went to school with, did. When I was a child I went with my grandpa to get that hard block of government cheese. I used to make sandwiches with the peanut butter that came in the huge white can that just had a picture of a peanut on the front. I went with my auntie to the store and shopped using her food stamps. My mother and father both worked multiple jobs the entirety of my childhood so that we could move from our apartment into a house and stay there, but there were days when I came home from school and the lights were off because we hadn't been able to pay the bill. On those days I knew to just go get the candles and turn on the kerosene heaters if it was cold. I may not have been born on the bottom, but I was definitely not born with a silver spoon in my mouth.
Despite that, I've always felt pressure to stay true to my "blackness". When I was a child, I at times got into fights with classmates that thought that my enthusiasm to learn or give answers in class meant that I was trying to "act white". And that attitude isn't limited to early childhood. When I was in college and got straight A's in a quarter, one of my best friends once told me that I was "smart like the white folks." He meant it as a compliment, but it made me sad.
There is a stereotype in the "black community" that most successful black men grow up and marry a white woman. And, forgive my generalization, but black women HATE that. And it's not because of some weird "reverse-racism" (I really don't like nor understand that term), it's because of the feeling that such an action tacitly means that black women aren't good enough. That, relatively speaking there aren't many black men that overcome all of the obstacles to become a true success in America, so when one DOES break out and thrive if they then go outside of the race to choose their mate it means that black women (who already by-far have the highest single parent rate among the major races in America) have even fewer good options and are that much more likely to end up alone. And at its heart, the hurtful implication to many is that "white is still right" and that having a white wife is of more worth, a better prize than having a black one. When I started showing signs of excelling as a young man, I absolutely felt that pressure. Many, many people flat out told me that I was going to grow up and marry a white woman. Some of my cousins and aunties warned me against it in a joking-but-I'm-serious way. It was enough of an issue that at times if I were in some social situations with people outside of my race I might feel uncomfortable,like everyone was staring at me.
And when I was growing up, much like Rose, I hated Duke. I did see Duke's basketball team as a symbol for the "haves" in this country, that there weren't any "have nots" playing on that team. I did see them as the rich school, where the only black people present were likely the Carlton Banks type Black Republicans that I'd see on TV ("Black Republican" is another can of worms that I won't open any further here, but where I'm from that was definitely not a compliment). So I find it hard to castigate Rose for his comments, when at a similar age I had some similar beliefs.
When I was finishing eighth grade at my public school, two of my best friends were planning to leave to go to private schools. One of them was my first crush, a black young lady who happened to be the valedictorian of our junior high (yes, they kept track of this at my junior high. I was the salutatorian). The other was my best friend in elementary school, who had always been absurdly smart and was heading to Miami Valley, a pretty prestigious academic private school. All three of us had been in our school's program for gifted kids for years. We had all been pegged as some of the brightest academic lights that our class would produce. And two of the three of us were "leaving". As a grown man now with my own children, I see that in an entirely new light. But at the time I was mad that they were going. And at the last minute I had the opportunity to join one of them at Miami Valley. Unlike my friend, whose father was a Dentist, my family really couldn't afford to send me there. But each year they gave potential entrants a written exam, and gave a scholarship to the one that did the best. I missed the original test and the scholarship had already been given for the year (to my friend, by the way), but my dad set up an alternate test day with them and made me go take it. I did well enough that they offered me (actually my dad) a scholarship on the spot...not a full ride, but enough that he thought he could add yet another job and find a way to pay for me going (there's a lesson in that as well...my father would have walked through Hell if it meant giving me a better life). But I was horrified at the idea of leaving my public school to go be Carlton in the ivory tower. And in the end my dad respected me enough to let me make the decision on where I'd go to school. But I will admit that now, again as a mature man with children, I better understand just how much it cost him to let me do that.
In the end my high school decision worked out for me. I was still able to get what I needed academically from my school, enough to get me to the college of my choice. And at the same time I was able to stay connected to the people that I considered my roots, giving me a cultural balance through my formative years that I don't think I would have had at Miami Valley. But by the same token, there was a trade off. Who's to say that my experience at Miami Valley wouldn't have introduced me to other potential advantages, perhaps put me on an even higher academic or financial plane as I moved forward in life. I'll never really know.
And now, these days, I work at Duke. I've lived life, matured, started a family. I've been exposed to different environments, different races, and different cultures on a level that I never was growing up. I may have the roots to understand exactly what Jalen Rose described as his feelings, but I also now have complete understanding of where Grant Hill was coming from in his response. Every word that Hill wrote in his rebuttal was correct. But I also can't say that Rose was completely "wrong" for feeling as he did. The issues are just more complicated than that, and have roots that go too deep to just label his position "ignorant" and keep going.
And also, while I'm here, I want to point out that "success envy" and jealousy aren't a compelling enough explanation for Rose's mindset either. Black people that don't have much don't just automatically hate those that do. In fact, my experience has been that when there is a connection, black people love to see young black men doing well. For example, the service staff at Duke is overwhelmingly minority in composition. The cleaning staff, the bus drivers, the cafeteria workers...almost all black or hispanic. I am the only black man with an office, certainly in my part of the building that I work in, perhaps in the building as a whole. And I have a WONDERFUL relationship with the service workers here. I tend to work odd hours, from the extremely early to often the extremely late, when no one might be in the building except for me and the cleaning staff. And they will come by and talk to me for an hour, at times. Personal conversations. The parking lot where I park is a couple of miles from where I work, and any time Mr. Nate sees me walking or waiting for the bus he'll go get his car and drive me to mine. Some of the Hispanic ladies will smile when they see me and speak to me in Spanish, laughing in delight as I answer them in kind. One of my bus drivers daps me up (fancy handshake) every time he sees me like we've been friends for years. Many of the best relationships I've formed here have been with the service staff, at least in part because I am them. I represent a son, a little brother, even a grandson that is succeeding in an environment where we traditionally haven't been prevalent. And likewise, they give to me the feeling of a supportive auntie, an uncle, a cousin that I know is pulling for me even if it is never outwardly spoken. There may be some "crab-in-a-barrell" in the black community...and there is...but there is also pride in the accomplishments of those we connect to.
In the end, the most important aspect of the Rose-Hill exchange is that it gave us as a society another chance to have a dialogue. Another chance to discuss these issues that are much more complex and nuanced than what many in the media and politics seem willing to face. I hope that the pervasive outcome of this isn't just a national movement to call Rose ignorant and suggest that he was the only one that had something to learn in this exchange. Instead, we should talk more about WHY Rose felt as he did. WHY are education, stable homes and financial success sometimes met with criticism and vitriol in parts of the black community? WHY are interracial relationships and leaving "the hood" considered to be "selling out" by some? Despite what many of us would wish...despite even the presence of a black man in the White House, racism in America isn't dead. It has roots too deep, among people of both races, to be legislated or stamped out in a single generation. There is too much of American culture, finances and education that developed in the 350 years before Martin Luther King Jr. for there to be complete racial harmony in the time of King's children. But conversations like this where people of all races listen, process, and discuss the views of others that have led to a conflict are among the best opportunities we have to hope that King's Dream could still be on the horizon.
20 years ago Jalen Rose resented the opportunities that Calvin Hill's financial success afforded to his son. Today, Rose IS Calvin Hill. Perspectives change with experience, and compassion develops with understanding. We can't solve "black vs white" until we recognize and realize that there is no one "black", just like there is no one "white". We are all the product of our environment and our experiences, and for all of us that journey is unique. We have to start by respecting that uniqueness, putting ourselves in each others' shoes, and seeing if we can't learn a bit more about ourselves and each other with each step that we take.