There was something beautiful and serene about Naples, Italy.
I visited the country in the winter of 2011 with my mother and we quickly immersed ourselves in the Italian way of life.
We ate what the locals ate. We traveled the way the locals traveled. We took in the beautiful scenery along the coastline, the bright white, peach and yellow houses jutting out of the side of mountains like mushrooms. And even in the dead of winter, the choppy water was still as blue as sapphire. It was the most beautiful experience of my life.
But four days later, I started to get that all-too familiar feeling I have when I travel. I missed my home. I missed the bustling streets. I missed hearing a language I could understand. I missed the awful Italian food in cans, even though I had freshly made pasta right in front of me. I missed America.
And it wasn’t until I visited Europe for that second time that I realized how American I was. I was a slick-talking, super-size me, unapologetic, arrogant westerner. And I loved it.
There’s something to be said about how prideful Americans are. It’s deeper than feeling obligated to rep your set. It speaks to the freedoms that we are afforded – of speech, religion…of life. And despite how corrupt the system is that upholds the laws that allow us those liberties, we are granted such and for that, I am thankful.
But now as I sit here remembering how prideful I felt the day I stepped off the plane and onto American soil once again, it bothers me that I can’t fully own the patriotism that my grandfathers and grandmothers fought for. There was always a voice inside that told me that those red, white and blue ideals weren’t really mine.
And it wasn’t until today that I realized how real that lack of ownership really was. When the nation went bat-shit crazy on Lil Wayne for accidently stepping on an American flag, I understood the concern, of course. But I couldn’t share America’s pain, anger and disappointment.
Revelation: America and I are not the same. I am a Martian.
It’s hard for me to understand the idolatry of the flag when it evokes insurmountable fear, anger, and sadness for me.
It’s difficult to fathom that dropping it on the floor or stepping on it could be punishable, when that same flag flew so proudly while America stepped on my people.
It’s amazing that a piece of fabric that symbolizes freedom and unity for others is the same fabric that tells me that the color of my skin was, and still is, a prison for me.
And before anyone tells me I’m being overly sensitive because my ancestors were slaves, stop everything you are doing and look at this faux post-racial world you tell me I live in.
It has everything to do with my people and our history. My slave ancestors, my marching forefathers.
And as their very American granddaughter, it’s such a struggle to embody the patriotism they fought for when I look at my almost white skin and think about my great grandmother being raped repeatedly by a white man who forced her to have his children.
And since we’re here, let’s talk about skin. Because those alternating white and red stripes don’t represent courage and blood shed for me.
They represent the deeply rooted colorism this nation and its forefathers perpetuated and planted in our heads to keep black people separated by shade. That same colorism that made a great grandmother love her light baby more, or a mother wish she was as dark as her sister. That same colorism that still, today, makes my own people believe I was afforded opportunities because of my tan complexion.
So please, tell me more about how I’m obligated to feel patriotic because I live in this country. Tell me more about how disrespectful and absolutely unbelievable it is that someone could let the American flag touch the ground.
It’s hard to put my hand over my heart and pledge allegiance to a country when I was told over and over again as a child growing up in racially polarizing Pittsburgh that my “nigger” family should “go back to Africa.”
Those guys in that pick up truck were waving an American flag. And now you want me to do the same?
I’m supposed to fly the flag high, the same flag that my family stood under when they were murdered, raped and disenfranchised?
Tell me, what kind of freedom does that symbolize for a black woman like me?
I was raised in an area where blackness was your death sentence. But I was raised in a household where black was beautiful. And to celebrate that, my mother told me not to pledge my allegiance. She told me not to sing a song. And she warned me that this America was a brutal America that wasn’t so ready to accept me. Work harder. Be stronger. Know that this is your America, and for that you are thankful, but your allegiance…well that’s a different story.
I can’t say that much has changed in the 20+ years since those early lessons on race in America. Sadly. Except that I almost forgot until my allegiance to the flag was tested today.
And for the record, those concerned about Lil Wayne “trampling” the American flag should be more concerned about the other un-American travesties we’re dealing with right now.
Government surveillance and NSA ring a bell?
And I’m not expecting everyone to understand my struggle with being an un-American-American who really doesn’t belong anywhere but still loves her country.
So I’ll leave you with some wise words from W.E.B. Dubois:
“An American, a Negro… two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.”
I love you, America. But I can’t be your all-American when you’ve never loved me back.
Christina Coleman is the News and Politics Editor at GlobalGrind and a Howard University Alumna. Prior to this she was a science writer. That explains her NASA obsession. She crushes on Anthony Bourdain. Nothing explains that. Follow her on Twitter @ChrissyCole for all things news & politics. Oh. And afros.
