At War

I remember college I had a friend that asked me ‘what does it feel like to be black’? It was the first time that I had been asked, so It intrigued me. I had never thought about it consciously, but I must have thought about it subconsciously because of the metaphoric answer I gave him. I said “It feels like I’m at war”. After that day, I began to think about it more consciously. Why war? When one thinks about war, they think about fighting, guns, nuclear bombs, tanks, and death. So, how could I be at war? I’m not in the military nor am I in an armed conflict with another country or nation. But there is a conflict. In fact, there are many.

The first battle is the battle of the neighborhood. In this setting, it was when I learned that I was black. My family, my roots, and my origins. As a kid you take pride in it because it is what helps form your identity. But what really creates the identity is the environment. One’s origins can play a huge factor on a soldier. I come from a place called Spring Valley, New York. It is about 30 minutes away from the city and apart of Rockland county. It is a small town that you wouldn’t know existed unless you read this excerpt. But it has taught me a lot about life. It is a very diverse place to live with most of the ethnicity being of either Hispanic or Caribbean descent. Me coming from a Jamaican background myself. Everyone here essentially came here from immigration or migration from somewhere else So, it was comfortable to be black in spring valley. But, spring valley itself can be an enemy.

It is the same as any urban area in America. It is a place of poverty. Poverty is dangerous because the only way one his taught how to deal with it is by coping with it. Most don’t know how to change; they just learn how to deal with it. The resources here to fix poverty here is scarce. It is easier to join a gang than it is to join a after school program. Getting drugs is as easy as getting candy from the store. This is not to vilify nor exploit the conditions that one lives in, but to explain the setting and the conditions that can be forced upon a soldier. This is our reality. I never met a doctor that came from where I’m from. I’ve never met a successful entrepreneur where I’m from. I’ve never met a Lawyer where I’m from. But I have met high school drop outs, drug addicts, drug dealers, gang members, homeless people, and alcoholics. I don’t pass judgement, but this is what I saw subconsciously analyzing my environment. I knew from an early age that I did not want to be any of those labels. But where was I going to find motivation to fight?

Thankfully, I had a secret weapon early on, my father. He wasn’t perfect, but he gave me the vision to see beyond where I was from. He gave me the resource of basketball. It was more than just dribbling a ball and shooting it. It came with much more. Through basketball, I now had role models like LeBron James and Michael Jordan. I had a dream to go to college and get a degree. My outlook on life included a future that would allow me to win the war. But, when one chooses to fight rather than adapt, they are seen in a different way. Essentially, I wasn’t accepted by the others. I remember playing outside and being ridiculed. As I was playing basketball with them, I could recall one of the kids saying “DJ thinks he’s better than us because he plays for a traveling team”. It was confusing to understand, but they didn't like that I had a way to escape. I was traveling seeing different settings, being influenced by different environments, and having a further view made me different. I always wanted to be accepted, but I could not deny that I was different from them.

As I got older, I did not want to be seen or identified as a being black. I wanted to be seen as a basketball player. I never received any reassurance that being black was something to be proud of. The only reassurance I received was from basketball. As I got better, the more praise I would receive. I became so good that I was able to receive a scholarship to a catholic high school for it. At this point, I did feel like I was better than my skin color. I had achieved getting into a predominantly white school and they would accept me because I was good at basketball, right?

I learned a lesson about myself and who I was when I went to Don Bosco Prep. I might have been good at basketball, but I was still black. When I went there, I tried my best to fit in and be just like everyone else. But I wasn’t like everyone else. They saw me as an enemy. The weapons they used were passive aggression and privilege. It started off lightly with questions like “do you rap” or “have I been in a shootout before”. Soon, it became questions like “chicken or watermelon” and “do you have a father”. It would anger me because I felt like I had worked hard not to be talked down. But it was evident that I was trespassing territory. It didn’t matter to me though because I was at war. So, I finally stood up for myself to let those kids know that I wasn’t the stereotypical black. That I was there for a reason. But I was quickly reminded that I wasn’t accepted. That’s when they used their secret weapon. I was called a nigger for the first time in my life by a white person. The only way to make myself feel whole was through physical altercation. I felt like I had the right to fight because I was being ridiculed, but I was wrong. All the school saw was a black kid that had lost his temper and acted out of control.

I was mad that I allowed myself to lose control, but I was more mad that I myself wasn’t enough. I was like being black was a curse. I didn’t have anyone to help me navigate through that feeling. The only thing I had was basketball. I used that situation to fuel me. It fueled me all the way to college.

Going to college was a new battlefield for me. I was surrounded by black people just like me. Some played sports or they just attended. It sparked my interest to learn more about being black, so I minored in African Studies. My eyes were opened. I learned that being black was beautiful. I realized that wanting more didn’t make me better, but it made us better. I had been at war for years. This war of fighting who I am, who people say I am, and who I want to be. But it felt good to know that I wasn’t alone. How I dress, how I speak, and what my interest are do not determine if I am black. Black is what I am. Overall, being black to me is to be at war. Sometimes that war can be with another race, a fellow black person, and in most cases yourself. But the main thing is to keep on fighting because the end goal is peace. And if you want peace, prepare for war. Si vis pacem, para bellum.