Shame: A Black Professional's white supremacist stripes

If the title of the article brings forth images of a striped zebra, I would say its an accurate image. Although the stripes are white on a Black soul.

For over 40 years, my career has traveled the journey of being a change agent and not just any kind of change agent but one very focused on changing the outcomes for Black citizens and absolutely clear that those changes would require the collective to dismantle structural racism. Long before the spirits were called to activate the global consciousness with Mr. Floyd's call for his mother, I understood that Black people were not broken. I understood that system forces were at play and essentially "set Black people up" to have limited access, limited opportunity even with higher education tools.

For many Black people in my generation, we were framed by our parents desire for us to do "better" than they did. To take advantage of the opportunities provided by a new world opened up by integration. We were to be judged by our "acceptance" into America's culture - America's white culture. We were not to forget our roots, the knowledge from our grandparents, the special sense of belonging only found surrounded by multi-generational gathering, especially with food, the sustaining force of faith found in the Black church and the bonds among those friends we grew up with and the shared memories found in surviving. But we left the "neighborhood" for a better life, a "better life" opened up by the hard fought battles of our parents and grandparents and great- grandparents and on and on.

But without a doubt, I always knew that Black people were not broken. I knew that those Black persons who were not succeeding in this new world of "open doors - equal opportunity" were not not broken. I knew this differently than my peers because of my gift - a gift given to me by God, by my ancestors. A gift that provides me with "truth". I apologize that this may sound, as a friend once said, too spooky/too hooky. It is simple. I am an empath and for many years, I was also afraid of this gift and ashamed of it. It made me "different".

I didn't always know I had this gift; I didn't always understand the messages as a result of this gift. Learning to discern the energy messages as a result of this gift was critical to my maintaining my sanity. It could leave me with deep bouts of depression and a sense of feeling "crazy" . In my adolescent years, "my gift" unknown to me at the time, combined with being a child from a divorced family, created an even greater sense of "shame". All of this told me I was not worthy. But even in between the suicide attempts, I would push back against the shame - against this sense of not being worthy.

We were the products of school busing, Black students attending formerly all-white schools to ensure a better education. I excelled in school and began to compete madly against myself to do better on each test than the last one. I already knew I was just as good if not better than some of my white classmates - my "daddy" had assured me of this fact. So competing against myself became my goal. To do better on the next activity in school than the last one. To read more books than anyone else and in fact, to drown myself in reading and disappear in these worlds.

I was super prideful about being Black. As a child, my father, who had a car (a rarity in my neighborhood) was responsible for taking us (my sisters and I) shopping for Easter clothes, new shoes, etc. One Saturday shopping trips stands out vividly in my memory. We had been to several shoe stores looking for a specific shoe I wanted - black patent leather with a strap across the foot. It would be my very first "dress up" shoe. And yes, I said we had been to several shoe stores. My father was strict on us, but I was also a spoiled brat, thus he indulged me and took me to several shoe stores. This last store was in downtown Washington D.C. I was probably about 9 or 10 years old. The sales' person was a white male, and his behavior was very condescending as he sized me, as he asked why this shoe, etc. He had gone back to the storeroom and brought out the exact shoe I wanted but my father was huffing and puffing by this time. He pulled out his wallet showing he had cash to pay for the shoes and then told me to put my shoes back on because we were leaving. He said to the white salesperson - you just lost a sale to a Black man.

I was devastated!!! My black patent leather shoes, I would not have them. He pulled me out of the store; I may have been crying, that part I do not remember. However I remember his words to me and similar words on other occasions. Your money is "green" like anyone else's money, you are to never ever let anyone white treat you the way that white man treated us. Who did he think he was - he was messing with the wrong person - James Frances Bell! (And if you thought this attitude was something -you have never seen attitude until you experienced Gertrude Barnes' mouth - his mother, my grandmother. She too did not tolerate any disrespect of her as a Black woman, all 4'11 feet, 120 lbs.)

So I knew the lesson of interacting with whites. I knew I had a voice and I knew I was to use my voice. But more than that, I knew I was not to allow anyone to take advantage of me especially anyone white.

Excelling in high school easily led to college; I would follow my father's footsteps in going to college. But after my father "left me", I became my mother's partner in helping to raise my younger siblings, responsible for grocery shopping on Saturday morning by bus to the store and a cab back home. Money was tight so I also babysat and took on sewing projects to beautify the house - curtains and chair covers - all made by me.

So going to college would mean commuting to college; I had to live at home to help my mother but the blessing was I got into college and got some scholarship funding as well. Commuting to college, University of Maryland, College Park, suited me just fine - as I told one of my college professors, I came to this white university so I could learn how to deal with "them" and manage "them" in their world to do better for Black people. Yes - I said this as a freshman in college.

Years later, as a transfer to UMBC, now living on campus, I was embraced by a Black students and the few of us living on campus at that time, became a "family". It was indeed a different experience than commuting to College Park. It was different also because I got to truly see and feel "racism" up close and personal, especially in the community surrounding the campus. So we as Black students living in the dorms, bonded together for support, comfort and friendship.

It was at UMBC, a Black social work field instructor spotted my "gift" as she watched me interact with a family in crisis in the child welfare system. I often used the "gift" unknowingly, to tap into the "energies of fears, anxieties, joys, shame, etc" even when the presenting "face" was one of anger and hostility. The "gift" allowed me to move past the anger and hostility and connect with their "soul" and listen to the unspoken words until they were able to freely share their pain, anxiety, etc.

I knew instinctively that these families, parents were not broken!. What I did not know then is that tapping into those energies and not knowing how to back away from them and separate out my own energies, it would weigh me down. These energies would add to the tons of unworthy feelings I had about myself. The depression deepen but I managed to keep it under wraps.

My undergraduate field instructor pushed me hard and supported me in finding resources to go to graduate school, social work. She insisted that my gift could be used to change circumstances for Black families.

I was accepted into the graduate program and successfully completed the master's program in social work but I absolutely beyond a shadow of a doubt, hated the experience at the University of Maryland, School of Social Work. Except for one class about systems' theory, which I gave me a framework for structural racism, I found the experience and doctrine to be racist. Black people were essentially broken and inherently dysfunctional. I knew the lie of this framework and resented it.

I observed the systems' derogation of Black families, parents and children. I watched those systems of public "support" create massive damage in the lives of Black people and made them bleed and then ask how dare they bleed. My "gift" heard the words and feelings unspoken by those caught in their vise. I knew without a shadow of a doubt, I would fight against these systems and for Black families for the rest of my life.

However what I didn't know at that time was the toll it would take on me. I didn't know that "climbing" the ladder to gain greater access to provide opportunities and resources for Black families, I would succumb and gain "white strips" to get into those doors. I didn't know my soul would be tainted and I would lose my way. I also didn't know the pain of my childhood trauma would drive me the rest of my life until I came face to face with it as my boogey man. In the end, the "gift" and my ancestors saved me.

Footnote: This is an intended chapter from a book I am writing; the title of the book is "The Gift Speaks". I am still writing so not sure where this chapter will land. Its about my journey but I think its about the journey of many Black women with different facts, different pathways but many similar feelings of not being worthy despite the outward successes.