Good morning.
Years ago, I was playing basketball with a Tejana student. She asked me why was I so mainstream? No one had ever put the question so bluntly to me before. I replied, I grew up in a southern suburb, a small town. What did you expect? Obviously, she had a preconception of Black Culture, and I did not fit the bill.
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One of my readers used the word “Black Culture” last week. I was intrigued since how could over one billion black people on planet earth share the same culture, however defined. I am a curious man, so I asked for a working definition of culture which the reader kindly provided. I observed a reference to BLM in his paragraph definition. I am about as alienated from BLM as one can be, so the concept of burning, looting and murder doesn’t work for me as I reflect upon the meaning of Black Culture for me. Might not be true for others but it is true for me.
Not to state the obvious but there is no one Black Culture. There are as many cultures as there are people at the micro level.
Once when I was working in Las Vegas, my cousin Bob Twyman came to visit me. Together, we decided to hike up Mount Charleston, a cool vista outside of the city limits. We never made it to the top but it was the longest conversation I had ever had with Bob. He recounted his extensive travels across the United States and Canada and then he said something that stayed with me. He said we Twymans were different from other blacks he had come across in other places. I had always felt the same way but had never found the words to articulate my lack of simpatico with the tribal urgings of Ted P. at the University of Virginia or radicals at Harvard Law School. I asked Bob why he felt this was the case. I wish I could recall his answer but the conversation happened over twenty years ago.
I don’t want to put words in Bob’s mouth, however, I could imagine Bob resting a bit on the side of Mount Charleston before offering a Zen-like speculation: We grew up on a street that bore our name. And the cross street bore our grandmother’s name. Twyman Road created a pride, an assumption that the world revolved around us. (Bob laughs a Twyman laugh shared with his father and brother Bruce) We were also isolated on a former farm. Our people were self-dependent. Everything you needed was a mile or two up the road. You want a haircut? Walk up Twyman Road to Uncle Winkfield’s shop. Time to attend school? Walk up the hill to Hickory Hill Elementary School. Want to buy food? The grocery store is to the left of school. Time for church? Walk down Terminal Avenue and across the railroad tracks to Ebenezer A.M.E. Church. Even the church was founded by grandma’s family. It was the self-reliance that made us different.
It would never occur to Bob to use the word “Oppression.” That’s not who we were.
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My culture growing up was Sgt. Vernon C. Waters from A Soldier’s Story (1984), not Tyler Perry. My Twyman uncles looked like the actor Adolph Caesar and behaved more like drill sergeants than comedic buffoons. Query whether we define Black Culture in the public square as Sgt. Waters or as oppression?
My people were a traditional people from northern Chesterfield County, Virginia. We were different in culture from the more progressive types around Virginia State College in the southern part of the county. Our sense of self, values and attitudes. Our roots in the county were not transient since we had lived on the land since 1871 and, arguably, the 1700s if one includes white ancestors.
Even family members can live in different cultures. I see these differences in mannerism in my own family. My Mom-in-law trends Tyler Perry, unlike my blood mom and aunts. Does a different manner equal a different culture? I think so.
I married into a culture of associations, fraternities and sororities. Some people value these things. My family back home in Chester did not. Doesn’t that fault line of experience imply a different culture?
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Conclusion: My thoughts are forming about this thing we clumsily call Black Culture. There is no one Black Culture. If I as one person can see layers of distinctions, surely 40 million Black Americans would perceive over 40 million variants of culture. It is laughable that burning, looting and murder would define Black Culture whatsoever.
These are my preliminary thoughts on something that may elude objective definition.
But see Black Culture and Consciousness by Lawrence Levine. https://www.thriftbooks.com/w/black-culture-and-black-consciousness-afro-american-folk-thought-from-slavery-to-freedom_lawrence-w-levine/339161/item/132414/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=pmax_high_vol_frontlist_under_%2410&utm_adgroup=&utm_term=&utm_content=&gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwqP2pBhDMARIsAJQ0CzqeMx19tRHgLsKncdCfuvgkiw39voKB0oNvby7Q0AH_338sBtqKqocaAnubEALw_wcB#idiq=132414&edition=2349524
Sgt. Vernon Waters
Every time I read one of your essays, I feel something that’s hard to describe. I think I feel lighter and more hopeful. I’ve met a number of black folks, and all of them have been different. I never thought much about it before, but now I see it clearly. I found myself enjoying all of them, and wish I knew how they are doing.
One woman and her husband were going to move out of the Detroit area to somewhere out East. Her husband was a bus driver, and they had a couple of kids. I met her when I was doing some temporary office work at one of the phone companies. They planned to start a mortuary! It was going to be a family business, and they were in the process of preparing themselves for the various things they would need to do to get it started. I thought that was wonderful, and I hope they made a go of it. I sure didn’t know anyone else who had such a well thought out plan for their future!
Another woman I met because I have horses. She was from Chicago, kept a horse at some stable, but would haul up to Wisconsin to join a group of women who liked to trail ride. She was married to a successful Jew (I forget what he did), and they were living large! I only got to see her about three times, but she was really nice, and fun to be around.
Two black people who could not have been more different.
I also worked at a manufacturing plant, and there was this great guy, whose last name was Christmas!! I worked in the office, but I had to walk partway through the plant to punch my timecard. I could always hear his booming voice, and when he’d spot me, he’d holler some kind of greeting. We talked a little, and he was always cheerful, with a big smile to match. I miss seeing him.
Nice essay! I hope you're not referring to me, Wink. I would not speak of Black culture because I do not believe in Black culture... Nor that any one ethnicity or skin color has a monolithic "culture." I did, however, define Culture. And I have no idea where in your substack I did this. Anyway... Busy day for me tomorrow!