The Story We Tell Ourselves

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

[Note—The following account is fiction. Any resemblance between the story we tell ourselves and reality is pure coincidence.]

In my dream, I hovered over the dinner gathering of the 50 Over 50 Club. The 50 Over 50 Club is an invitation-only group of 50 black American men over the age of 50. United as Old Souls in a New World, around ninety-percent (90%) of the clubs men are seasoned members of Jack and Jill, Alpha Phi Alpha and/or the Boule. Dinner is being held in the main ballroom at The Jefferson Hotel in downtown Richmond, Virginia.

The speaker for the evening is law firm partner Macon B. Allen V, the great great grandson of the first black lawyer, Macon B. Allen. Wine glasses are tapped as Allen V waits for the sounds of dinner chatter to settle down.

“Gentlemen, and I thank you Brother Twyman for your gracious introduction. During dinner, Twyman shared with me how, after a sojourn away in San Diego, he returned to his family church and was greeted with enthusiasm by a distant cousin. The first words the cousin could say to Brother Twyman were ‘It’s good to see someone with roots here in church.’ The family church was founded by Twyman’s great great grandfather in 1871. Hard Times But Hard Times Create Strong Men! (scattered claps in the crowd)

In this New World where children and grandchildren urge anyone alive before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to retire from the public square, I can only say we who knew the 1950s, the 1960s and the 1970s are not going anywhere! (Spirited applause from the audience/scattered hoots and hollers and fraternity sounds)

Our schools today teach Blackness is Oppression. Nothing Else Matters!

(boos and guffaws)

But I ask you, good men, do our schools teach the importance of tradition and family roots in Black American families? (applause) That we cherish our ancestors in our families?

Every man in this club bears the legacy, if not the name, of an achieving ancestor. It would not do to repeat the roster of 50 names in our Club. I could, of course, remember the long (and unsung) tradition of singular families bound by surname to ancestors — Professor John Hamilton McWhorter V, former New York Times Counsel Solomon B. Watkins IV, William Benjamin Gould IV, Spottswood William Robinson IV.

Where is Spot? (stands up from the back of the room)

Graduate of Howard Law School, Son of Chief Judge of the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals Spottswood William Robinson III, Grandson of Richmond real estate lawyer Spottswood William Robinson Jr., Great grandson of entrepreneur and salon owner Spottswood William Robinson, Sr.

Why are legacy black families never platformed on National Public Radio (NPR)? (laughter among the gray-haired gents in the audience) Criminals receive air time but never multi-generational Black American families who have accumulated advantages and degrees and country homes and security over the generations.

(Looking towards Goody Marshall) It is true — there is no Thurgood Marshall IV but that’s on Goody. (good natured laughter ripples throughout the tables) There’s no Henry L. Marsh V but that’s on Henry and Diane (smile and laughter).

A good friend once said it is the story we tell ourselves that matters.

I had a dream last night about the story we tell ourselves. I dreamed I was at a Jack and Jill conference as a Jack (father chaperone). I was addressing a plenary session of teenagers about my purpose. And in my dream, I told how I encountered racial autism (*trademark) from white classmates in the third grade. I was moved to tell the plain truth for our young leaders and elite beyond the year 2050. I explained how I was a little kid thrown into a world not of my making.

Two road diverged in the woods for me. I chose the road less traveled.

I decided my prejudiced white classmates were dumb. Skin color told us nothing about oneself.

And since I valued intelligence most highly, I would not engage the prejudiced. I would ignore and dismiss them.

In my dream, I divined an eight year plan in the 4th grade to become Student Council President of my High School. You could stand out of my way if you did not support my mission in life. My junior high school was 3.57% black. My senior high school was 8.5% black. The racial numbers did not matter. I Mattered!

It was the climb that gave me purpose and meaning.

I look out amongst the young faces of teenagers in private schools and elite magnet schools. I had touched many with my words, my story.

I said crime and criminals were as alien to me as the Man on the Moon. I cared about books and presidents, Theodore Roosevelt and Student Council and the flute. I had read the room and connected with our grandchildren, our precious cargo attending St. Anne’s-Belfield and St. Christopher’s, living in Salisbury and Midlothian and Windsor Farms.

No crime stories from me (applause).

What we focus on becomes our story. I have a story and you have a story. Spot, Goody, Solomon, Ben — we all have our individual stories rooted in strong men of hard times. We do not have a life experience of over 40 million black Americans defined only by Oppression. Our individual trajectories through life have defined Blackness as Enterprise, Triumph Over Adversity.

I should stop now, however, I cannot say enough about telling our own story.

Whenever I am interviewed on the news, I am asked about crime and criminals nine times out of ten. Why am I never asked about Jack and Jill which is how I experienced race growing up in a southern suburb? Why am I never asked about our august institution, 50 Over 50? Why am I never asked about our sacred traditions seeded in the 1870s that gave rise to Old Black American Families?

At least, I am seen as a whole person by my clubs men. Caricatures and stereotypes will always be our common foe.

(standing ovation despite repeated attempts of the dinner host to call order)