Who Are My People?

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

The more one plunges down into the individual, the more one begins to question shibboleths. One example would be one’s conception of “my people.” It is commonplace for black Americans to define all black people wherever they may be as “my people.” Remember how President Barack Obama said Trayvon Martin could have been his son if Obama had a son? People who never knew George Floyd perceived Floyd as one of my people. Professor Glenn Loury writes in Late Admissions: Confessions of a Black Conservative “These poor blacks are my people, I thought.” p. 338

On a recent trip to Napa, California, a family member arranged for a family outing at a black business. There is a felt need to seek out black businesses while on vacation, if one can. I have never felt these urges. Nonetheless, I found myself in a swank establishment. I turned on my race consciousness switch as an essayist. 100% of the patrons and customers were black which was cool.

One family member excitedly said, “They have black books.” Her tone suggested I would not be interested. Rather than oblige the bias I would not be interested, my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to look at the books. I mean, I love Black History. I have a passion for ancestors who have achieved. You all have read my one hundred essays on one hundred pioneer black lawyers from 1844 to 1875. How could I pass up the opportunity to come across black books?

The book titles on the table were of a type. Some of the titles were Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto, Black Futures, Harlem of the West, Uphill: A Memoir by Jemele Hill, Dapper Dan Made in Harlem: A Memoir, Feminist AF: A Guide to Crushing Girlhood, Dandy Lion:? The Black Dandy and Street Style, The Black Joy Project: A Literary and Visual Love Letter to How We Thrive, The Afro-Kosmic Ark of Ben Caldwell, The World We Make, Illustrating Black History: Honoring the Iconic and the Unseen, 99 Bottles: Black Sheep’s Guide to Life-Changing Wines, The Upcycles Self: A Memoir on the Art of Becoming Who We Are, Comrade Sisters: Women of the Black Panther Party, Kehinde Wiley: An Archaeology of Silence, Black Power Kitchen, Black Ivy: A Revolt in Style.

None of these book titles came from a place I understood. No offense intended but Black Power Kitchen? Really? Comrade Sisters: Women of the Black Panther Party? Really and Truly? The individual me did not feel excitement in the presence of these titles like some family members. I felt lack of interest, ideological manipulation, activism writ large, alienation, distance and dispassion. By and large, these writers were not my people even though they were all black.

Race does not equal sympatico.

The question is fairly raised — what books excite me? I like books that take me into the greater world of ideas. The Courage to Write by Ralph Keyes is an all-time favorite. On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner is another book I have read repeatedly. Martin Eden by Jack London moves me like a great Toni Braxton song. Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak brings universal humanity into my life. And Self-Portrait in Black and White: Unlearning Race by Thomas Chatterton Williams inspired me to retire from Blackness.

Rest assured, none of these writers with featured books in Napa were unlearning race. They were doubling, and tripling down, on race. Not my thing and not my bag. These writers were not my people.

I seldom use the term “my people.” Special circumstances must occur for me to be in this state of mind. For this essay, I will leave you with five instances when I have used the term “my people” and I have meant it.

Twyman Road — All those who knew me from birth until I left Twyman Road at the age of seven are my people. Before I knew myself, these people knew me. They knew my first steps, my first words, my first days in school up on the hill. As Loury writes, “The black South Side was where I went in my mind’s eye when I reflected on what made me who I am. And however badly I wanted it to change, I could not disavow it. Nor, I now found, could I go along with those who would.” p. 338

For me, Twyman Road made me who I am.

Chester in the 1970s — Everyone who knew Salem Church Junior High and Thomas Dale High School in the 1970s — you are all my people. We who knew the joy and magic of bringing the New South into this world. We remain united in our memory of the coming of a better time until we leave this world. We are not remembered by think tanks or academic institutes or fancy Anti-Racism Centers but no matter. We know what we did and the friendships we made and the better decade of the 1980s we ushered in. They may change the names of our elementary and high schools but they will never change our hearts. Remember the Titans

These are my people.

Jewish Americans (especially Soviet Jews) — Whenever someone is treated poorly due to religion or ethnic group, I become you. You become my people. Before October 7, 2023, I felt this way as part of my innate nature and character. I feel even more strongly this way now in light of increased antisemitism. In an emotional podcast with Bari Weiss of The Free Press, Sheryl Sandberg shared her deepest fears. To be Jewish in a world gone mad. Sandberg turned to a friend and asked “Are you going to hide me?” I heard those words and thought, I will hide anyone because you are my people. Are you going to hide me?

The Curious, The Creative, The Non-Conformers — If you are curious about the world, you are my kind of people. We will have much to talk about. If you live to create, I am your soulmate. If you dare to be a non-conformer in conforming times, I am yours in soul. The kindred spirits on Free Black Thought are my kind of people. Connie Morgan, a young writer, is my kind of person. Kiyah Willis, a curious mind — she is my people. There are many more, of course, like Michael Bowen and Jack MacKey and Adrian Piper and too many others to name right now.

Black Harvard Law School Crowd — Too many live in dogma and slogan words but these are my people. There are at most 3,000 of us. I recently saw a young class of black Harvard Law graduates and I felt an overwhelming feeling of These are my people. It was a visceral sensation like how one feels in the presence of a cute young cousin. It is not rational…at…all. Most of these people would dismiss my ideas and wish me away into the cornfield. Is it wrong for me to feel a spiritual connection to this crowd? Should I suppress these feelings? Deep questions, too deep for this late hour.

My daughter just returned home. I love my daughter, dislike her politics, and need her just the same to feel complete as a parent, a Dad.

Conclusion: My people are a varied lot — Twyman Road family, Chester classmates, Jewish Americans, The Curious and the Creative, the Black Harvard Law School crowd. For me, my people began with Mom and Dad. The Big Bang of life extended my people to uncles, aunts and cousins on Twyman Road. The ripples of the Big Bang of life further extended my people to include classmates of all races in a place called Chester and a time called the 1970s. As the ripples of my life extended to college, I fell into Jewish Americans as my people. Then, law school added an extra layer of my people. Adulthood brought me into touch with the curious, the creative and the non-conformers which is where I am now.

With all respect to Professor Loury, my people today are not black and poor. There are more human dimensions to my people in life.

Harvard Law School Professor Randall Kennedy