The Birth & Death Me

Denise Bolds MSW, CD(DONA)

October 11, 2016

I did something today that I didn't want to do. I put it off for long as I could. Because who I am I had to do it I had to go; my attendance matters. I got my ticket and I caught the matinee.  There was only four of us in the theater, we are all black. I was the only female. 

As the movie previews rolled by, I found myself becoming more and more tense. By the time the feature film rolls up - I am tighter than a drum. There’s no popcorn, no silly texts announcing to my friends what I am doing. This is not entertainment. This is not a fad. There will be no commercialized products in the stores for the holiday gifting frenzy.  I went to see “Birth of a Nation” today and I am a black woman in America.

“Birth of a Nation” is everything it is supposed to be; the spark of awareness. The visual abomination of humanity on replay. There’s no blackface white actor in a colorless and soundless film. This is real. This is my life. My ancestors. My dreams almost every night.

There’s no reference of my motherland, Africa. My heritage as many would like to believe began as a slave. I know better; so do my ancestors, so do many of you who are awake.

I see the beautiful black skin people whose eyes are high, bright and searching for the end to the nightmare that never ends. I watched as the cotton bloodied many hands. I now understand why my diabetic 75 year-old mother had such difficulty testing herself everyday with a finger prick; she picked thousands of pounds of cotton growing up in the South. Her daily finger sticks to keep her alive were a constant reminder of what she endured as a child of the South.

I held myself a little tighter in my seat as the film rolled on…

I watched the resiliency of my ancestors as they sang, and replicated art from their homeland. I watched as the epigenetic trauma was born; witnessing brutal acts of oppression, murder and rape that would mark my people for infinite future generations to come. Including myself.

Can I witness another slave film from Hollywood? 

I get the message of what has occurred and continues to occur to blacks in this country. I only have to close my eyes every night and dream. The brutality my ancestors endured I bear witness to; my ancestors are speaking to me there. They are always watching.

The visual abomination is replay. What is the pattern in Hollywood? Every two years or so, here comes another slave/race/black oppression film: “The Butler,” “12 Years A Slave,” “42,” and now “Birth of a Nation?”

I cannot be tired, I cannot complain. After all my ancestors endured slavery for over 400 years. I’m only 52. I’ve got 348 years of replay to go… So, I sat in my seat and did what my ancestors could not do. I looked at this film dead in the eye. I would not allow my eyes to downcast no matter what. Even though I am slowly dying as I bear witness.

Nate Parker’s story of Nat Turner told me what I already know. I wasn't always awake. I didn't wake up until I was in my late 20’s. I’ve been in a chronic state of inflammation ever since I woke up. Parker’s rendition is very good. However, he missed something very vital. He kindly and ignorantly removed the sex scenes from the film. Not one rape scene was shown. It was heavily implied in the film. That is a fallacy; sex and the black man, woman and child in America has always been draped in filth, force and fornication. The slave was naked while the whites were covered in silk, muslin and their entitlement.

My hands are shaking and I find myself holding my breath… But I’m alright. This is what I feel everyday…

There’s a hue and cry over how Trump stood behind Hillary Clinton during the last debate “In a menacing manor.” Try being a Black person. What Hillary endured for a few hours at most, is what  my ancestors and I experience everyday at any given time. No place is safe from the disease of racism in America, not even a church.

The movie ends. The four of us are somber, slowing moving towards the exit. A King of a man, a Jamaican named Andre begins speaking to me. He observes how there are no whites in the audience. He begins describing himself as not being able to continue to see films like this. Andre boldly confesses what I already know: Our black allegiance is slowly killing us blacks in a world of white denial, ignorance and unaccountability.

I agreed with this beautiful black man, my king. My kindred…

I do what so many of my ancestors and black woman today do when speaking with the black man; Outwardly I agree with him. Inwardly, I begin to plan.