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RELATIONSHIPS
To My Brother: What About Me?
By Cassandra George-Sturges
This letter is written from my heart, so
please excuse the pain. The sad thing
about what I am about to say is the Black
men who need to hear this won’t read,
can’t read, or wouldn’t care to hear
anything like this anyway. But you
brothers who play basketball, work with,
and talk to them, please share this. If what
I am about to say does not apply to you,
please just take what you need and give
the rest away. I know that I am not
perfect, and that as a people Blacks have
made tremendous progress. But there is
much room for improvement in all of us.
Many of the educated Black men who
I share thoughts and ideas with frequently
talk about how, even though they are
educated, and possess good jobs, many
White people still walk faster or clutch
their purses in fear when they see them. I
just want to say that I understand. But
what is saddest to me is that when I see
you, I am more afraid of you than any
White person can ever imagine.
Even though I am part of you—T could
easily be called your mother, daughter,
cousin, and yes, you even call me your
sister—I have witnessed you killing your
brother; I have been robbed at gunpoint,
and raped by you. It doesn't seem to
matter what I think about you when you
call me bitch, hootchie, tramp, ho—I
don’t have to name them all for you to get
the picture.
Why does it matter to you so much
what other races think of you? What
about all the young Black males who
need positive role models in their
everyday lives? It hurts me that you
criticize me for wanting to move away
from you, when you do everything to
push me away. Maybe it’s more
important to you what White people think
about you, as opposed to what you think
about yourself. I love you, but not more
than myself, and my desire to live in a
neighborhood free of graffiti, where I can
walk to the comer store without being
called a bitch after spending most of my
day working and going to school. I don’t
care what color my neighbors are as long
as they share the same values, morals, and
work ethic that I do.
You tell me that I am naive, and that
the only reason Black women are allowed
to go to college and are promoted on their
jobs is because the White race is
purposely trying to keep the Black man
down, and destroy the Black family. I
know that racism exists, just as well as
you do, if not more. Just remember that
when you make this argument that you
chose to drop out of high school, which is
free, by the way.
Now, even though you do not have a
high school diploma, you complain about
the low wages on your job. This is your
excuse for selling drugs, robbing, and
killing. Why do you think the answer is
outside of you, that it’s somebody’s fault
that you were once a slave, your mother
was a drug user, you grew up in poverty,
you didn’t get your forty acres and a
mule...? This list could go on forever.
Don’t you see that you are the answer?
You are the key to a better life for
yourself, and our people. You must first
develop in yourself that which you expect
and want from others. Pride begets pride,
love begets love; you attract who and
what you are. Why, I must ask again, do
you think that others should love you
more than you love yourself?
When past reports found evidence for
the hundredth time that the CIA was
involved in drug trafficking in inner-city
neighborhoods, many Blacks were
outraged. They said, Aha! See, it’s not
our fault that our neighborhoods are
rundown, that our people are using drugs,
living in poverty, and dying of AIDS. We
don’t have the financial resources to
purchase drugs from another country; we
don’t have the political clout to arrange
drug deals with the underworld from
other countries.
Yes, we can see everything that we
can’t do and what we don’t have. But
what about the money for rent, groceries,
clothes, shoes, and an education that was
spent on drugs? Did that person have a
choice on how to spend their money?
Was a gun put to their head while the
White man said, “Buy and use crack or
else?”
Many of my people are angry with me
for taking this position. But I know what
it feels like to work with White people
who make more money than me, with less
experience and education. I know what
it’s like to be passed up for a promotion,
when I knew in my heart that I was the
best candidate for the job. These things
really hurt me because I am trying so
hard, and I have student loans with
figures out of this world. But I don’t take
my pain out on you.
In closing, I guess all I really want to
say is that I am not your enemy. But
neither will I be your whipping boy.
When I really think about it, forget about
me. What about you. What do you think
of yourself?
VOLUME 4 ISSUE 23
29