Girl Gurl Grrrl by Kenya Hunt

Author:Kenya Hunt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amistad
Published: 2020-10-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

I See Black People

I remember a late-summer walk with my seven-year-old in which we were heading to our neighborhood bookshop, a local gem of a place known for a brilliantly edited mix of inclusive titles such as Julián Is a Mermaid and Woke Baby, dedicated to raising “equality in children’s books.” There we bumped into a mix of friends, as we usually do, all shopping with their kids for birthday presents for one child’s party or another. As my son and I walked home, a giant open-top, double-decker party bus cruised by, revelers dropping it like it’s hot to a kind of Christian dance hall music blasting from the speakers, encouraging passersby to “Praise Him” and “Trust Him.” An elderly woman walking in front of us stopped to dance along, waving her cane in the air toward the Christian partiers and smiling. The chants and cheers from the party bus got even louder at the sight. The elderly woman was all bent knees and swaying hips and waving cane and “aaaayyyeee.” The Christian partiers were all popping booties and shaking shoulders and waving hands and “hallelujaaaaaah” in response. My son stopped and watched it all, head tilted to the side, his hand clutching mine. “Mumma, why are all of those people saying hallelujah?” he asked. “Because they want to invite people to come to their church, lovebug,” I responded. He continued, “And why is everyone on the bus Black?” I paused. “I think it’s because it’s a Caribbean congregation, dumpling,” I added, reading the ministry’s name on the side of the bus. His curiosity wasn’t satisfied. “Why is the Caribbean filled with Black people?” I attempted to answer his question as best I could, touching on the Atlantic slave trade and the African diaspora in a way that a seven-year-old might understand it, and then we walked in silence for a few minutes as I gave him the opportunity to digest it all. “Do you understand, sweets?” He let go of my hand and pointed his finger. “I don’t know what you just said about Black people. But there’s a dead pigeon. Can we talk about that?”

The moment also reminded me of another late-summer evening stroll about ten years ago when I was walking through the Upper East Side in Manhattan, hand in hand with an ex-boyfriend. We were ambling behind an attractive family of three, a little red-haired girl who couldn’t have been older than three or four holding Mom and Dad’s hands on either side. She was playing an entry-level version of I Spy. “I seeeeeeeeee a bus!” she said, dragging out the see for dramatic impact. “I seeeeeeeeee a tree!” she said. “I seeeeeeeeee a dog!” she said, stopping to point out each object along the way in that meandering way that small children have. “I seeeeeeeeeeee Black people,” she said loudest of all, laughing. Her parents, mortified, cupped the child’s mouth as if she had just yelled the word cunt at the top of her lungs.

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