This week, we lost Harry Belafonte, who did so many world-changing things, including making this statement: “Artists are the gatekeepers of truth.”
I wasn’t as big a fan as my mom, but I was fan enough to play Jump in the Line and the Banana Boat Song well after the movie Beetlejuice. I played him on the same Mixtape CD as Seven by Prince. And even though Harry didn’t sing Pata Pata (Miriam Makeba did that), his art was a clear, strong part of my upbringing.
That beautiful brown man lived a life of artistic honesty. He is a goal and a mirror to me. I see his mantle in my art, even though the cups I use are different. #themugmatters
My beautiful brown has been an internal battle for obvious, though nuanced reasons. Leaving that warzone, I unearthed that I was scared to love my children for a time because I was afraid.
By marrying a non-Black man, I defined myself as less of an activist than Harry Belafonte and I was afraid that I wasn’t strong enough to love my children, so I retreated into motherhood, but not into love.
It sounds ridiculous when I say that out loud now, How full of fear I was. How bound to the trauma of so many things! But now, I am uninterested in that battle. I feel the power of my love and it makes nonstarters of that internal question.
The beautiful browns within my house alone are artistic to the tune of Africa, Germany, Persia and unbound magic. The music of our existences are love itself. I LOVE my beautiful brown. And my children…sparks of the truest heaven.
I am a gatekeeper of the truth. The truth is I am falling in love with the brownness of me. Of her. Of him. Of them. I’ve diving into the coffee-colored love in my skin, my home, my land.
My art.
Rest in power, Mr. Belafonte. I believe you and Chadwick are up there with my son and my older brother. That gives me a powerful, peaceful joy.
Now, sip on that.
