Whose Tube: On Beyond Zebra
the white separates the black from me 
Tuesday, October 23, 2007 
By VeTalle Fusilier 

How black are you?  And what about me?  In a family of all shades -- my yellow, “good hair” cousins, my corporate "new conservative” cousins, what is our blackness?  Maybe the motherland holds the key.  Africa.  Have you been there?  If Christians pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and Muslims to Mecca, then where do we go for the touchstone?  So many questions; so many answers because we come from so many places, in our heads and on this earth.  And the “N” word is “not” sure how far back I can trace my roots.  

In a world of Viagra and not Yohimbe (recognized by the FDA as an aphrodisiac), our connection to Africa is often contrived and referenced.  While some shout, “ I ain’t from Africa, I’m from the south side” others proclaim that we are all descendants of kings and queens, when what we all can agree on is that now, we are Americans in most eyes first, complete with our jeans, cars, and ipods, even if it is Fela blasting deep into our subconscious.  While Jesse Jackson could go and obtain the release of black pilots downed in Iraq then, American enemies worldwide make no distinction or dispensation for us now.

And therein lies the rub, while many of us can sing and load the historical context of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” few of us are aware that it is the same melody as an African work song.  One major tragedy of slavery is that we are left to claim “African” roots, embracing the continent, when it is countries and tribes, diverse and contentious as the factions killing each other that we read about.

So my sister wants candied yams, not mashed yams and to chill, she meets her girlfriends for apple martinis, not palm wine.  And her sister in Accra has a cell phone and listens to Jay-Z.  We should all be of assistance to those in Dafur, because we are family, and share across thousands of miles, care, concern and DNA.

Back then, which is even before back in the day, any drop of African blood labeled you black, in the weirdest of twists, so many of us claim any genetic influence to be “exotic.” And, truth be told, I have been cast aside at the club, ‘cause the “ blacker-the-berry-the sweeter-the-juice” hunters thought my run-of-the-mill brown self was too regular to be coveted. So I was left to drown my sorrows in Sambuca.

But fear not, the jimbe drum echoes in our heads in so many ways.  And many of us long to see and touch the motherland; to connect and be connected; to answer the question, where am I from?  Many of us journey to walk the land of our ancestors.  We go to find them and ourselves.  The lessons are often insightful, real time, and mirror our zebra stripes in the land of black origin.

VeTalle Fusilier is a producer and writer based in Washington, DC.  It's pronounced VEE-tal few-suh-LEER.