February is Black History Month. A time set aside to celebrate the achievements of blacks throughout American History.Today I decided to share share my own story. As being born black, I figured I would have some personal insight on the subject.
I grew up in the south side of Chicago in an all black neighborhood. I attended a predominately black school, (Kozminski Community Academy to be exact). The community that I grew up in was made up of mostly older blacks. Many of them had been raised in the south and remembered very well life before the civil rights movement.
Being brought up in this type of environment there was this ingrained idea that we must continue the fight and the struggle. We were to carry the heavy burden of being born black and as a result we must treat life like a battle. You would be considered a success in battle if you became something great. We were to become lawyers and doctors, athletes and political leaders. But what if I just wanted to be an artist? Well, becoming an actor like Sidney Poitier or a singer like Whitney Houston was acceptable. Or I could become a great writer like Maya Angelou or Langston Hughes. But when I questioned my teachers and elders about sewing, crafting and making pretty little things, I was told those were not great things. "Those are just things you do 'cause you ain't got the money to buy them already made."
While my classmates found their heroes to follow, reading biographies on Muhammad Ali, Martin Luther King, Dr. Guion Stewart Bluford, Jr. and Marian Anderson, I wondered, who was I to follow? Where do I find those who have made the path before me? Who are those that I would look up to as my heroes?
I always felt like an outsider looking in on my own race. I never fit the image of a mad black woman. I have been accused by those both outside and within my own race of not being 'black enough' or acting 'too white'- whatever that means. Knitting, crocheting and doing other crafty things just seemed to add to my 'outsider' status.
I'll be honest, being born black did not automatically give me magical insight into the black experience. (I never bought into the belief that being poor, marginalized and racially profiled was somehow an exclusively 'black experience'). I was proud to be black- even with all the stigma,stereotypes and drama that came along with it. What was missing was my own personal connection to my history. That spark that would give a deeper meaning to who I am and where I fit in.
Then about six months ago, I noticed a book on the shelf in my house. I've had the book for years.It is called, " A Communion of the Spirits", by Roland L. Freeman.
I had purchased it through a book club and was disappointed by the fact that it was not a pattern book like I had thought it would be. I had meant to return the book, but for some reason, I never did. I opened the pages and started reading the stories about the quilts and the quilters. With each quilt I started to understand my culture and history. These quilts stood out like illuminated text, guiding me to where I needed to go. These men a women were not of the fame and fortune that we connect with success, but they had achieved greatness in telling their story through fabric and thread. They were storytellers and artist in their own right. I had found my tribe, the place where I could clearly see my path now laid our before me. I had found my heroes, my inspiration.
So that has been my journey thus far. Finding my path and my place in this world. This month I celebrate this discovery and the beauty of the black fiber artist.
I leave you with a link to a wonderful documentary about the quilters of Gee's Bend.
I grew up in the south side of Chicago in an all black neighborhood. I attended a predominately black school, (Kozminski Community Academy to be exact). The community that I grew up in was made up of mostly older blacks. Many of them had been raised in the south and remembered very well life before the civil rights movement.
Being brought up in this type of environment there was this ingrained idea that we must continue the fight and the struggle. We were to carry the heavy burden of being born black and as a result we must treat life like a battle. You would be considered a success in battle if you became something great. We were to become lawyers and doctors, athletes and political leaders. But what if I just wanted to be an artist? Well, becoming an actor like Sidney Poitier or a singer like Whitney Houston was acceptable. Or I could become a great writer like Maya Angelou or Langston Hughes. But when I questioned my teachers and elders about sewing, crafting and making pretty little things, I was told those were not great things. "Those are just things you do 'cause you ain't got the money to buy them already made."
While my classmates found their heroes to follow, reading biographies on Muhammad Ali, Martin Luther King, Dr. Guion Stewart Bluford, Jr. and Marian Anderson, I wondered, who was I to follow? Where do I find those who have made the path before me? Who are those that I would look up to as my heroes?
I always felt like an outsider looking in on my own race. I never fit the image of a mad black woman. I have been accused by those both outside and within my own race of not being 'black enough' or acting 'too white'- whatever that means. Knitting, crocheting and doing other crafty things just seemed to add to my 'outsider' status.
I'll be honest, being born black did not automatically give me magical insight into the black experience. (I never bought into the belief that being poor, marginalized and racially profiled was somehow an exclusively 'black experience'). I was proud to be black- even with all the stigma,stereotypes and drama that came along with it. What was missing was my own personal connection to my history. That spark that would give a deeper meaning to who I am and where I fit in.
Then about six months ago, I noticed a book on the shelf in my house. I've had the book for years.It is called, " A Communion of the Spirits", by Roland L. Freeman.
I had purchased it through a book club and was disappointed by the fact that it was not a pattern book like I had thought it would be. I had meant to return the book, but for some reason, I never did. I opened the pages and started reading the stories about the quilts and the quilters. With each quilt I started to understand my culture and history. These quilts stood out like illuminated text, guiding me to where I needed to go. These men a women were not of the fame and fortune that we connect with success, but they had achieved greatness in telling their story through fabric and thread. They were storytellers and artist in their own right. I had found my tribe, the place where I could clearly see my path now laid our before me. I had found my heroes, my inspiration.
So that has been my journey thus far. Finding my path and my place in this world. This month I celebrate this discovery and the beauty of the black fiber artist.
I leave you with a link to a wonderful documentary about the quilters of Gee's Bend.
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