Cages, Protection and Freedom
By Qiana Nichol Harps
I kept hearing my grandmother's voice in my head say, "Don't go back to Atlanta" as I crossed the Howard Frankland Bridge from Tampa to St. Petersburg on the Greyhound bus. I'm also wondering why it took 15 hours to travel on a bus that's named after one of the fastest dogs on earth.
My paternal grandmother told me not to go back to Atlanta once I completed my fellowship at Poynter. I think she's biased. She was born and raised in the same house in Norfolk, Va.
Maybe it's her understanding of my turbulent preceding year: from the fear of not graduating due to a "past due balance," to the serious car accident, to the job layoff, and to the overheating car, it's been ruff (Greyhound flashback). I call the occurrences "learning experiences." My grandmother thinks they're signs from God that I should not go back to Atlanta.
Crawl Before You Walk
After 12 years of public school education, I needed a change. I had seven African-American teachers in all. I did not have my first African-American teacher until the eighth grade. For some reason I thought I was missing something. Therefore, I chose to apply at only HBCUs (Historically Black Colleges and Universities).
I was accepted to Howard University, Hampton University, Bethune-Cookman College, Clark Atlanta University and Dillard University. I decided to move away from home, with my mom and sisters, but remain in Atlanta, choosing Clark Atlanta.
There's a large African-American population in Atlanta. I feel comfortable there because I am not a minority. I stand out in Atlanta because of my talents and my education, not because of my race.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
I see black people as birds that were caged for so many years. Then there were some that were able to break out of the cage. My mother worked hard to make sure I grew up with access to great possibilities. I've always felt like one of those birds that got out. Yes, the cage is still there in some ways, but I have had the chance to get out and see beyond it.
I had decided that I wasn't ready for the world, yet. I know it's impossible to be ready for the world, but I wasn't ready to handle it. I did not realize the world would look at me differently, until I began to have black teachers. That's why I wasn't ready. Up until that point, I was always taught that blacks were slaves, Martin Luther King Jr. was born and we would move on to the next chapter. We would read literature from great white authors like Charles Dickens, F. Scott Fitzgerald and J.D. Salinger. Once I began to have black teachers, I would learn about other great black leaders. We would read great literature from Toni Morrison, Zora Hurston and Chinua Achebe. That's the point at which I learned that I was different. I learned that my history and the history of my ancestors make me different. That understanding allowed me to be aware of my world and my place in the world.
On Your Mark, Get Set…
I pinch small pieces off of my turkey-mayo sandwich and toss them into my mouth at a picnic table outside the Wildwood Recreation Center. Wildwood is located in the beat that I had to cover during my fellowship. I look down every few seconds to make sure the half-dozen birds that circle the picnic table haven't stolen my sandwich. In clear sight, there's a group of about 50 brown children in a semi-straight line preparing to go on a field trip. Some are honey brown, some are ebony, some are mahogany, and some are dark chocolate, but their innocence makes them even more beautiful than their skin tones.
I watch as a couple of girls whisper secrets in each other's ears. A little boy pulls the ponytail of a little girl standing in front of him. A few feet away an 8-year-old girl braids the hair of one of her campmates. They're so young and impressionable. I fear for their lives and want to gather them up and protect them.
Maybe they are learning in classrooms that their ancestors were slaves, as I did at their age. I want to tell them now that their ancestors were more than slaves. I feel that learning about one side of that history is detrimental. I wonder where I would be if I never had an African-American teacher. If I had never read Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye, the story of a black girl who thought that you were only beautiful if you had blue eyes and blond hair.
Learning about my ancestors inspired me. Learning that my ancestors were able to survive 400 years of slavery and still be inventors, activists and patriots empowered me. I truly feel that some African-American children don't learn this early enough. They live with this notion of the "system" being against them and feeling that they have no way out. If you were taught that slavery was the beginning and end of your existence, you blame the "system." I feel that having knowledge allows you to help create a new system.
I paint their brown skin peach, gold or tan and I don't feel the need to protect them anymore. I think all people are beautiful, and I am tolerant of different cultures and people, but I only feel the need to protect brown children. Three out of four of my Points South stories were about protecting those children.
I want to protect them from the same world that I wanted to fully introduce myself into. The same world that called me illegitimate because I didn't have a dad in my life. The world that's going to chew them up and spit them out as descendants of slaves.
I am fearful that I will become a part of the system that African-Americans fear. I know people from this community who either hate or fear the media. The same media that I am fighting so hard to be a part of. Will I be able to stand out so that African-Americans can see me? Or will I stand out because they see me as looking through them as a member of the media?
I see myself as being unethical. I should use my pen to protect all people, not just black people. As a journalist, I see myself as being unworthy of the pen. I also feel like there aren't enough people out their protecting African-Americans with their pens.
While I was out in search of stories with my beat team members, I stood out. I wasn't the only minority, but I was the only African-American. I would see black people and they would stare holes into my heart. They would stare at me.
I would feel bad, like I shouldn't be in their presence. I go by my middle name because my first name is a little too ethnic for the world. If I could, I would introduce myself as Qiana Nichol Harps. I love my first name, but the world requires me to hide it.
I don't want to be written off as a sell-out. I also don't want to be unethical, looking at every story and asking myself how it affects African-Americans. I have a hard time looking out into the world because of what it has done to black people.
It's a burden that the community puts on those who succeed. Sometimes I feel bad that I have succeeded because of the many friends and family members who haven't. They blame the system. I blame their lack of knowledge and understanding of the system.
There are members of this community and my family who have more talent than I. Yet, there were circumstances that kept them from succeeding. This capitalistic notion of the "survival of the fittest" doesn't apply to those who didn't start the race at the same time everyone else did. In addition, it's not always about the choices you make. Some children have to suffer for the choices their parents made.
I know I shouldn't feel bad about that, but I shouldn't feel good about it either.
That's why I wanted to attend an HBCU, and it wasn't easy. I did have fewer resources than if I had attended the University of Georgia (a school with a 5 percent African-American student population) with my best friend. There were times when I wanted to leave because my financial aid papers were lost or the computer system was down, and yet I stayed. I never expected my life to be easy. I have learned that I will always have to work harder, cry less and keep getting up after being pushed down. I am aware, but I don't know if I'm ready.
Excuse Me, Which Way is Up?
I have to find my place. I have to find a place for my energy. And I have to find a place in my mind that will require me to use my pen to save and protect all people who need to be protected.
My mind is back at Wildwood: A little girl with pink shorts runs to catch up, laughing at something only she can see. I look at the sky, hoping another bird has been set free.
I've decided to fly back home. Not to stay, but to regroup and prepare to fly away. I'll decide how to break the news to my grandmother, later.
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