Guess what . . .I have a BLACK CARD

Tonight sitting in my den as I do every night, I’m sitting and pondering what to write about for tomorrow. I have an idea but the words won’t come to me the way that I need them to. I’m so passionate about the subject of blackness and being a black woman, I took for granted that all of my readers were African American. Ignorance on my part. I’ve learned that I have some regular readers that are not black, which I think is phenomenal. Still I refuse to sugarcoat a thing. I don’t regret a word I’ve spoken about racial issues. Because black or white – racism still exists. My initial intent was to try my hand at explaining blackness to my white readers. Then I thought to myself, “Ashley, that’s like a dog trying to explain to a cat what it’s like to be a dog.” They don’t speak the same language. That cat will never understand the dog’s plight. People automatically having an innate fear because the dog barks and doesn’t meow. People thinking that it’s sharp teeth are merely for ripping flesh and not for eating plain old dog food. Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m not in any way likening BLACKNESS to being an animal – although we’ve been called animals for centuries, but I believe the same issues apply.
I’ll start with the fear scenario. A couple of days ago I emailed a young lady that had posted a listing that she needed a roommate. She immediately responded to what I’d said to her. I gave her the spill – 25 year old, college grad, professional job, looking to attend grad school in the fall, the whole nine. Person to person. Not black person to white person. Just simple human conversation. She seemed pleased and excited to meet with me. It was very urgent to HER that we get everything squared away, come see where I’d be living, discuss when she needed the security deposit – brass tax, basically. So I pull up to the house, knock on the door, and she opens it and her eyes become the size of baseballs. “You . . . you’re Ashley?” (No exaggeration) I wasn’t invited in. I had to ask if I could see the space that I was to be occupying. She reluctantly let me in and did her best to get me out of that house as soon as she could. I was fed the line . . . “Oh I have six other people that want to take a look so I’m not really sure what we’ll decide.” After having told me that it was mine for the taking. She was threatened by the fact that I didn’t look like her.
FEAR of the dog. The cat will never, never, never understand what that dog goes through. I can’t and never will be able to explain to my white readers what it means to be black. At first when you think about it, it’s frustrating. “You don’t get it! You just don’t get it!” But I stepped back and thought about the BLACK CARD. Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna start callin’ it. Let me explain really quickly. I’m sure you’ve heard of millionaires – namely celebrities acquiring Black Credit Cards – credit cards with no limits. This is a privilege. Credit companies don’t just hand these out like candy. You’ve got to be able to handle (from a financial standpoint) what possessing one of these cards comes with. The responsibilities that it brings. You gotta protect it so no one else gets their hands on it. It’s a prize and you often hear people that have them boast about the fact that they do. On February 12, 1983 I was handed a BLACK CARD, a card with no limits and endless possibility but a hell of a lot of responsibility. Being black is a prize to me. Something to brag about. I take pride in my BLACKNESS. I was worthy enough to be dealt a BLACK CARD . . . because I can handle it. It’s a privilege to be black. I’ve made it big because I have a BLACK CARD. Call it an opinion if you want . . . but it’s my truth. Thanks for reading.