Blog Post:

Fun fact: I love museums. I love them! Museums are a visual representation of the relationship between history and culture.

My love for museums runs so deep that it's usually the determining factor for whether or not I'll visit a certain place. I've been to every type of museum imaginable: the Museum of Sex in NYC, the National Museum of Toys & Miniatures in KC (formerly the Toy and Miniatures Museum), American Indian Museums in NYC and DC, Museum of African Art (I've been to every museum in the Smithsonian so I'll spare the list), Museum of Crime and Punishment (DC has some heavy hitters), Field Museum in Chicago, Museum of Science and Industry, Science City and Science Center (KC and STL, respectively), and the list goes on and on and on.

Until September 2016 (when the museum opened, our museum) one museum always stood out. It was #1: The National Museum of American History. It was the first museum I visited when I moved to Washington in 2010 and remains a place that I show off to family and friends who visit. Of the many exhibits that have graced its floors in the time since we were first introduced, there was one that left me completely awestruck. "The Star-Spangled Banner: The Flag That Inspired the National Anthem" is an exhibit dedicated (obviously) to the American flag. As someone who loves my country (more on this in a second), as well as history, I can remember how I felt when I first saw the massive flag lying in its case. It was tattered and was more: red, beige, and blue, but my heart swelled with pride and my eyes welled with tears. I was incredulous. As I approached the end of the exhibit, I saw the original transcript of the song and the pictures of the musical icons who recreated it. Hearing Jimi Hendrix's rendition mixed with Whitney's voice was the perfect end to an incredible exhibit. I remember proudly thinking,

"We (Black people) did that! We always make things better."

Fast forward to May 2, 2017. My thirtieth birthday. THE museum was still handing out timed passes and I didn't get them in time, so I went to my second favorite. I revisited the Museum of American History. There were some new exhibits on display, so I was pleased. I marveled at Ella Fitzgerald's musical accomplishments and saw the china that most of the first ladies had during their time at the White House*. I stood behind the presidential podium and smiled brightly when another guest remarked, "That looks like the perfect fit for you!"

Then I went back to see the grand ole flag. That high-flying flag. I've been back several times since my first so I wasn't expecting the same tear-producing feeling, but I certainly didn't expect the feeling I felt this time: disgust. As I stared at the flag, still red, beige and blue, I thought about what it truly stood for. What our country truly stands for, and became enraged.

In the time since 2010, sure we reelected President Obama, but this country also elected Donald Trump four years later. In the time since 2010, #blacklivesmatter became a demand and in turn, so did the disrespect of #alllives and #bluelives. Since 2010, this country has done more to show me that it hates me, despite my love for it.

You see, I love my country. Not in some, "God bless the USA and no place but" kind of way, but it is mine. I love the US in the same way that Black Southerners loved the south despite the centuries of degradation and hate. It has been said before, but my ancestors built this country. Others were here before Columbus. This land is my land. My homeland.

So then the question becomes, "What do you do when the love and pride you feel isn't returned?” Patriotic Black Americans are in an emotionally, mentally and sometimes physically abusive relationship with our country. One day she says she loves us by embracing our culture and electing officials who look like us, the next, she’s wining and dining our murderers, turning a blind eye to justice, and reinforcing the systems created to prevent our growth.

America is one controlling lover.

But like all abusive relationships, America’s main problem is insecurity and a lack of self-respect. “I’m afraid they’ll leave…” she wonders as she stares in the mirror. “Who would I be without them?” “They’ve given me so much; they’ve shaped my identity.”

See, America won’t acknowledge the horrors and evils of slavery, the dehumanization of Blacks through Jim Crow laws, intentional mass-incarceration, poor education, food deserts, etc. because she’s afraid of what will happen when she does. Accountability. And with accountability comes a true reflection in the mirror. America’s insecurities will be on full-display and for the first time, she’ll be forced to confront them.

America's not there yet. She's not that emotionally mature.

Nevertheless, we persist.

We fight. We contribute. We create. And like Beyonce', we'll be damned if we see someone else benefitting from our struggle. However, unlike Bey, we have no one else to turn to. All we have is America.

This is our home...our land.

So again, what do you do when the one you love doesn't love you?

I write.

Dear America,

This is one last plea. We love you in spite of yourself. No matter how you try to sabotage our relationship, we truly believe that you actually have what it takes to be great for the first time in 241 years. We never forget your birthday, although you always seem to forget ours (it's June 19th, by the way). We need you to change. For us and our children, but most importantly, for yourself.

I leave you with the words of one our greats, Langston Hughes: "Negroes, sweet and docile, meek, humble and kind. Beware the day, they change their mind!"

Get your shit together.

Xoxo,

Black America

*The curators move quickly. I could've gone without seeing Melania and Donald Trump's faces for at least a year. It's like rubbing salt in a wound.