Christma
s 1969THE SETUP BY CYNTHIA RENEÉ
1969 DECEMBER “I loved Christmas Eve! I hated Christmas Eve! How could it be both and true? One lastreview of the now well worn Sears Roebuck toy catalog which arrived annually around lateAugust. Circled this and color coded stars by that to indicate priority…the sacred holidaybible shared by my sister and I was put to rest with great faith. How many of our pickswould be under the tree in the morning? After all, we’d done our work. The conditioning?Simple. “behave according to set expectations” and in doing so prepare to be accepted &rewarded by a kind, generous, happy mysterious old white guy. Every now and then Black Santa would show up on the scene, but usually only aroundpeople we knew. Never in public, at least not until a much later time in history as a peekinto the future will boast of indoor shopping, amusement parks and water slides. We werepretty sure it was the white one who made the major presents happen though. Wish lists to the famously obscure Saint Nicholas were excitedly dropped in theretracting mouth of the big blue corner mailbox weeks ago. Festive wreaths and colorfulstrings of tested lights were carefully placed just so; not only inside, but outside of the
house. The falling of dusk allowed full display of their shimmering beauty well into thenight. It was almost time! Had I proven myself worthy of my desires? Baths completed and one special package given for us to tear open early as anappetizer. Its traditional content, crisp new pajamas and this time a button-up robesignaling the official start of the countdown. Candle sticks lit and stockings securely hungon the edge of the fireplace. We baked cookies with mom to leave on the garland deckedmantle. This last minute detail of sweetness was carried out to ensure our heartfeltrequests would be taken into full consideration. I think my favorite to make and taste werethe powdered sugar splashed tea cakes. The soft white sugar reminded me of the quietlydropping snow rushing to gather on what was left of the carrot-nose we dined on from thesnowman we’d built earlier that day. So pretty were the crunchy, brightly colored particlesand candies that laced the gingerbread man and reindeer shaped sugar cookies liked bestby my sister. Being unsure which kind was favored by Santa, an assorted plate was left toaid in our petitions. Our household settled in. Off to bed and filled with the anxiety of anticipation, whocould sleep? Dad mined the music. Kept the sounds soft and low, but steady playing. Wedrifted off to The Jackson Five soulfully warning Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, theTemptations readied us for the Silent Night ahead, and Smokey Robinson said there wouldbe Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward All Men. The magic of Christmas along with all ofits assurances were in the air and I was a believer! First to wake well before sunrise following the special eve, like Harriet Tubman I stoleinto the hallways path to survey our tree lit, handmade ornamented, candy caned filled,holiday oozing house. My heart leaped in the air as my eyes feasted upon piles and pilesof glistening ribbons and bows pasted on stacks of shiny packages spilling out into everydirection from underneath the artificial pine needled treasure chest. I’d just witnessed thepromised land, and hurried to retrieve my sleeping family in order to lead them back andtogether share in what I now know was more of a fleeting mirage and temporaryappearance of freedom. Looking back, I was exactly 4.9 years old on that Christmas day with time ticking fast.The New Year rolled in with a customary well wish call from whatever celebration myparents were at. Reminders to behave for the babysitter were cemented with their wordwe’d find left-over souvenir party favors on the table in the morning. When the clockstruck twelve on the thirteenth day of that first month; five became my number. Three days
February 1970: Growing family and pressure prior the calendar read the eleventh, and notice by special delivery served my first neckjerking life chain yank. With a sudden raise in rank I am now the middle child. Completelyaware and recovering from shock due to the shift, i’m now paying full attention and thememory record button has been activated. Mentioning as a marker for adults to put a pinin about the youth of our nation. They are watching and recording. It sometime happenssooner, sometimes a little later, but after age five nothing was ever the same for me again. Fast forward to December 2018, and revisiting the ten year span beginning with thatJanuary of 1970, and beyond into the 80’s, I’m convinced without a shadow of a doubt thatI and many other black children had become victims of a Set Up carried out by ourparents, the government and society at-large. Each entity representing differentmotivations of intention, yet somehow in concert with one another, in spite of one anotherthey were all inter-connected and tethered to the same pole producing a solidly splinteredoutcome. Once again, contrasting ideas being both and true. To be fair in the assessment of my suspicions, I thought it necessary to gain a betterunderstanding of the social / political atmosphere during the year of my birth forward.A quick 1965 background study adding to what I already knew, and a stringing together ofsignificant events as they related to being a Black family in America oddly mirrored theforeground captured in a picture of today. Not more than a scratch beyond the surfacewas needed to create the clearings of confirmation received. To my horror but not surprise, I stumbled upon a long-form version of the U.S.Department of Labor published Moynihan Report. Initial discussions and writings for itironically took place on the holiday New Years Eve of 1964, and published March 1965.
It’s purpose: A national call to action about The Negro Family. Among its findings: “there isa considerable body of evidence to support the conclusion that Negro social structure, inparticular the Negro family, battered and harassed by discrimination, injustice, anduprooting, is in the deepest trouble. While many young Negroes are moving ahead tounprecedented levels of achievement, many more are falling further and further behind…At the heart of the deterioration of the fabric of Negro society is the deterioration of theNegro family. It is the fundamental source of the weakness of the Negro community at thepresent time.” Year of The Moynihan Report and I 2015 reflections of the aging report by The Atlantic shed even more light for me whenthere in writing, it stated “…However, the Johnson administration quickly disowned theMoynihan Report when it sparked heated debate after becoming public. Distracted by theVietnam War, Johnson never followed up his stirring (speech) rhetoric at Howard Universitywith significant new policies. The Moynihan Report became a lightning rod for civil-rightsactivists frustrated with Johnson’s inaction.” Truths of any matter especially when difficult to swallow are accompanied by an initialsting. This was more like a hemorrhaging bite, and along with it full understanding no firstresponders were willing to rush into the danger zone and tend to known life-threateningwounds. On the other hand, attempts to do so from within were often viewed asthreatening and thwarted by punishment with further oppression and even death. MedgarEvers, Fred Hampton, Harry & Harriett Moore, Malcolm X, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., andothers are haunting symbols of example by proxy.
Realizing all of this was taking place in those moments it made sense…my parents wereamong those attempting to beat high stakes odds. They were fighters in a battle more andmore soldiers were loosing, yet we as kids had no idea. Just about everyone around melived with or came from the same kinds of family structure I identified with. A dad andmom, siblings and perhaps extended family such as the stretch of time where we livedunder the same roof as my grandmother, great-aunt, and a whole family of cousin’sdownstairs. Of course there were variations of every kind of family, but for the most part,our family knew and socialized with other families especially relatives on both sides.According to documented facts this was not the case for the majority of Black Americanborn children, and as was projected in Moynihan’s prophetic report is uncommon andeven more highly unlikely today. Steeped in cultural heritage and intentionally woven into the fabric of a community, weknew who we were. My beginning life story was seemingly a well planned one wheregrooming pointed in the opposite direction than what social research expected as theoutcome for most black folk families. We didn’t fit the description of the national model ofa family sure to fail but by 1979, ours too had shifted, slid down the hill and off the cliff.Dissolved like a sugar cube sitting in a glass of water left in the sun from that season untilnow. Slowly evaporating memories of stronger, sweeter days and times. Our presumablysecure unit fell victim to the shattering, joining remnant shards of households across thecountry in the bucket of generational black family brokenness. The quest for participation within this society has conditioned the masses of ourcommunities to believe a certain amount of assimilation is required in order to obtain anaccepted or standard measure of success. It’s also been a very real element of the sameweight bearing indoctrination that we feel the Christmas holiday’s most important purpose
is rooted in especially the receiving of “stuff.” Are we focused on giving and receiving toomany of the wrong things to one another to the point where even a good thing at one timegoes bad? If we treated ourselves like that prized holiday toy book and made the rules thesame. Put in the work, walk in excellence and exhibit faith. We’d then receive the petitionsmade for our hearts desires…wouldn’t we? Lets examine what we’re saying, doing, andteaching. Quantifying the importance and power the institution of the black family contains hasbeen calculated, articulated and proven over time. It would be wise for us to begin toprioritize identifying true pressure points beyond poverty which have caused us tobecome less family strong. The inevitable result of not making change happen soon is WEwill be remembered much like the currently going out of business Sears with it’s formerlyfamous catalogs, household appliances and yard goods. “They once were here, but nowthey’re gone.“ Period. Happiness isn’t found in materialism on Christmas or any other day. The annual holidaydecorated tree at our house while now more bare at the base remains a tradition. Not inagreement with, or out of complete ignorance of it’s pagan origins; but rather as reminderto love deeply and to signify a safe house for family spirit passage. A silent beaconhonoring ancestral undergrounds of the past, carrying forward strengthening energy intothe future with each New Year. Thank you mom and dad for continuing to “do the work” with no guarantees ofrewarded outcomes not only as it has related to your children, but also in the streets andclassrooms of the village. You’ve given the best parts of yourselves with faith in creating thebest parts of who we all are especially at Christmas time. Fade to black.
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