Becoming by Michelle Obama. And me. Patrick

I’m currently writing this from a bumpy road in the beautiful country of Tanzania with Michelle Obama recanting her final days in the White House in my ears. I’ve been listening to “Becoming” off and on for the past month or so and I’m absolutely amazed at how much I’ve taken from her life story. Something that has plagued my mind ever since about my second week in Cambodia is how truly unique I am to be doing this trip. This isn’t to say that I feel special in a beneficial way, rather it means that I am an anomaly in this world as a young queer African American traveling the world. While my trip has not been without its perils, the vast majority of my time  away from America has been absolutely astounding and eye opening in ways that I never imagined it would be. From meeting people from all over the world, to viewing cultures clashing and melding to create something beautiful, to even being party to varying cultures parsing their spiritual and intellectual independence from European colonization, I have seen, heard, and felt so much around the world, and I as of yet, and despite my ardent efforts, I’ve yet to find someone else like me to discuss it all with. This isn’t to say that there aren’t other African Americans who have traveled, or that there aren’t other gay Americans that have traveled, but most others haven’t traveled as long as I have, certainly not independently, and I hate it.

Three weeks ago, I had dinner with a friend of mine from college, and she asked me to describe a dominant feeling that has been pervasive during the latter part of my trip, and the only word that came to mind was anger. I’m not normally an angry person, as I normally view anger as a wasted emotion that is projecting some sort of sadness, but I couldn’t shake mine. To be honest, weeks later I’m still having trouble shaking it. I’m angry that there aren’t more people like me, I’m angry that I see so much of my culture worldwide but so little of us, I’m angry that we aren’t profiting from the ubiquitous of our culture like we deserve, I’m angry that African Americans still live such difficult lives, that most of us aren’t doing better than our parents or grandparents – despite the work of the Civil Rights Movement. I’m angry that little black gay boys are still routinely homes, many compelled to work in the sex industry, many still scorned and reviled by their families. I’m angry that despite all of our best efforts, many of us still fall through the cracks. I’m angry that there aren’t many Patrick Easleys.

I’m angry that I’m an anomaly.

Alas, less angry than I was a few months ago, thank God. Michelle Obama’s autobiography is the tale of another anomaly from Chicago. A black woman from the Southside who has managed, of her own volition, not only to be the first African American First Lady, but an accomplished lawyer and executive in her own right. Michelle manages to convey that even though she, herself, is amazing, her own success was just as much a result of luck and determination as it was talent or ability. I knew this. I know this, but it does mean something to hear someone like me say something similar to my own thoughts.

I’ve been listening to Michelle Obama’s audiobook for the past month or so, and I don’t think I’ve resonated with anything more. She speaks of her middle class upbringing in an economically declining African American community and how she, almost, happens upon success through her life. What resonated with me most is her awareness that she isn’t special – at least not innately. At any given moment upon her trajectory to greatness, she could have easily fallen into one of the numerous traps society has laid for her, with very little fault of her own, and she owns that while accepting the hard work that has begat her accomplishments. In becoming her greatness in “Becoming” Obama has inspired me to strive to become an inspiration myself. She reminded me of who I am, where I come from, and where I can go.

Getting back to my anger, I’ve come to the realization that my anger is, naturally, at white supremacy and white supremic frameworks at play in countries that don’t even have white people. From my very brief time in Africa,  it seems that Africans internalize white supremacy less than Asians do, but it’s still here nonetheless. I realized that for the first time in my life, I was also internalizing white supremacy. I realized it, and this just made me even angrier. While my childhood was certainly not the happiest, one thing that my parents did very well was instill a pride in being Black. Even as I saw the quality of life disparities between white and Black folk in Chicago, I was given reasons for this. Even as I experienced interpersonal racism, I was taught that this was a white people issue and most simply can’t help themselves – they’re products of their environments. I’ve never felt that it was bad being Black, ever. If anything I felt that it was a boon. Black folks are cool, and our lives are literally filled with song and dance. What’s there not to love? Then something happened in Cambodia, it’s like 400 years of marginalization hit me all at once. Like, every single statistic, every single police murder, every single slight, every single rape, every single imprisonment, every single slavery picture, every slur, everything that could be “bad” about being Black slapped me like a bag of bricks. I don’t know if it’s because I had to watch yet another Black man being murdered by the police with no legal recourse, or if some new stat of our stagnating upward mobility, or simply viewing how Cambodians internalized colorism and white supremacy, but I just felt bad in my skin and diminished in the world and I didn’t know who I could talk to about this because I didn’t know anyone else like me or anyone else who’d experienced what I’ve experienced. It was lonely, and for the first time, I was scared to live in the world as a Black man. Then came Michelle.

It’s terrible that the world almost brought me down, but I’m blessed to have access to the thoughts of my people to bring me back to where I need to be, anomaly and all. Just as Michelle Obama has given me the tools to find myself in this horridly unequal world, I too hope to provide some insights for the coming generations of Black minds. Who knows, maybe I’ll help some Black folks from the Northside, just as that Southsider had helped this Westsider. Maybe I can inspire some POC to strive to place white folk, not on a pedestal, but view them as the peers they are. Maybe I’ll give some anomaly the courage to power through, and if I do then I think everything I’ve gone through will be worth it, and everything We have, are, and will experience will give us a greater future. I know it will.