It’s a blessing to be able to write this post. And it’s almost a miracle that you’re able to read it. I recently celebrated a birthday. That’s right, 27 years ago my mother was 45 and pregnant. The risk of a miscarriage for women at age 20 is 1 in 10. And at age 45 it’s 1 in 2. The CDC released those numbers in 2008. Needles to say, I was a health hazard from the start. (Ironically enough, my mom would still say the same thing today).
A couple years ago I asked my mom if she ever considered having an abortion. She said that a specialist she went to see mentioned abortion as an option and she politely declined. My mother’s pregnancy wasn’t planned. But my birth was celebrated.
Still, it wasn’t until having already suffered through anxiety disorder, panic attacks and living through the complete crumbling of my parent’s marriage, that I realized God was only beginning to test my faith in Him.
I didn’t come to college a radical. But I found it easier just to go along and get along. I was 21 when I realized the painful price of my convictions. I had found myself at a party being persecuted by close friends for my political opinions. It was then that I realized that tolerance amongst the Left is a myth.
But I was already sick of the schizophrenia. I had grown weary of the game; the seemingly existential exhaustion with all things race-related. It’s not that I didn’t have reverence for or recognize the history of black people in America. No. I left the Liberal Plantation because the pressure of a senseless racial identity that I was expected to squeeze into was cold, corrupt and false.
This was a new beginning.
I eventually found myself speaking all over the country, in front of the oldest and whitest white people I could find. And they loved me, for me. I didn’t have to be afraid. I didn’t need to fake the funk. There was no Faustian bargain. Gone was that impotent pretense that plagues so many of my black friends: that because of America’s racist history we (blacks) are forever victims and should never be expected to be held to a high academic or socioeconomic standard. What a load of crap.
Honestly, I’ve never felt freer.
I only had a handful of conversations with Andrew. After arguing about who had the most affinity for Justice Thomas (I always thought that I won that debate having been born and raised in Savannah Ga.), Andrew made me promise him that I would never stop fighting.
I’m going to keep that promise. Join me.