I saw Public Enemy perform in '89.
I saw Louis Farrakhan speak in '90.
I read Malcolm’s autobiography long before Spike Lee inspired urban youth to don “X” caps.
I read Eldridge Cleaver. I listened to KRS-One. I wore Fila sneakers and bathed in Hip Hop culture.
I could recite the tenets of the Black Panther party.
I winced at political incorrect comments.
I argued in favor of affirmative action.
I favored quotas.
I felt shame for the pain inflicted on Black America by my fellow white devils.
I wallowed in cultural guilt.
I would defend any pro-black statement. And argue with anyone who downplayed racial inequality in our country.
At some point I realized it was not my fight.
True, the world is unfair.
And history is littered with injustice.
But I am not a black man. And nobody asked me to stick up for them.
In the end, dignity must be seized. It cannot be a handout.
Regardless of how much the world has stacked upon him, every man must stand up on his own.
It doesn’t empower someone to fight their battle.