On Church Hats And Such

Mood: Good
Music: Call Him Up (Can't Stop Praising His Name), Times Square Church

It may not have started with the fist bump, but that was certainly the story that caught our attention: Michelle Obama, greeting her husband on stage after it became clear that he would receive the Democratic nomination, offering her knuckles and a steadfast gaze. They bumped fists, and the media went into an uproar.

What was that? What does that mean? Is that new? Where did that come from? Is that something black people do? "Oh," breathed the black community at large. "They don't know about that?"

It happened again at the inauguration. Aretha Franklin appeared onstage in an ornate hat; five days later, the Washington Post is running the photo again, because everyone is still talking about it. It was so... different. Wasn't it? A little flashy?

I sat at a table last week with my sisters in ethnicity, and there were good natured eyerolls, accompanied by a smidgen of boredom. "Please," said one. "It's just a church hat."

Next, we howled when CNN flashed a question at the bottom of the screen, pondering whether or not Barack Obama had delivered for black people or not. I pointed out the time. "It's been more than twenty four hours since he took office, and I just want to note that so far he has done nothing for me. The jerk."

He is the first black president. Or, if you're splitting hairs, the first president of direct and recent African descent. Every move he makes is another first, and the man has caused enough breaking news segments to cause my pals working in newsrooms to weep. They are busy.

At that dinner, I offered my take to my sisters. "They don't know us," I said. "Not in this context. The country is getting to know us."

We are a nation of immigrants, a collection of people who abandoned their individual cultures to cobble out a new one together, christening our efforts in hot dogs and baseball and apple pie. We don't know each other, not really. We drive into our garages and hide most homages to our respective rituals behind closed doors. In public, we strive for sameness, bristling at the notion of fitting into stereotypes, regardless of whether the stereotype is positive, or true. That's why Michelle and Barack could bump their fists together and cause an uproar - it's not a gesture most blacks offer to someone outside the "family."

One of my coworkers, who is Jewish, told me how she restrains herself from pretending to spit on the ground when she hears bad news. The "pfft pfft pfft" is common in her family, but she doesn't do it at work. Someone might say, "Bob is late; I hope he wasn't involved in that pile up on the beltway," and she'll respond, "I hope not, too," instead of pffting away the horrible thought as she might have done at home.

Now we'll have forty eight months watching a minority family live in a glass house. There will still be some secrets; I doubt Michelle is going to invite the cameras when she gets the relaxer in her hair touched up or smoothes cocoa butter on her girl's knees to combat ashyness. But the nation will perhaps see more fist bumps, and more church hats. We'll probably see Malia and Sasha with their hair in twisted ponytails, that hallmark of hairstyles for little black girls.

Already, Barack stepped to a microphone at one of the balls and declared he'd better do some dancing "with the one who brung me", demonstrating the relaxed banter we use at home, and almost never in public, lest someone not realize we are kidding and accuse us of not knowing how to properly speak.

My sisters and brothers will marvel at the things that end up making the news. There will be a lot of smiling.

Come on inside; we don't bite. Clap your hands, move your feet, and let the choir sing.