Delta OriginalChapter 22 The European Unity
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My name is Cynthia Wilson. And I’m the whitest black chick you’ve ever met. Tall, slender, brown-skinned and green-eyed. The daughter of a biracial businessman and an African-American supermodel. I was born into wealth and privilege, and I’m sorry to say that I was quite stuck-up because of that. Also, I was one of those privileged black women who looked down upon the less fortunate. Lots of rich black men and rich black women look down on poor black people. It’s not just white women and white guys. Class can be as a big a gap as race between different groups of people. Let no one tell you otherwise. I want to share with you the story of how I fell from grace, found my strength and found love in the most unlikely of places.
The time was 1993. I was twenty one years old, a junior at Northeastern University in Boston. My father, Walt Wilson is one of the wealthiest businessmen in Massachusetts. He’s part Irish and part Puerto Rican. And he owns Wilson Enterprises, the biggest shipping company in New England. He inherited it from his father, a blue-blooded Irishman named Byron Wilson. My mother, Athena Wilson is the Founder of The Stand, the premiere black professional magazine in America. Focusing on the lives of the Black Middle Class. I was leading the easy life of a blue-blooded rich brat in Boston, the most artificial town in the United States of America. There are more fake people per square mile in the city of Boston than anywhere else in America except maybe Los Angeles. Life was good. Then one day, an intruder came into my world.
His name was Angelo Mabuso, and he was a student from South Africa. A tall, good-looking young black man who fled to America with his family to escape the horrors of Apartheid. Today, South Africa is ruled by black men and black women. Apartheid is no more. South Africa is now an economic powerhouse ruled by the true owners of the land, the brown-skinned sons and daughters of the African Motherland. Back in those days, life was quite different for black men and black women in South Africa. White men and white women in South Africa controlled everything. And they abused the black men and black women who lived in that country. They saw themselves as demigods ruling over an inferior people. Fortunately, their rule came to an end and black people took over South Africa. Nelson Mandela became the Republic of South Africa’s first black president. And this marked the beginnings of better times, socially and economically, for black people in that country.
Angelo Mabuso was on an academic scholarship at Northeastern University. At first glance, I thought he was just another African-American college athlete. The kind who dominate the college football and basketball arenas. But he wasn’t. He was one of the top academic luminaries ever to grace Northeastern University with their rarified presence. A true genius. He took five classes per semester at Northeastern University, majoring in Criminal Justice and yet he worked two jobs to support his family. Listening to him speak about his experiences in South Africa, he began to fascinate me. I’ve never met anyone like him before. So intelligent, refined and strong. He’d been through hell yet he didn’t allow it to turn him bitter.
At Northeastern University, I surrounded myself with my fellow BAP. What is a BAP? Black American Princess. The daughters of wealthy black families. There are quite a few of us in New England. And we attend predominantly white schools like Northeastern, Boston University, Suffolk University, Boston College, Harvard and MIT. Going where few black people have ever been. And we shine at these institutions. Dazzling the people there with our intelligence and wit. Show the rich white students that their black counterparts can hold their own against them. By driving around in my expensive car and flashing my expensive jewelry in the faces of white people, I saw myself as a champion of black equality. Yet I didn’t know anything about the real world. I lived in Oak Bluffs, the wealthy black enclave of Martha’s Vineyard. I grew up surrounded by the sons and daughters of the Black Elite. What did I know of the real world?
Angelo Mabuso was the man fate chose to teach me about the real world. This tall, good-looking young black man from South Africa. The one with the kind eyes and the wickedly sexy smile. I was drawn to him. Unlike many of the black college men I knew, he was quiet and thoughtful. A soft-spoken, dignified gentleman to the core. I noticed that he was often alone. That was a surprise. I thought a man with his looks and smarts would be taken by now. A lot of the white chicks at Northeastern University relentless pursue the black sportsmen, especially football and basketball players. I would have been really upset if one of them got their hooks into Angelo Mabuso. Fortunately, I didn’t see him with any of the white chicks. Or any chicks for that matter. No Latin women. No Asian honeys. No sisters. No white chicks. That kind of worried me. Did Angelo like women? I have nothing against gays and lesbians but it saddens me when I see a tall, good-looking black man who’s got everything a sister wants in a man yet he’s into men. Such a shame, you know?
I decided to find out a bit more about the sexy Angelo Mabuso. I followed him to the school’s law library one afternoon. He was sitting in a corner by himself, typing up an assignment on his typewriter. I observed him for a while, then decided to ‘accidentally’ bump into him. My elbow nudged his ribs while I walked by and he looked up from what he was typing. He looked me up and down, then raised his eyebrows. Smiling, I apologized for bumping into him. He smiled and told me everything was alright. Then he seemed to realize something. I waited, and it came to him. Duh. I was in his ethics class. Angelo smiled at me, and told me he found my last class debate over the definitions of weak and strong in urban management to be enlightening. I laughed at that, and casually pulled up a chair. I stunned the class last week when I brought up topics like white flight and gentrification as unending problems for black people and white people in urban America. I’ve never been one to steer away from controversy. My father and mother raised me to speak my mind.
Angelo and I chatted about race, politics, and about the differences between African-Americans living in North America and the ever-increasing flux of African immigrants from Continental Africa. We also talked about more fun things. I asked point blank why he didn’t have a steady girlfriend. Angelo told me that he didn’t have the time, and that most of the black women at Northeastern left him cold. Only the white chicks seemed interested in him but he wasn’t into them. He was an African gentleman whose ageless tribal traditions required him to respect the ladies and also be respected by them in return. The South African ethnic group his tribe belonged to were mainly matriarchal. He grinned and told me he liked his women just like he liked his coffee. Hot, strong and black. I smiled at that. I’m glad to see a good-looking, educated black man who still likes the sisters.
I’m afraid Angelo didn’t get his assignment done that night, but I don’t think he minded. We exchanged phone numbers, and began to see each other outside of class. We would meet at the student center for coffee dates, and sometimes walk around Boston together. Angelo was fascinated by Boston. Especially the Harbor islands. He also loved rowing and swimming. He even joined the men’s swimming club at the university. He told me that back home, boats were used as a means of travel between long distances. His tribesmen were experts at rowing and swimming. So much for the stereotype about black people not being into aquatic sports. Angelo could swim circles around the best that Northeastern University’s swimming program had to offer. Is there anything this man can’t do?
I think Angelo can do anything he sets his mind to. That’s why I fell in love with him. I met his family. His father, Ada
m Mabuso worked as train operator with the MBTA. His mother Elsie was a homemaker. His younger brother Alexander attended one of the local high schools. They lived in the town of Brockton, a half hour’s drive from downtown Boston. They were warm and friendly, but looking into their eyes I could see that they had been through hell. From Angelo I learned about the horrors of apartheid. In South Africa, racist white men and racist white women treated black people like second class citizens. They told where they could and could not live, and so on. They were cruel tyrants. Living in America, I was quite familiar with racism. However, there are laws and policies against racial discrimination in America. In South Africa, freedom was a memory for many black people. The racist white establishment down there was dedicated to keeping them down economically and socially. Even though black people outnumbered white people in South Africa by such a wide margin it’s not even funny.
Black people in the United States of America continue to endure a lot, and there are many racist white people in positions of power. However, we’re slowly making a lot of progress. Our numbers are on the rise, for one thing. In large cities like Atlanta and Detroit, we outnumber white people. We’re attending rich white schools in significant numbers. We’re making our presence known in corporate America. Several white towns have elected black mayors and black chiefs of police. We have black congressmen now, even in the deeply racist South. Yes, I think black people are going to make a lot of progress in the 1990s. Maybe someday soon we’ll have black senators and black governors, or even a black president of the USA! Ah, that would be the day.
My relationship with Angelo Mabuso was changing me in profound ways. He invited me into his inner circle. The very select group of high-achieving African immigrants attending rich white schools in the New England area. I met black men and black women from continental Africa who were attending Harvard University, Brandeis University, Norwich University, and MIT. They were a unique bunch. Navigating their way through the contradictions of American education and racial politics. I was fascinated by these people. They had been to many places. They had seen the world. They knew so much about life. And they were authentic sons and daughters of Africa. I’ve lived in Massachusetts my whole life. I’ve attended rich white schools my entire life. I didn’t know jack about my African roots. The only black people I socialized with were rich black brats from backgrounds similar to mine. I found myself in awe of these strong and authentic people. They were so real, yet so unassuming. These living vestiges of the African motherland. A place I’ve never seen. One I’ve only heard described in books, television and movies. And always from a white person’s viewpoint. Never from the viewpoint of a true African.
I began to ensconce myself into this small but vibrant enclave. I stopped hanging out with my blue-blooded friends. One day, Angelo asked to be introduced to my family. That sent me into a panic. Don’t get me wrong. I love Angelo. However, I’m not sure my parents would like him. They’re not the most open-minded people in the world. Angelo would strike them as a radical. He had many strong views about racial politics and racism. He saw America’s people, both black and white, as pampered. According to him, we didn’t know what true oppression and true hardship were. He mocked the black men and black women he saw dating white women and white men. When I questioned him about it, he told me that living in South Africa taught him that racism lived in everyone’s hearts. He didn’t trust the descendants of his people’s oppressors and he could never choose one to be his mate. I’m not thrilled about the large number of black guys dating white women. No black woman is thrilled about that. However, I could care less what some random black guy does. I have my life to live.
Angelo didn’t think white men and white women could truly love anyone who wasn’t white like them. According to him, when white women and white men dated black men and black women, they were under the influence temporary jungle fever or mild curiosity and nothing more. They didn’t understand us. They could never relate to our struggles. They couldn’t love us even if they wanted to. We endured hardship while they led sheltered lives. Not saying they were all rich but they were free from the ravages of racial prejudice. White men and white women didn’t get lynched by the Powers That Be or hounded by the abusive authorities. This never happened to them. In Angelo’s eyes, blacks and whites weren’t separate races. They might as well be different species.
Listening to him, I found myself questioning a lot of things. What did being black meant to me? I lived in a mansion on Martha’s Vineyard. My neighbors in Oak Bluffs were wealthy black people. He was an authentic black man from Africa. He’d lived the horrors of racial prejudice in the extreme. His family fled the Republic of South Africa because the racist white government harassed any black person who refused to bow to their tyranny. I considered myself lucky to have been born in America. And I had wealthy parents. Most African-Americans didn’t have the opportunities I had. Wealth and power insulated me from the effects of racism. And my father had an army of lawyers waiting in the wings should anyone dare mistreat me in any way.
Angelo didn’t have such luxuries. I grew up in a place where black people and white people were considered equal, at least on paper. I saw black people and white people dating. In racist South Africa, interracial relations were outlawed. Black men who had relations with white women in South Africa risked their lives. In liberal Boston, most people didn’t care if some white chick had a black boyfriend. Some white people minded but most of them knew better than to say anything. Having been through all he’d endured, maybe Angelo had a right to be distrustful of whites. After all, I couldn’t imagine living in a country where white people told black people where they could or could not live. In America, it’s all about the money. If you’ve got it, you can do whatever you want. In South Africa, even the few black people with money didn’t have the luxuries that wealthy African-Americans in the USA took for granted.
The more time Angelo and I spent together, the further apart we drifted. I began to feel unwelcome in the group. The Africans didn’t welcome the Black American Princess into their midst anymore. Angelo saw me as unrealistic, pampered and sheltered. And I saw him as bitter and unwilling to let things go. This drove a wedge between us, and we stopped seeing each other. I began to avoid him. Maybe everybody else was right. We were too different. We came from two different worlds. I’m sorry but I like my family. And I like being rich. I like having money. And I like living in Oak Bluffs, surrounded by rich black people. I don’t like to hear about black people’s problems. I’m not a hero. I’m not a saint. I’m not a role model. I just want to live my life. Is that so frigging wrong?
I began to get back to being myself. I let my obsession with Angelo Mabuso and the African motherland fade away. I went back to hanging out with my regular friends. From time to time, I ran into Angelo. In those times, we were both polite but distant. I even began dating someone else. His name is Tyrone Jameson. MVP of the Northeastern University varsity football team. He’s half Irish and half African-American. Yet another biracial stud finding glory on the gridiron. I know. Earlier, I said I don’t like black college athletes. Well, I made an exception for Tyrone. He was cute. Also, we came from similar backgrounds. His family hailed from Atlanta and they recently moved to Boston. They’re millionaires too. After all my talk about black originality and all that, I traded my African prince for an African-American football stud.
The next time I saw Angelo, he was graduati
ng. Yeah, he had his bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice from Northeastern University. And he graduated at the top one percent of his class. The top law schools in the area, from Harvard Law to Boston College Law School wanted. Of course, he’d automatically get into Northeastern University’s Law School. Us Huskies stick together, after all. Angelo Mabuso did something few had ever done. And he was all over the television news for it. The top African student at Northeastern University’s Criminal Justice Program turned down Harvard Law School. The twenty-two-year-old wanted to go to South Africa and help end Apartheid instead. Reporters from all over interviewed him. Hell, his picture even graced the cover of Black Enterprise Magazine. Ebony Magazine even did a feature on him. All of a sudden, Angelo’s picture was everywhere. Black women all over the country were fawning over him. And more than a few white chicks too, I think.
I don’t know why but the idea of Angelo Mabuso returning to South Africa didn’t sit right with me. Even in the 1990s, news traveled fast. He was now an international celebrity thanks to New England television reporters. The racist South African establishment knew he was coming. And they’d be waiting for him. Angelo and I are not right for each other. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. The day he showed up at Logan Airport to board a flight to his country, there was a lot of media present. I worked my way through the crowd of reporters and admirers, mostly black activists and forlorn young women, both black and white. Finally, I stood less than two feet away from him. That’s when he saw me. He looked at me and smiled sadly.
All around us, the reporters were picking up on what was going on. They sensed that Angelo and I knew each other. Throwing caution to the wind, along with my pride, I begged Angelo not to go. Everyone was looking at us. The reporters were filming the whole thing. Angelo took my hands in his and kissed me on the forehead. Then he calmly told me that this was something he had to do. Africans from all over the world were returning to South Africa in droves to bring down the racist white establishment once and for all and end the evil regime of Apartheid. He wanted to be a part of it. I had tears in my eyes when he hugged me for the last time. Then he stepped through the corridor leading to the plane, but not before waving goodbye to all his fans and supporters. The media applauded this brave young black man who walked away from the path of fame and fortune to fight for justice.
I stood there, and watched him go. I knew then that I would never seen him again. Angelo and the other blacks returning to South Africa succeeded in putting enough pressure on the racist white establishment and ended Apartheid in 1994. He stood by Nelson Mandela’s side when he became the first black president of South Africa. I saw him on television. He shook the wise old man’s hand, and they shared a manly hug. It was a great photo op, one that was flashed on the front cover of newspapers around the world. I don’ t know what became of Angelo Mabuso after that. Maybe he found himself a great black woman to marry. Or maybe he’s doing what he once told me he’d do. Traveling the world fighting against racial discrimination and prejudice. Ending the evils of Euro-centric imperialism and racism. He’s a hero, after all. I’m just an ordinary woman. Some love stories don’t have happy endings.
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