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“That’s some real white people shit. They ain’t even black.”

How many times have you heard something like that? I have become so deeply accustomed to it. I hate it. I have heard it in South Africa. I have heard it here in America. I have heard it from my own mouth — indeed, I am guilty too. You know where I haven’t heard it from much? White people. This is black people limiting black people, and I can’t comprehend why we do it. There are as many ways to be black as there are black people. And I really don’t think I can say that enough.

“You’re black and you listen to THIS music? Wow.” But who gave anyone the power to define what it means to be black? The black musical tradition is certainly rich. There’s enough jazz, rap, hip-hop, and R&B to fill your ears and soul for many lifetimes. But if a black person wants to slap on some country, who are you or I to tell them that we no longer share an identity because of it? I don’t care if you, or even most of us, don’t like the music. I don’t care if a genre has even explicitly excluded black people from itself. We still don’t get to make that statement, and let me tell you why ...

There are as many ways to be black as there are black people.

“You’re black and you can’t even speak your language? Mxm.” But who gave anyone the power to define what it means to be black? Yes, South Africa has many languages to choose from. I miss them all, some days out here I really wish I couldn’t understand everyone’s conversation. But simply because someone has dark skin and never learned their native language does not entitle us to strip them of their heritage. I don’t care if it signals a lack of respect. I don’t care if you feel like that person is trying to distance themselves from their culture. We have no right to do that, and I will tell you why ...

There are as many ways to be black as there are black people.

“A black Republican? That sounds like an oxymoron.” But who gave anyone the power to define what it means to be black? Granted, the vast majority of black Americans are not Republicans. I am definitely a part of the roughly 84 percent of us who aren’t right now. But who gave the 84 percent of us the power to deny the identity of the rest. I don’t care if the policies that they support may hurt us or themselves. I don’t care if they are being used as tools by other politicians to justify their racism at times. We still don’t get to make that statement, and I. Will. Tell. You. Why.

THERE ARE AS MANY WAYS TO BE BLACK AS THERE ARE BLACK PEOPLE.

“How are you gonna be black and have hair like ... that?” But who gave anyone the power to define what it means to be black?! If it is natural and curly, someone will think your hair looks “nappy.” If it is not natural and straight, someone will think that you don’t love yourself. Heck, if it is naturally straight, you know someone is still going to persecute you. If it is uncombed, someone will think you look like a “savage.” If it is combed, someone will still think that you don’t love the way God made you. Lord knows that as a man I cannot even begin to process what it is like for black women, but I know that there is no such thing as pleasing everyone. And that is just hair. I don’t even have to bring in the light-skinned, dark-skinned dynamic or the mixed, non-mixed angle for you to get my point which is that: I don’t care what you think; no facet of appearance gives any of us the right to strip the identity of anyone else. And do I still even need to tell you why?

…

I understand the apprehension around expanding what it means to be black. I get that if we expand what we consider black, we expand that to some things or people that we may not want to consider part of the same group as ourselves. But that is not a choice we get to make. We don’t get to limit or take away identity. Haven’t we all felt enough of what being stripped of an identity can do to a person? I certainly think we have.

So who am I to define what being black is? No one. So I won’t. And who are you? No one. But I can no longer tolerate the limiting of that definition by any individual. There are as many ways to be black as there are black people.

Marcus B. Montague-Mfuni ’23, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Pennypacker Hall. His column appears on alternate Wednesdays.