In community after community there is a portion of the population that believes there is no reason to speak about racism. Some people think if we ignore skin color, we will rid ourselves of racism. Magically, it will somehow disappear. And yet, even in the most distinguished settings it slips in. It might take the form of 'Watermelonism.'
“Watermelonism” White People I Know What You’ve Done
My godmother invites me to her church in Manhattan Beach, California. The congregation is large, White, and affluent. We are the only two Black people there.
There is lunch after service. Members of the congregation have made different types of chili. The massive dining area smells delicious. The servers smile kindly as they plop their homemade concoctions on my plate. Everyone is warm, friendly, and inviting.
That’s when it happened.
I approach a buffet table where fresh, chilled fruit awaits — apples, oranges, the usual fare. Cherries. And then there’s the watermelon. I want the watermelon more than anything, but I know that I can’t have it. I am Black. I am male. I am the only relatively young, Black male here. As the sole representative of all that is Blackness I cannot be seen eating watermelon in a 99.99999999999999% White room. Hell, I can never be seen eating watermelon in public, period. It is an unwritten law of being a Black man — person — in America. It never had to be written because The Rules of Blackness in America have been passed down from the generations before us and engraved in our DNA:
Be well spoken.
Don’t be confrontational.
Never, ever eat watermelon in public.
I grab a few cherries.
“Cherries are just as good as watermelon,” I tell myself and desperately want to believe it.
My godmother grabs an orange.
I sit at a cozy circular table with my godmother and a few warm White people and have a pleasant conversation. It’s the usual Los Angeles talk. The Lakers. The weather. It has drizzled lightly for the last two days. I await someone questioning why the governor hasn’t called in the National Guard.
As I pick up one of my cherries to eat it a White woman at the table asks me, “Are they sweet?”
There was nothing condescending in her voice, sarcastic in her tone. She was not being facetious. She truly, out of the kindness of her heart, wanted to know or maybe she asked because she was thinking about getting some herself. Hell, maybe she grew them. I don’t know. Regardless, there was nothing about the question that made it a life changing moment, but it was a life changing moment.
Something inside of me snapped free, like an elephant realizing that the feeble rope wrapped around his neck had never been strong enough to hold him. A rage filled my heart. My mind exploded and what might be the greatest mindfuck by White America on Black people was revealed to me:
White people have made Black people feel bad — even self loathing — about eating watermelon so that they can have all of its deliciously sweet, fruity goodness for themselves.
I wanted to stand and scream as I raised a Black Power fist in the air, “I know what you’ve done!”
Instead I charged back to the buffet table and found the apples untouched, a dozen oranges, an uncountable amount of cherries, and one small pale piece of watermelon. There had been a huge bowl of watermelon twice the size of the other fruit containers and now it was all gone. I didn’t eat it. My godmother didn’t eat it, which means that the White people ate it.
My theory had been confirmed. White people love watermelon. Fuck, who doesn’t love watermelon? It’s a kid’s special treat. It makes picnics special.
“We’ve got watermelon.”
Cheers.
It’s a reward for special accomplishments.
“If everyone comes to the Science Fare, we’ll have watermelon on Friday.”
Perfect attendance.
Here I was within arm’s reach of a fruit delicacy and I had allowed myself to be Jim Crow’d out of it.
Never. Again.
Watermelonism — the oppression of African-Americans’ right to freely enjoy and eat watermelon without negative judgement and derision — must be stopped. Its roots are deep and its end starts one bite at a time. Because the seeds of oppression in all forms must be spit out in order for everyone to enjoy the delicious fruit of freedom.
The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of anyone who isn’t being satirical.
John Lee Fisher is a Street photographer and recovering development hell screenwriter. A graduate of the American Film Institute, Howard University, and an American living in China. | Follow John Lee Fisher on Twitter @JohnLeeFisher3
This piece was reprinted by EmpathyEducates with permission or license. We thank John Lee Fisher for his kindness and for speaking of what remains silent — we are affected by what is and is not said. We also wish to express our appreciation for Medium‘s, Culture Club and Curator, Felicia Megan Gordon.
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