Kathy Barnette - Nothing to Lose, Everything to Gain: Being Black and Conservative in America

W e are all the sum of many parts, places, people, and experiences that together make us who we are. We are not our own. For me, the words and deeds of past generations still speak in my life today. Like handprints in dried cement, I am a composite of indelible impressions made by many people, some of whom Ive never met.

I was reminded of this when someone once asked me, Kathy, who has influenced you to become who you are? Given my background and ethnicity, the questioner wanted to know how I, a black woman, had arrived at the conservative convictions I wear so loudly and proudly on such topics as economics, politics, theology, and culture.

At the time, I hadnt given the question much thought. So, with the sincerest heart I replied, Jesus!

In my mind, it almost seemed as though my journey had been a natural progression of thingsbecoming a Christian at nineteen, finishing college, marrying the love of my life, buying our first home, having children, planning play dates. It all seemed so natural. After much reflection, however, I realized it is anything but a natural ebb and flow of life that has landed me where I am today. Many times I had to swim against the current, and I had to do so alone.

At that particular moment the question was asked, I had never stopped long enough to examine all of the odds that were stacked against me. The odds surrounding my birth. The probabilities associated with an impoverished start in life. The impossibilities of me ever overcoming the pervasive and false narratives that would have me believe that because Im black, Im a victim. After much time and with great consideration of my journey in life, I realized my answer to the gentleman was incomplete.

In part, it was a true response. But not in whole. With the benefit of some time to contemplate the question, I now realize the correct answer is that many people have influenced me.

So before we jump into , let me first walk you through a few of the influences and people who have had some part in me becoming who I am. This book is birthed both from my past and from my hope for the future, especially my hope for the future of black America.

I grew up on a very small farm in southern Alabama in a one stop-sign town in a restful and rustic corner of the world. Among many things on that farm, we raised pigs and chickens, and since we always had a raccoon or two in the backyard, I guess we raised them, too. There were about ten families in our small community. None of us were rich. In fact, we were whats known as dirt poor. Yet, without question, I had the best childhood ever. I often lament not being able to give my own children such a childhood.

As a child, I never knew just how poor we really were, nor did I even think of us as poor. When my grandmother Hattie would ask me to help her in the garden, I thought she just wanted to spend quality time with me. I never knew it was for our survival. If we ever wanted greens or beans on our plate, it had to come from the effort of our own two hands.

From these people in our communitymy peopleand from that small spot on the map, I learned the valuable lesson of what it means to be a part of the black community. I learned it has nothing to do with the style of my hairwhether its natural or processed. I learned that sharing in the black community has nothing to do with how far my sons pants sag, or if I speak just the acceptable amount of broken English, or if I vote in a certain predictable way. Nor is my membership in the black community predicated on how easily I can tie my emotions back to slavery or how much of a victim mentality I can adopt because my ancestors didnt have the advantages I have today.

Instead, I was taught that the black community is a village. Were not invisible. We see each other. Were not alone. We share a common destiny. Our fate, in many ways, is tied to our collective success. Were all engaged in the same battle. We take care of our own. I remember that when I was a child, if I did something less than honorable while I was away from my family, rarely could I make it down the hill from church and back to my grandmothers house without at least six of the ten families reporting my mischief to her before I walked through the front door.

I learned I did not belong to myself. I didnt even belong only to my parents. I was obligated to live well because to do otherwise reflected poorly on our village. I was obligated to be respectful to my eldersnever would a child dare call an elder by their first name. It was always Yes, maam and No, sir. We gave deference whether it was earned or not.

As the granddaughter of farmers, I saw my grandparents up early working in the fields, sowing seeds with full expectation that their efforts wouldnt be in vain. I saw my grandfather slaughter a hog and then go from house to house sharing portions of his bounty with others. It wasnt uncommon to awaken in the morning to find anonymous bunches of collard greens on our front porch. One family borrowed sugar, another borrowed rice. We shared. We often had extra people at the dinner table. I had more play cousins than I could count. We were all a part of a larger family.

My brothers and I lived with my mother and maternal grandmother. Among the many luxuries we lacked was the comfort of running water. In addition to having to traipse out to a dark and gloomy outhouse in the backyard that promised to suck me in if I sat on it, we also had a well on the side of the house for our drinking water.

That well was revered by children and adults alike. It was old. It seemed to me as a child that one false move would cause that decrepit contraption to crumble and I would fall to my ultimate demise. It dared me to come closer. It beckoned me to look over its rickety railings into the dark chasm below. Every child I knew passed by it with at least a ten-foot margin of space.

You can imagine my wild-eyed amazement when I saw my paternal grandfather, Charles, sitting in a chair, dangling over the mouth of that well, being lowered down into the belly of the beast. Our eyes met. No, Granddaddy!