OUR VOICES: Enjoying a road less traveled

By Kenneth L. Hardin

I’m not the man I used to be and it’s not because of any life-altering event like a poor medical diagnosis or spiritual awakening. It’s based solely on being hit upside my head continuously with a lifetime of vicious blows of hate, discrimination, bigotry, bias, denial, nullification and exclusion. I don’t recognize the guy in pictures of me when I was 20 years old. I don’t know who he is anymore. As a young adult, I used to be a fun-loving, carefree man-child who was ignorant of so many issues that would later impact and shape me. I was clueless as to who I was and worked hard to maintain it. I wanted to love everyone without realizing there would be those who hated me simply because of the color of the uniform I was issued on my born day. My poor social consciousness visual acuity rendered me blind to the complexities of life associated with the skin I was in and how the indignities would later impact me. It didn’t take long after falling hard into the realities of life in my late 20s, after I returned home to the unforgiving south from traveling on Uncle Sam’s dime, to realize I didn’t feel the same level of love from society as I did in the protective bubble of my parent’s home or under the auspices of my government-issued life. Returning home 40 years ago, I thought it would be like a fun game of Double Dutch and I would just jump back in the rotation of the jump rope and life would be as it was as a freewheeling 19-year-old. Nope, I was on the receiving end of so much hate and vitriol from people. I didn’t know how to handle it and took extreme measures to find where I fit in. Initially, I felt it was my duty and responsibility to make white people feel comfortable with me. I wore non-threatening clothes and tried to carry myself similarly both in speech and behavior, but that didn’t appear to stop the hate. I attended Nation of Islam meetings and started reading the original and new Black Panther Party’s literature. Yes, I was the epitome of the angry Black man. When I look back on my writing career in the early 90s, I see the anger and passion in my words, but today, I see maturity and growth. In the 90s, I had no one to turn to nor anyone to guide me through the fog of hate. So, I took it upon myself to handle it, and at times I did so poorly. Nearing the end of the decade, I was disillusioned and exhausted both mentally and emotionally. I had a growing family with young children and knew I had to take a different road, one that they wouldn’t have to follow me down. After entering the business world, hate didn’t cease, it just got more sophisticated. As I started what would become a 20-plusyear career working in hospital leadership roles around the country, I began to intellectualize my response to the hate bombs thrown at me. The corporate me still believed in Malcolm more than Martin, and it reflected in my writings, but my approach was more diplomatic. I sought reasoning and understanding more than physical and verbal retaliation. But I always let the suits know I still had a little bit of hood in me and to not allow the bow ties and suspenders to mislead them. In the white-collar world, I falsely believed I wouldn’t be treated poorly because of my skin hue, but the only difference is they do it with a smile, a potted plant, a nice office and a welcome basket. Then you’re bombarded with the “You speak so well,” and “I love how you dress” comments that make weak skinfolk feel they’ve arrived. I never got that comfortable, but in the early to mid-2000s, I learned the game and saw that a duality had to exist if you wanted to survive and advance. By my 40s, I had climbed the corporate ladder but didn’t like the view from up there. There were few if any people who looked like me, and those who did, didn’t think like me. My tolerance level for the game was gone and I was spending more time looking for a quiet exit. In 2015, I found one and have never looked back. The 59-year-old me today got off that road of self-discovery completely. I no longer try to understand anyone’s warped views on race and ethnicity.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.