Celine Dion, Mali and Black Identity

I find myself walking down the dusty red path of Djoumanzana; a “suburb” if you will of Mali’s capital city of Bamako.  It’s night time and the only light available is that of the occasional passing motorcycle and the glare radiating between dark bodies huddled around the television set outside of the local corner store; villagers gawking over the translated South American soap operas.  I continue down towards my residence, tired from the long day of working at the Radio Kayira rooftop garden.  Across from my place I see a set of brothers in their early twenties chilling on woven chairs in quiet conversation.  I’ve seen them before and they wave me over to come and sit with them.  I oblige.  I look at each of them and although it’s dark; I see their eyes beeding with interest and it’s funny because each one of them reminded me of one of my friends back home whether it be in appearance or demeanour.  After having some tea and good conversation, which is a great social Malian ritual called “le Grain”, there is a moment of silence; and then it happened.  One of the brothers, cool as ever, dressed in jeans and a sports jersey, idly plays with his cellphone and presses a button and smiles at me.  Then from the cellphone I hear her voice. Celine Dion.  Celine Dion.  His smile is huge now, he lifts his arm up and points to the sky simultaneously with her silky high note.  He nods at me, as though he expected me to know the words, as though Celine Dion is at the top of my ipod playlist, as though I have a larger than life poster of her in my apartment back home in Montreal.

« Comment sont les concerts de Celine Dion? »

« Ummm…je ne suis jamais aller. »

Ackward moment of silence.

« Yo, Celine Dion est la meilleure .» (never had I heard the term YO and Celine in the same sentence…I was speechless.

« Ummm…oui, elle est la meilleure.. »

What else was I supposed to do but agree with him? He was so convinced and his boys seemed to nod in agreement.  Now, those who know me know I have a very diverse taste in music; hip hop, jazz, reggae, rock…he list goes on. And we know that the Black presence in all music genres cannot be denied; like Mos Def says… “I am (we are)  Rock and Roll” as well as all types of music. But I have never EVER EVER seen a group of black brothers chilling together in NDG or in Brooklyn, or anywhere else in North America, pump Celine Dion from their speakers. Even if we do have a secret fetish for mainstream top 40s, we wouldn’t dare blast “My Heart Will Go On” in the presence of our peers.  Author Bell Hooks says “We Too Cool” for all of that.  We have a standard to maintain. We have an image to keep. We gotta represent. Hold it down, keep it real (add your own stereotypical African American sentence here) etc… We’re Black Goddammit!

So as I sat there shocked, and as they continued to listened to even more Celine Dion, I wondered to myself…these brothers here, they are Malians, born and raised and will most likely die on black turf; Afrika.  No one can deny them of their blackness, they do not have to prove anything; don’t have to live up to a black code. They love what they love and don’t care who sees them love it.  Now can we, the Blacks of the Diaspora learn to do the same thing? If not; and this is deeper than liking Celine Dion…how come?

True, here in this concrete jungle, we are the minorities (truly the majority but I’ll leave that for another article) and being a minority especially in a group that has been so cruelly treated, we yearn for that nationality that I believe many Afrikans born and raised in Afrika have.  No matter how much we try to deny it, no matter how natty our dreads are or how many pro black books we have collecting dust on our tv stand, we live and are integrally part of a white/European culture where our true identity as a people is pretty much lost in the history books and outshined by the newest song and bamboozling dance on BET (sidenote: “Do the Stanky Leg”?? “She look like Halle Berry”? These rappers are making Nelly look like Rakim…but I digress…)

I would likely quickly recount two events that happened to me during my stay here in Mali. First experience; being kicked out of a mosque.  I should say here that I have the utmost respect for Islam and its followers and admire their discipline and this is in no way an attack on Islam culture or faith. However, like many religions, there is at times ample space for confusion and miscommunication.  I and my white male interns decided to go pay our respect to Bamako’s main mosque. We entered the sanctuary where we were greeted by many and even encouraged by some to go into the mosque. I as do my friends all have a profound respect for different cultures and made sure to follow all the guidelines as best we can (removal of shoes, washing of hands and feet). My Caucasian counterparts walked in first without a problem. After a few minutes I walked in. It would seem that my presence offended a leader of some sort and he came up with me and asked quite rudely what was I doing here. Before I could even try to answer he says something in the native tongue and then says that I must leave promptly.  I respect his authority, and take my shoes and proceed towards the door.  What stirred me about this whole situation is that no one from the mosque bothered my white friends until they figured out that they were with me.  It seems as though my black card not only got revoked but worked against me….amongst fellow black card holders at that.

Second, I got stopped and hassled by police. A typical occurrence perhaps in Montreal, but being stopped by a bunch of cops that look just like you, and for no reason but to impose their authority really puts ones notion of black brotherhood in perspectives.  Clearly, these men are in a fraternity that I am not (nor want to be) a part of.   As my white friends pleaded and explained the situation to the police, who clearly couldn’t care less, I stood there with a smurk on my face, part awe part disgust and realized…that I am proud to be Black, but this does not mean I share or feel that I must share the views, beliefs, likings and opinions of all Blacks.

So that’s it really. A plea to all my brothers and sisters in Mtl and across the Diaspora; enjoy the freedoms we have and be yourself. “Live,love and be creative” is the cornerstone of grounding ourselves as a people. If you feel to drive down Sainte-Catherines, pumping “Bare Naked Ladies Greatest Hits”; by all means turn up the subwoofers and do it.  If you have a craving for those beef jerkey sticks wrapped in tight plastic that I see little white kids gobble up….hey..you work hard for your money and you shouldn’t feel ashamed to pick one up just because there is a rastaman behind you in the check out line.  Be you….because there is a whole continent of black brothers and sisters being themselves across the Atlantic.

Shout out to my girl Cel-Dizzy doing big things….