Let Him Disappear
by Kevita Blackmon
originally appeared in the Independent Tribune
Men are created equal, in a metaphysical sense. For the sake of laws and philosophical human standards, we are all equal and capable of contributing to the greater good. Physically, though, depending on a desired goal, all men are not created equal. And that’s not to say that any physique or physical characteristic implies a greater metaphysical value, but depending on the circumstance, some physical characteristics are more useful than others.
I’m not talking the next stage of human evolution either. No mutants, no alien experiments, just women and men with good genes, like expertly bred horses or dogs who are taller, shorter, faster, more dexterous, hypnotic, empathic, or courageous than normal. And though they are men and women like their neighbors or coworkers, their perceptual differences make them enviable to their friends and neighbors, to varying results. It’s what they call the ‘it’ or ‘X’ factor, the thing that makes a person stand out in a crowd. People use their difference differently; some use it to rise to fame, others start religions or write books, become assassins or life coaches. These people are not exactly rare, like one in ten to twenty, but they are rare enough to captivate the imaginations of others who might be labeled normal. They are the source of legends, the protagonists of stories.
And I’m not just saying all that because I am in possession of one of those perceptual differences, I say it as a matter of fact. From the inside looking out, it’s a strange and unwarranted veneration. People treat me differently than most just because I am taller than most women, my hair is longer and straighter than the perceived length and texture of a black woman’s hair, my nose is less characteristic of a black person (not quite as flat and wide as the convention), and my eyes are very light brown which is a real oddity considering that everyone in my family has dark brown eyes including my twin brother (who is taller than me but looks exactly what you’d imagine I’d look like if I were a man). If I came from a different family, with a different backstory, I could have become a very conceited and self centered person, but my family was poor and poverty is one of the few things that I’ve found capable of overriding these perceptual differences that I’m talking about (some can use their difference to rise out of poverty, but poverty has swallowed countless people whole regardless, and as a result, of their difference). Maybe its because of my upbringing, seeing that good people worked hard for everything they had, that I feel people give undue favor to those with a favorable perceptual difference. I hate it when people hold the door open for me and let it slam on a mother with a stroller, it’s times like that when I consider my difference to be an unnecessary distraction to the world that may be more civilized if not for the distraction my appearance, my difference and others like it, causes.
Am I saying that I wish we were all created physically equal, then? That we should have one body type for all humans? Maybe not, because like I said before, sometimes our differences are necessary, sometimes our difference save lives or make the world a better place to live.
Differences are the great equalizer, it means that no one is expendable because we will never know when their skills will be necessary.
My brother is not like any other person on Earth, even though the two of us are twins. He has an inconceivable difference. How can anyone imagine that a person can make anything from their imagination into real life just by thinking about it? It’s beyond the realm of belief. And it creates real inequality. His inconceivable difference makes many of his interactions with others obsolete; he never has to ask anyone for anything that he can make himself. A man with a difference like his doesn’t need anyone else.
Including his own family that loves him. It’s for the best that he is gone now. No one has seen him for a long time. My parents couldn’t handle the attention that he has brought to himself over the years. There is a cult that worships him, it’s sickening, they think he’s a god. He isn’t, just different in ways that I couldn’t have imagined before I saw it with my own eyes.
My difference is not extraordinary, I don’t have a cult. Maybe I’m lucky, there’s no pressure to be me. If anything, I am like a painting hanging on a wall; everyone will look, a few idiots will touch, but everyone will eventually walk away.
I used to wonder why my brother has the difference that he has, but now I know that it is a birthright curse. My family angered something powerful in the past, I know it, and it’s the reason we have seeming blessings that only bring us misery. My daddy told me about it. He said some Geechie lady hurled a curse at my great-grandmother because she was jealous of her light skin and the fact that she got to work inside all day.
“Everyone will say you’re the luckiest person in the world,” my daddy explained, “but you’ll know what they don’t; whatever misery the Geechie lady want us to suffer.”
I didn’t ask him to explain because I understood.
I know that he meant the term Geechie derogatorily, but I use it now because it can’t possibly be an epithet. It describes a rich, African American culture in the South Carolina lowcountry that I am sad not to belong to, and it is stronger than my father’s ignorance.
My brother, the magician, is just a man. I hope that he is still alive, but I know that if he knew what people have done in his name, he would be disgusted and he would hide, just like he is doing now. It is best to forget him. Hero worship is usually dangerous.
PRL Serials 