I’m a Black Man. Black Men Have a New Name for Kamala Harris

Auntie Blandine had made her decision. She would see her project through to the end. She didn’t care about the mockery she received, especially the jeers from her own brothers and the men in the neighborhood, who had made her their target because she wanted to start a business with the ambition of employing two or three people.

 “Who does she think she is?” laughed Uncle Bisseau when it was his turn. “She wants to prove she’s better than us or something. These women don’t understand that there are things that are beyond them. Listen to her. She wants to start a business and employ people. Who does she think she is?”

He would burst out laughing, joined by his friends. In Fanta Citron, one of the neighborhoods of Mvog-Ada, the slump of Yaoundé, Cameroon, where I grew up, the men got together most often at the bar, where they played Songo’o, a traditional strategy game, a reason to meet and discuss current issues. They would comment on the latest neighborhood rumors, talk about their female conquests, the changes that had occurred in the neighborhood. Women were not allowed in this circle. We children, and more specifically boys, were tolerated. It was a form of initiation because we were expected to eventually take over. We were confined to the rank of observers. We listened but were never allowed to open our mouths. That was life in our neighborhood.

 “She’ll be kicking herself,” said Uncle Jean Mvondo. “She thinks she’s a man, that one. She wants to take our place. What’s next on her list?”

 “I don’t know what is going through her head,” Abega, one of the men in the neighborhood added.

I don’t remember a single one of these men believing that Auntie Blandine could pull it off. They saw her as a nuisance. For years, women had been confined to buying agricultural products, such as cassavas, peanuts, plantains, fruits at the wholesale market from women farmers who often arrived in Yaoundé in the early morning — between 3:00 am to 4:00 am — to later resell them in the local market. They couldn’t go beyond that, the men argued. That was their ceiling. It didn’t matter that they were the breadwinners of the neighborhood families. They were the central link in our community in addition to being the mothers and caretakers.

Even though different tribes lived together in this small space that was our neighborhood, they shared something: women could dream but not too much. As an example, only boys and men could inherit property. Auntie Blandine was challenging this tradition. Two weeks earlier, the tontine that she and her sister — my mother — had founded, had given her the capital she needed to start implementing a business project that she had been nurturing for some time, namely setting up a small store in front of our house to sell homemade donuts with beans, porridge/sweet broth, and a fruit juice made with ginger. Basically, Auntie Blandine wanted to go from being an individual worker to setting up a small business. If this transition went well, she would no longer simply try to survive but would start living. She wanted to go from a business worth 3,000 CFA francs to a business worth 10,000 CFA francs. It was ambitious!

When the men laughed about it, Auntie Blandine didn’t say anything. When she was at home, she busied herself around a table where she spent most of her time absorbed in her notebook. She built her store with the help of us kids, giving us orders on how to dig the ground and drive in the posts. She herself laid the sheet metal that would complete the building. A few weeks later, she started what would become a successful business, inspiring other women in the neighborhood to think big, to dare and to take risks. She never bragged. She just smiled. I had become one of her temporary “helpers.” A few months later, her store became the place where men came, as they used to say, to kill time and hang out, thus becoming her customers. This was an indirect sign of approval, but more importantly, it was recognition that she had made it. It was a mark of respect.

 “Madame Blandine,” addressed her one of the neighbors one morning. “Madame Blandine,” he repeated.

 “Yes” she replied, smiling. It had not escaped her that he had called her “Madame” even though she was not married. Calling a single woman Madame was a great sign of respect. In her case, it was respect for what she has accomplished. She had quieted the doubters. She had done what few women had. She had shown the way.

Tata Blandine smiled. It is her smile that has constantly come to mind as I have discussed Kamala Harris’ candidacy for the White House with Black men like me in recent days. Black men to whom I turned several months ago to regularly take the temperature of a portion of Black voters for an election that promises to be close. Black men, young and old, will play a key role on November 5, because some of them seem seduced by Donald Trump, which had contributed in accentuating the unease and doubt surrounding the former candidacy of Democratic President Joe Biden, handicapped by his advanced age.

From my barber, his colleagues and the various patrons I have met over the past few months in the barbershop in Harlem, in New York City, to my son and his friends in California, to friends in Atlanta, Washington D.C and Philadelphia, Black men were less than enthusiastic about the current president. They felt he should step aside for a younger, more energetic candidate. While they did not say they would vote for Trump, it was increasingly clear that their choice was between the former president and their couch, especially after the June 27 disastrous debate.

But on July 21, Biden announced that he was dropping out of the presidential race and endorsed his vice president. Harris, a biracial woman — Black and Asian — is 59 years old, 22 years younger than Biden and 19 years younger than Trump, his Republican opponent. Is this a development that will simplify the choice for my contingent of Black men?

 “The Lady has a chance, bro,” my barber interrupted me when I asked him what he thought of the top of the Democratic ticket. “She’s a good talker. She’s good, she’s good,” he continued as he stopped to look me in the eyes through the mirror.

 “The Lady can beat Trump,” his colleague chimed in, dropping the clippers he was running over a customer’s head.

 “She came in swinging, bro. The Lady has a chance,” added the third barber. “She is like Obama, man.”

 “The Lady has the swag, bro,” my barber agreed.

It is the first time in months that I’ve seen enthusiasm from Democrats in my barbershop, nestled in the heart of Harlem. The enthusiasm is palpable, but so are the doubts and fears about Harris’ victory.

 “She’s a woman, man. People won’t vote for a woman,” a customer waiting for his turn added. “Hillary lost, bro and she was White. White people won’t vote for a Black woman.”

The others nodded. A silence fell. One could almost hear the dull sound of the clippers sweeping away unwanted hair.

 “Man, The Lady can beat Trump,” my barber snapped. “She is good.”

I asked him why he was so optimistic. It was as if I had asked the question to all of them. They all wanted to answer it at the same time. I had to ask them to take turns.

 “Bro, Trump is a felon. He should be in jail, bro. But he has money. I can’t vote for a felon, bro,” my barber replied.

They listed everything they didn’t like about Trump — divisive, old, doesn’t give a damn, caring only about himself and his cronies, racist statements like “Black jobs” and “Latino jobs”. There were all the angles of attack that didn’t work against Trump when Biden was a candidate. Biden was the wrong messenger. The doubts about his physical capacity overshadowed every argument he was trying to put forward.

Like the neighbor calling Tata Blandine “Madame” decades ago, my “bros” calling Kamala Harris “The Lady” bodes well for the Democratic candidate. It suggests that they are open to listening to her and are not ruling out voting for her. They want to see what she proposes and especially how she goes toe-to-toe with Donald Trump. More importantly, it appears that they want to do away with their own doubts, fears and clichés about women of color seeking higher office.

This is a crucial point for Ms. Harris. In the past, some Black men have hesitated to vote for Black female candidates. According to an Associated Press poll, 12% of Black men say they voted for Trump in 2020, a figure that was expected to increase this year, according to polls. By comparison, only 6% of Black women said that they voted for Trump four years ago.

Listening to “my bros,” it seems that they are personally asking themselves this question: are they ready to vote for a woman and specifically a woman of color, for the office which they consider to be a symbol of America in the world?

 “She can,” my friend Olu texted me. His text sounded like he wanted to convince himself that he can vote for her.

Olu and Harris have something in common: their fathers are of Jamaican origin.

 “I love her,” he insisted in another message. Olu seems to be on his inner journey.

 “She definitely has a chance to win,” my friend Bruce also wrote to me recently.

Bruce, like Olu, is also on his personal journey. But they have made a big step already: they are comfortable with Harris as a candidate for President. The Lady, as some call her, has already won a big battle. The war is still ahead though.