In Praise Of Growing Old and Black

How Harry Belafonte's long life gives us hope.

Harry Belafonte arrives at a charity gala in Berlin on Dec. 6, 2014. Belafonte starred on the stage and screen while lending his voice to a number of social justice and environmental causes. (Steffi Loos/The Associated Press)

As an artist, Harry Belafonte's voice and magnetic presence on stage transported his audiences to the farthest corners of the world, while simultaneously connecting them to the commonality of the human experience. But it was not only his voice that defined him; it was the way he used it to speak truth to power. His activism was a testament to his deep-rooted belief in social justice. He marched alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., fought against apartheid in South Africa, and championed the cause of the poor and the downtrodden around the world for nearly a century. 

The moment I heard Mr. Belafonte had joined the ancestors, I felt compelled to celebrate his life. But I don’t want to simply celebrate his velvety voice, enchanting films, or his unwavering activism and philanthropy that spanned decades. While those achievements have all been tremendous, what I want to celebrate is for something I’m sure is simple for many. But for me, quite massive. I want to celebrate the fact that Harry Belafonte had the chance to grow old. I want to focus on the beauty of him having lived to the age of 96. For a Black person in America, reaching such an age is a testament to their endurance, determination, and courage. The marriage of Black body and gray hair is a reason for us to rejoice. 

In fact, in many ways, his near-centennial age was as much an embodiment of his life's work and struggle to change this nation as any other accomplishment.

In my opinion, the fight for liberation is a complex and multifaceted endeavor, but at its core, the aim is elegantly simple: to live a long and winding life, free from the constraints that would seek to limit potential. It is the ability to age, to witness the passage of time and the evolution of generations, that we, as Black people, must pursue relentlessly.

This pursuit is why I spend a great deal of time contemplating death; not just death itself, but the art of evading it as a Black man existing under the wicked eye of systems, institutions, and individuals, determined to annihilate me. Each day, I must think critically about my survival, an exercise in mental gymnastics that has become both essential and exhausting. This is the sort of perpetual fear that contributes to the elevated rates of high blood pressure, heart disease, and other stress-induced ailments prevalent within the Black community. 

To be Black is to live in a body that often feels as though it’s made of a double helix formed by the beauty and trauma entwined within our DNA.

Because of this, one of my deepest desires, surpassing the allure of owning a boat, the excitement of courtside seats at a Lakers game, or the prestige of a National Book Award or Pulitzer, is to live a long life. With the odds stacked against me, the aspiration of growing old is a powerful and profound one. Which is why I believe the celebration of Black life, particularly the lives of our Black elders, is a necessity. Their longevity, even if marred by struggle and difficulty, is an act of defiance against the oppressive forces that seek to cut us down.

An example of why I feel this way happened to me a few days ago, as I was driving through Williamsburg, Brooklyn on a warm sun-soaked afternoon. One of those kind of days when the world seemed to be flirting with perfection. 

As I drove through the gentrified coffee shop-lined streets with my dog, Stokely, his head hanging out the back window, and my mind was on the dog park in DUMBO we were headed to. The warm breeze whispered of the bliss the rest of the day held, while I chatted with a friend on my car's Bluetooth speaker. But that relaxing moment was suddenly interrupted by the piercing sound of sirens and the sight of an undercover police vehicle in my rearview mirror.

“PULL THE CAR OVER TO THE RIGHT NOW!”

My heart rate quickened as I did what I was told and slowly stopped the car. The vivid memories of every tense encounter with the police I’ve ever had, and the names of countless Black people murdered by police for simply existing began flooding my consciousness. I knew I had done nothing wrong. Yet, as a Black man, I am well aware that innocence is rarely a shield against the consequences of living in a society that more often than not, deems me expendable.

As the officer walked up to my car, I could not help but wonder whether this would be a moment I wouldn't walk away from. Would Stokely's natural protective instincts make him bark with concern at this stranger approaching? Would that provide the officer with the excuse he needed to shoot us both? Would the simple act of reaching for my license and registration be misconstrued as a threat, even if I verbally state what I am doing? Or perhaps the very act of breathing, of simply being Black and alive, would be enough to seal my fate.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, Fred. Just stay calm and clearly say every movement you’re going to make when he gets to the window,” my friend said over my car speakers, obviously frightened but trying to remind me of the unwritten rules that might keep me alive.

As the officer approached, his arrogance cast a menacing shadow over the sunlit asphalt. His pale complexion, uniform, and holstered gun provided all the audacity he needed to begin the moment by speaking to me as if I was worthless.  

The officer's words cut through the air, his accent thick with a tinge of New Jersey, as he inquired whether I knew the reason for him stopping me. I acknowledged my ignorance, and his immediate scoff echoed the air of disbelief, as if I were purposely lying. He accused me of using my phone while driving, to which I replied that I believed the use of a Bluetooth speaker was legal. He agreed that speaking on a Bluetooth speaker was legal, but I had been holding my phone and talking while driving which was a fineable offense.

I immediately denied the allegation, prompting him to question if I was daring to call him a liar. I could tell from his disposition that he was ready to elevate the moment depending upon my response. So I softly said, "No." To which he demanded my license and registration. Slowly and emphatically, I announced my intention to retrieve the registration from the glove compartment, and reach into my back pocket for my wallet and license, he nodded his approval. I handed him what he asked for and he walked back to his vehicle.

My friend's voice, still connected through the Bluetooth speaker, recording the conversation between the officer and I, in case things became violent or deadly, inquired about my well-being. I told him I was physically okay, though a mix of frustration and fear simmered beneath the surface. The officer's dishonesty weighed heavily on me, but as I glanced at my phone, which had not left my passenger seat since I left home, I knew the truth did not matter. I was acutely aware of the power dynamics in play; white people, or those given power within white systems, can bend the truth to their liking, creating almost any reality for a Black person that they see fit.

As I waited for the officer to come back from running my name in his system and writing me a ticket, I rubbed Stokely’s head gently and spoke to him to keep him as calm as I could. It was obvious the moment was making him anxious. He was likely mirroring my own feelings. 

After a few minutes, the officer walked back with my license, registration, and a ticket in hand. “Stay off the phone,” he said, handing me the ticket and shooting a quick glance at the phone still sitting on the other side of the car. I wanted to say something back to him, to let him know how I felt, that we both knew he was lying. But the look in his eyes before walking back to his car let me know that he felt I should be thankful our interaction did not end in tragedy. So I stayed quiet, not wanting to test his limits.

When the officer drove off, I thanked my friend for staying on the line while that happened, then hung up so that I might sit and reflect on the harrowing reality that my life, like so many others, exists at the mercy of the systems that govern it. That encounter ended with a simple ticket, though still, an unjust reminder that I am, first and foremost, a Black man in America, subject to the whims of those who all too often get to do what they want with me. 

In this world, where I am constantly reminded of my mortality, I cling to the beauty of life, to the moments that defy the darkness. As such, even after the interaction, I took Stokely to the dog park that afternoon. Because moments with him are like a sanctuary, and the dog park is a place where we can occasionally be free, even if only for an hour. We played and chased, while drenched in the warmth of the sun and the joy of other dogs. For every moment of love, of triumph, of life is an act of resistance against the forces that would see me undone. Each laugh shared with a friend, each wag of Stokely's tail, each gray hair I find in my beard, is a gift when time is often fleeting and scarce for people who are simply born and live in Black bodies.

I cannot ignore the daily weights on my life, the echoes of suffering that stifles the very air I breathe. But it is that constant reality that makes me want to celebrate when someone lives a long Black life, despite all that is thrown at us. Seeing a Black person who is old, gray, seasoned, affirms my right to exist, to be more than a statistic or a cautionary tale. Seeing Black people age asserts our humanity, our capacity for love and hope, and our determination to thrive in a world that has so often sought to deny us the human right of time. 

And so, as I reflect upon the life of someone such as Harry Belafonte, who has traversed the valleys of life's trials, I cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense of reverence. The need to celebrate not only his victories and accolades but the very fact that he was with us for so long. To honor the amount of time he journeyed, is to recognize the strength within him.

To be Black and live to be nearly a century old is to have defied all expectations, leaving a trail of inspiration for generations to follow. I am floored to have been alive at the same time as an elder who was born in 1927, when some days I wonder if I will live to simply see 2027. Harry Belafonte not only bore witness to the rot at the center of America, he survived it, and remained steadfast in his pursuit of a better nation. That gives me hope that the rest of us might not only survive as well – but potentially thrive. 

In celebrating the lives of elders such as Harry Belafonte, we acknowledge not only the battles they fought, but also the victories they achieved simply by living and aging in a world that often conspires against us. Their resilience and determination are beacons of hope, guiding us as we navigate the treacherous frontlines of being Black in America. It is through these celebrations that we find the strength to continue the fight for our lives, for our freedom, and for the simple yet profound luxury of growing old.

To bear witness to such a life is to glimpse the possibilities that lie before us, the potential to transform the landscape of our existence, to reshape the contours of our world. The pursuit of liberation, the fight for time itself, is not an abstract concept, but a tangible goal that lies within our reach. Mr. Belafonte has shown us this by living a long life that brimmed with the beauty of the trivial, the mundane, the difficult, and the extraordinary.

Here’s to celebrating the opportunity to have a Black life that brims with minutes, hours, days, and years.

Here is a pome I wrote as an offering of thanks to our now ancestor: