Five Little Monkeys

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed!
One fell down and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Four little monkeys jumping on the bed!
One fell down and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed!
One fell down and bumped her head.
Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Two little monkeys are jumping on the bed!
One fell down and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

One little monkey jumping on the bed.
She fell down and bumped her head,
Mama called the doctor, and the doctor said, “Put those monkeys back to bed!

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

My Uncle George called us buzzards when we kids. A pack of cousins swooping down and running wild, full of energy and thrill at being all together. We smelled like outside and red clay and coconut oil and pink lotion, our skin shone and glistened.

When I was with my cousins, I knew that ‘Black is Beautiful,’ because they were so gorgeous and light-filled and sun-kissed. And they were smart and funny and had big, ol’ white teeth like I did. There was safety in this group of us, jumping from couch to bed to couch pillows on the floor, avoiding all the hot lava that could burn us alive.

My childhood space was hot lava. White ethnic escapees from evolving neighborhoods in the five boroughs that cussed out the ni****s that were making their homes in those New York neighborhoods and then became mine. It was the 70s, just years from the Civil Rights movement and racist, sexist, homophobic jokes and taunts were the rave from adult circles to schoolyards.

Our culture, the world’s western cultures, are steeped in racist lore and history that has made its way into our everyday expressions, childhood nursery rhymes and songs, the deeper meanings and origins long lost on most. Black people do not call their babies ‘monkeys’ even in jest because of the history of racist thought and ideology that likened us closest the apes and therefore inferior to the more ‘elevated’ and ‘advanced’ race that could only in this ever-exhausting tale of ‘power over’ rather than community and peaceful coexistence. I should not be telling you something you do not know or have not considered.

The endless excusing of horrific commentary and behaviors from our leadership, from family members, church leaders, public figures is exhausting. That there are some who still want me to hold hands, clink glasses, share bits of my life while they hold close those who laugh at, share, and believe that it’s alright to deny me the dignity and grace they allow the racists and petty folks who’ve never had to endure this level of endless harassment and aggression, micro and macro.

The original 1869 nursery rhyme used the words, darkies or n*****s to teach children to count, cognitive and developmental lessons that also indoctrinated children in racist ideology. The songs ‘Five little monkeys jumping on the bed,’ ‘ten little Indians/darkies/n*****s, Eeny-meeny, miny, moe and a host of others ingrained racist ideals about the inferiority of Black people and invite the mockery and humiliation of our aims to be part of the larger society.

When someone refers to Black people as monkeys, there is no ‘oops, my bad,’ it is a dog whistle to all the others who have refused our humanity, our dignity, and our experience. Even the most extraordinary of us can be called horrific names and dehumanized by the lowest of the least common denominator with little to no consequence. This is not new.

My parents and my grandparents and their parents also dealt with this racist violence masquerading as harmless, whimsical fun, but they had no white friends in whose eyes they’d have to watch the light fade and the cataracts that blind them to racism, inequality, and offensive microaggression and assault form.

When we lived in Barbados, I was haunted and taunted by the green monkeys that roamed our garden. That I could not make my peace with them made me feel some kind of way. For a while, classmates from high school, upon reading my blog posts and entries about my absolute terror in the face of these creatures, started sending me jokes and memes about monkeys that at times bordered on offensive. I didn’t quite know how to engage with them, people with whom I had very little connection outside of our having attended school together 40 years ago, but the sensation of somehow being mocked or teased in some darker, more sinister way, began to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

We have been taught to let the vile words roll off our backs, to keep our eyes on the prize, to walk with blinders, and a vigilance that appears clairvoyant. It has become ever present, behind the eyes of our friends who protect their parents from our hurt but not us from their racism and ideologies, of our countrymen who swear this is not our country having never realized that the freedom they have to walk away or find respite from these assaults is not granted all of us.

The endless news cycle full of the worst depravity and violence affects us all, and we fell the blankets being pulled out from under our jumping feet. It has been relentless. And in the midst of all of this, we are reminded that there is still the weight of the insults, the limiting beliefs, the dark magic spells, low energy vibrations of people who can hear us called monkeys and go on about their days.

It is somehow presumed that we equally bear the blame because we are the targets of a system designed to crush us and we have failed to succumb. The kids sing the songs, their parents are outraged, and everyone returns to the horror show grateful they can somehow avoid the glare and focus, casually dismissing the wounds caused by all that is said out loud, and all that is whispered and sung under your breaths.

One, little two, little three, little n*****s

Four, little five, little six, little n******s