Recently, one of my favorite Sesame Street characters asked an innocuous question that tons of “nice” people ask each other every day in passing one another on the street, in their places of worship, or at the generic opening of a comedian’s show: “How is everybody doing?” The Muppet was unprepared for the overwhelming despair that washed up on the shores of his “X” account (formerly known as Twitter). “Elmo was not expecting it to open a yawning chasm of despair”, as the New York Times so bluntly stated it. In other words, thousands of people across America lost their shit.
“Elmo each day the abyss we stare into grows a unique horror. One that was previously unfathomable in nature. Our inevitable doom which once accelerated in years, or months, now accelerates in hours, even minutes. However, I did have a good grapefruit earlier, thank you for asking,” responded Hanif Abdurraqib @NifMuhammad
“The world is burning around us, Elmo,” mourned Steven @StevenMcinerney
“Anyone else slowly getting anxiety thinking about this year’s election?” asked I AM @AshiaTanay

Elmo posted his revealing query at the beginning of Black History Month just as I was trying to write an essay on Black History and was mulling over the many pieces of evidence that at least half the country would like the entire subject to be erased from the history books and our daily lives in general (I’m looking at you Gov. Ron DeSantis and Nikki Haley).
I wanted to leave a post for Elmo with my own reply of despair over the slip-sliding away of Black History, but I had cancelled my Twitter (now X) account in protest against Elon’s anti-Semitic posts, his outrageous war against DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion), and the alleged pervasive racial abuse against Black workers in his California factory. If I had the energy to re-open my X account, I would have sent the following message to Elmo:
“I’m exhausted, Elmo. I’m 75 years old, Baby-boy, and I can hardly breathe as I watch all the racial barriers and hatred—ones I fought to knock down in the 60s—being re-erected with a vengeance 50 years later and championed by a racist autocrat who is trying to return as President for life.
Recently, one of my very genuinely lovely White neighbors asked me if I planned to move to one of the very exclusive luxury Independent/Assisted Living communities during the final stage of my life—where she and her husband plan to transition to and which I’m entitled to as well, due to my husband’s pre-retirement job. I had a visceral reaction—I threw up into my mouth! My immediate uncensored response was: “Oh hell, to the no, Girlfriend! I’ve never seen one Black person in that place that wasn’t the ‘help‘. I’ve been working, learning, and living in predominantly white groups most my life, and although many of you have been quite lovely—my husband included—others have not, and I am so tired of exerting so much energy code-switching (tampering down one’s appearance, language, humor, fears, and interests to fit into an alien culture) just to go along to get along. It’s exhausting!
“I will not roll into Heaven at the end of my days as a spiritually, emotionally, and culturally depleted Black person who was given the liberty to discuss ‘Downton Abbey’ with understandingly gleeful nods from my White peers, but who get clueless stares at the mention of Issa Rae’s ‘Insecure‘ by me. I will not be worn down by micro and macro aggressions until the day I die and end up bitter and discombobulated. When the time comes, I’m going home to my family, gathering as many Black and Brown people as I can stand around me and end my days living as authentic a life as I can possibly muster.”
If the truth be told, I’m scared to death of the future—wondering where God is. Hope for my country, hope for peace in the world, hope for my people and the acceptance of Black History as American History is pouring out of my soul like sweat on a 100-degree day in the middle of a KKK rally in a Mississippi cotton field. And yet, the Bible says, “hope springs eternal.” Oh really? Well, I can’t see it.
But as in many things in life, God has a way of making himself heard and seen when necessary. The salve for my battered heart came via another two-foot munchkin who helped me see the light of hope via her eternal quest for ice cream.
My granddaughter (we’ll call her “Baby-girl” for the purpose of shielding her identity), is two-years old and she is brilliant, if I do say so myself. She’s got quite an extensive grasp of the English language for her age and can express herself in sign language to boot. Recently, she was being interviewed by an educator for admittance into a highly competitive school for their three-year-old preschool program (don’t ask). As the teacher began to ask her questions, Baby-girl noticed that her parents (sitting behind an observational glass partition) were kibbitzing—no doubt, nervous about how she was doing during this high-stakes interview. Baby-girl leaned forward, caught their attention and in perfect sign language said: “Shhhhhhh…the teacher is talking!” Hilarious! (There is no reason for the first part of this story except to show you how precocious and intelligent my Baby-girl is.)
At the conclusion of the interview at the baby Harvard, Baby-girl was strolling through the town holding her parents’ hands when her father expressed a desire to get some breakfast at one of the delightful breakfast restaurants in the area. As the parents tossed suggestions back and forth about what they’d like to eat and where to go, Baby-girl chimed in and said that she would like to eat ice cream for breakfast. Her Dad said that would be fine but there were no ice cream parlors in the area (no doubt thinking he could thwart Baby-girl’s unorthodox breakfast request). And as only a two-year-old toddler can respond, she put her foot down and demonstrably stated: “I WANT ICE CREAM!” My daughter said: “All right, Baby-girl, we can get you ice cream for breakfast if we can find it. But I don’t see anyplace that sells ice cream. Where do you see ice cream? If you see it, we’ll get you some.” Without missing a beat, my granddaughter took possession of both her hands and placed them on her head and across her heart and said: “I see ice cream in my head and in my heart.” (Guess who got ice cream that day!)
I think I am going to post a comment to Elmo, after all. This time the post will be one of hope for our future as a country and a world because my granddaughter reminded me that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” God is not finished with us yet—neither with our country nor with the world, and what we see now is not the end of the story. Black history is a testimony of the resilience of a great people—my people—who, no matter how many times we’ve been knocked down, enslaved, beaten, murdered, raped, cheated, assassinated, and abused…still we rise! It’s a story of a people who believed God would prevail on their behalf, regardless whether that history is buried or ignored by those who refuse to see and learn from the truth of our journey. The history of Black folks is that we will still keep carrying on because we have the foresight to “see ice cream in our heads and in our hearts,” and we’ll someday reach the promised land!

Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a satirist who is an award-winning voice-over performer. In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!). Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.” Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker. If you don’t believe me, just ask her!
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