Pickup basketball games with neighborhood kids, the funky sounds of the Ohio Players and Heatwave drifting from WDAO — it was a kind of happiness juxtaposed against a country grappling with its own version of apartheid.
My parents, like many African-Americans, were diligently pursuing the American Dream. My father worked on the factory floor of a General Motors plant, my mother in the secretarial pool at Delphi. Their story was not uncommon: taking advantage of new opportunities, striving to build a better life for their children despite the obstacles that could easily derail their dreams.
Born in March 1965, I was part of the first wave of Black children presented with a wildly divergent path to the future — the first generation of Civil Rights Act babies. This was a testament to the Herculean efforts of countless individuals, Black and white and every hue in between, who truly believed that a country founded on the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness was expansive enough to include everyone.
I gravitated towards art because it is about meritocracy. Praise was earned, and future growth was possible if I pursued it with dogged determination, leading to a glorious future filled with options. My mother, though, worried about this relentless pursuit of mastery, my unquenchable curiosity, and an almost ridiculous work ethic that verged on self-harm.
What a lot of people do not know is that almost every Sunday is spent with my parents, my brother’s family, aunts, uncles, and a plethora of first cousins, which are restorative respites from the crazy weekly schedule I manage.
These raucous, spirited gatherings, filled with soulful cooking and laughter, offer a crucial counterpoint to the occasional micro-aggressions and internalized fears that, like Icarus, I’ve flown too close to the proverbial sun. In these joyful moments, we dwell on the brightness of living and the dark pitfalls of a divided society with equal measure.
There is an informed sense of hope, tempered by the sobering reality of the fear and bigotry that blind us to our complete history as an “imperfect” experiment called the United States of America.
Having just celebrated my first anniversary as Producer and Community Arts Liaison at ThinkTV, it would be easy to attribute my comfort on camera, my ability to navigate diverse worlds — from stage to classroom to conference room — to a role I was simply born to play. But in truth, this ability arose because doors previously closed to generations of African-Americans were finally forced open. On the sacrifices, their blood, sweat, and tears, and yes, their disappointments of generations of ancestors, I stand. It is their struggle that allows me to pursue ambitions that would have been inconceivable 60 years ago.
This is the country I believe in, the one to which I’ve pledged my allegiance, a country of possibilities. My debt to this allegiance must be repaid by ensuring that the next generation of “All” Daytonians can have their moment in the sun, too.
We have come so far, yet the symphony of the American Dream remains unfinished. It is up to us to ensure every note is heard, every voice uplifted, and every dream given the chance to blossom.
Rodney Veal is the host of ThinkTV/CET Connect and President of the board of OhioDance.
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