Hoping while black.
"I guess I have a choice"
A teammate once labeled me an optimist. Given my typically stoic demeanor, I was caught off guard. This optimism that she identified within me, how much is tied to my current identity? What is true optimism? Does optimism automatically align with cheerful attitudes or a glee-ridden perspective on what is to come?
Gottfried Leibniz’s assertion that “this world is the best of all possible worlds” comes to mind. I think I understand what he was trying to convey. Even in the face of adversity, there’s an argument to be made that, in the end, things will work out for the best. I’ve often said to my peers, “Things will work out in your favor because they have to.”
Yet, for me, as much as optimism feels tied to divinity, it shares room with necessity. To be Black, a man, and an American in a nation that pledges unity under God is to navigate conditions that are anything but unified. Furthermore, my existence comes at no sparse discount labored by the generations before me. Given this historical account, it wouldn’t be gloom of me to say I have no evidence that provides even a silver lining for “improved” conditions for the Black American populous.
And yet, I dream. I dream of tomorrows that bear fruit—fruit that can be shared with those who look like me, who have felt like me.
The words of James Baldwin resonate deeply:
“I can’t be a pessimist because I’m alive. To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter. So I’m forced to be an optimist. I’m forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive.”
When Baldwin spoke of the future of the Negro and the nation, his response articulated a reality that feels just as relevant today as it did then. Perhaps what I’ve come to equate with optimism is, at its core, survival. The external pressures of systemic oppression have left us with a quandary: to choose between happiness and survival.
For now, I strive to blend what seem like two opposing forces. On one end, I truly believe that the hand I’ve been divinely dealt will ultimately work in my favor. This world, for all its flaws, is the “best of all possible worlds.” On the other end lies the unyielding instinct to survive—because what other option is there?
With 27 years behind me, I don’t imagine this balancing act will dissipate anytime soon. We live in an era where spaces once filled with gravitas and hope are overshadowed by immorality, cruelty as spectacle, and blood for sport.
But I guess I’ll choose to be optimistic.
The Critical Optimist