I guess it was around 1979 that I became aware of Roni Zulu. He showed up at school one day during our high school years. I immediately liked him, as did most people who came to know him or interact with him. Over time, we lost contact with each other, which is one of the things I deeply regret. However, in the last couple of years we have established contact again by emailing short messages to each other.
Zulu is an exceptional artist (always has been). I can say without a doubt he was one of the top 10 artists in our community. That may not seem like much to you, but consider that our city already had four high schools in the late seventies. I also include adults in this equation as I had visited numerous shows during these times and was witness to the works. He’s also an equally gifted musician. On occasion, we would jam together. He played bass (and other instruments that I will leave to history) and I played drums. Eventually, Zulu’s talent took him to the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, Florida where he also continued to pursue his musical endeavors. Today, he is a successful tattoo artist in Los Angeles.
As our friendship grew in those two short years of school, we shared some mutual acquaintances. They were mostly musicians and artists. It was during these times that I learned to truly appreciate just what kind of person Zulu really is. I’m not sure if he’ll remember this story I’m about to convey, or if it is stored away deep inside his memory.
One day during our senior year Zulu and myself were getting a ride home from another friend. It was no secret that this friend’s parents had issues with Zulu because he is a man of color. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t welcomed in their house (in the beginning). He accepted their ignorance for what it was. The thing that got me angry was what our friend said that day in regards to his parents not accepting Zulu. This friend actually had the nerve to say that he didn’t understand why his parents had an issue with Zulu. That he “didn’t think of” Zulu “as black” and he “always considered him to be white.” What our friend didn’t understand was he had made a comment that was as bad as any his parents could utter. It was denying who Zulu was! The more I thought about it, the angrier I became with our friend. So angry that I called him on it that night!
You can tell a lot about a person by observing them and how they treat others. This will show you what is truly on a person’s heart. On that day, I learned much about patience and tolerance. Zulu demonstrated patience in the fact that he somehow knew that once our friend’s parents actually got to know him for who he was, they would look beyond what was skin deep. This did eventually happen and Zulu was asked to paint a portrait of the family. I’m not sure if the painting was ever done, but what was right and ethical prevailed. Zulu showed tolerance in the fact that he realized our friend was lacking in knowledge and understanding the same as his parents were. Racism and prejudice are not attitudes we are born with but are learned through witnessing the behavior. Something Zulu never did was become angry (like I did) or treat our friend with any less dignity. Isn’t it ironic that these people’s last name was White?
How disturbing is it, that as the decades pass us by, we still can’t seem to get along with our brothers and sisters of different races, cultures and religions? I’ve learned recently that Zulu had to deal with this in the last decade when he sought teaching for his latest art form. What’s sad is he (and others of color) will probably continue to deal with it more than we care to admit. I believe most religions teach love and patience as tenets to their foundation and are to be displayed to everyone regardless of background or belief. Why is it we become obstacles and put our own twists on what our God says? All I can say is look at the person’s heart, for Zulu has always had that.
Michael A. Hancock-2005, 2010
