history

haitianhistory:

On Haiti’s 220th anniversary

Two hundred and twenty years ago, former slaves and free people of color accomplished the seemingly impossible: defeating one of the most formidable European armies of the day and establishing a new state where bondage, as it existed before 1791, would be forever abolished.

For those who have followed this blog since 2013, you know that I (admin A) have rarely allowed myself any sentimentality when discussing Haitian history. I have tried to present a nuanced portrait of Haiti’s past by addressing the weight of the many isms that have plagued its history (colonialism, racism, neoliberalism…) and by taking a critical look at the role of Haitian leaders throughout all these episodes.

Two hundred and twenty years after the unthinkable, Haiti finds itself without a president, grappling with what seems to be a permanent problem of armed gangs, little security, renewed multifaceted tensions with its Dominican neighbour, and on the brink of a new UN occupation through a Kenyan mission. The young woman who started this blog a decade ago would have said that there are little reasons for us as Haitians to celebrate—not because of a difficulty appreciating the great shoulders on which we stand, but because, at twenty-two years old, I didn’t believe in what I felt was useless romanticism binding us to a distorted past while also blinding us to the reality of the disastrous present.

Today, it’s not so much that I find much to rejoice in given the current state of affairs. It’s that I realize, what is the point of all this if there is no hope? Why this blog, why study the history of Haiti at all, why care about the country? For those of us with family there, why not temporarily send money in the hope of helping them relocate here, there, and anywhere except Haiti? Why not congratulate the complete erosion of Haitian sovereignty, as post-1986 Haiti, and especially Haiti of the last two decades, has shown so vividly the complete utter failure of its foreign-backed governing class?

I don’t know what hope is supposed to look like in this situation. Hope for what? Hope for a change under what conditions, under whose authority? On what would this hope be grounded? Perhaps, despite the best efforts of my twenty-two-year-old self, I am becoming as naive and sentimental as the people I silently criticized then…

Perhaps, however, I recognize that Haiti does matter. Even the most cynical among us would admit that there is something profoundly radical in breaking the bonds of slavery, in affirming that people of African descent could not be stripped of their humanity, that there is something poetic in saying “no” in the face of impressive odds. Newly independent Haiti did not live up to some of the promises of its complicated Revolution. The 1825 French imposition of an indemnity severely affected freshly formed Haiti (beyond the 19th century), but it does not excuse the incompetence of Haitian governments, then and now. Haiti could, may have, and I certainly hope, will change, will remember what 1804 ought to have meant.

Perhaps, especially for the people who currently live in Haiti, particularly the women of all ages who face the constant threats of sexual violence, Haiti has a responsibility to itself, to its unprecedented idealism, to all of us.

Given all these reasons, I find it necessary to maintain a guarded optimism, acknowledging that ideas hold significance and possess the potential to materialize into reality.

'Black Panther' raises difficult questions in museum community

SPOILER ALERT — If you haven’t yet seen “Black Panther” and want to be surprised as the story unfolds, stop reading right now. We aren’t kidding.

Casey Haughin never expected to find herself rooting for the bad guy.

But when Erik Killmonger, the villain in the “Black Panther” movie, slaughters a museum’s entire staff after they have treated this particular black visitor with unbridled condescension, Haughin, a junior at the Johns Hopkins University, had to suppress a cheer.

In one five-minute sequence, “Black Panther” raises issues central to the modern museum world, including cultural appropriation and repatriation, the racial composition of museum staffs, and lingering stereotypes regarding visitors of color. Some of these concerns have been in the public consciousness since the 1980s, when the Greek government began campaigning forcefully — and so far unsuccessfully — for the British Museum to repatriate the Elgin Marbles, a group of classical sculptures removed from the Parthenon. But these issues have a fresh relevance today as society increasingly shifts away from a Eurocentric points of view and gains a renewed appreciation for the indigenous culture of formerly colonized nations.

The scene begins with Killmonger inside a museum looking at a collection of African artifacts. He is made to feel unwelcome by the museum’s security guards, who watch every move their black visitor makes. A white female curator hurries up to explain the provenance (or ownership history) of the objects on view, and then adds insult to injury by being inaccurate as well as patronizing. Killmonger informs the curator that the museum had used underhanded means to obtain the artifacts, which originated from the (fictional) Wakandan culture.

Slight piles on top of slight — and Killmonger announces that he’s just poisoned the curator’s coffee.

“Watching that scene, I felt a powerful sense of discomfort,” Haughin said. “I really felt for Killmonger in that situation. When he took his revenge, there was a sense of vindication. This movie is a fantastic opportunity to start talking about these issues on an international stage.”

Other people obviously agree.

On Feb. 22, Haughin wrote an article titled “Why museum professionals need to talk about ‘Black Panther’ ” and posted it in The Hopkins Exhibitionist, an online journal. In less than a week, the article has been shared more than 10,000 times on Facebook. It has been viewed roughly 80,000 times on the website, Haughin said, and one Tumblr post with the article contains 22,000 notes.

She’s thrilled, if a bit dumbfounded, that the article published in a relatively unknown academic website is getting that much attention.

“I was thinking the article might get shared a few times,” she said. “I had no idea this would happen.”

Nothing about that scene struck Paul Rucker, a Baltimore-based African-American artist, as unrealistic. Rucker collects shackles once worn by enslaved people. He has amassed a collection that includes shackles from Middle Passage slave ships, shackles worn by enslaved people during the U.S. Civil War and branding irons. He also reads every book and journal article about these pieces that he can find. Recently Rucker visited a history museum that he declined to name, and discovered shackles that were mislabeled. He brought the error to the staff’s attention — not once, but twice.

“The labels said they were wrist shackles, and they were actually ankle shackles,” Rucker said. “They’re still mislabeled, and it’s really insulting. When you put black African art in white institutions, more of an effort should be made to find someone who has a connection to these artifacts.”

He suspects that when he approached the desk clerks, they didn’t realize that Rucker is the recipient of a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship, or that he will bring his own set of slave shackles along when he delivers a TED talk in Vancouver next month. They just saw a black man who they assumed was uneducated and misinformed, he believes. Instead of contacting a curator, they nodded politely and dismissed what he told them.

“People make a lot of assumptions about who you are based on skin color,” Rucker said. “The experts sometimes don’t know as much as people who actually visit museums.”

Walters Art Museum director Julia Marciari-Alexander hasn’t seen “Black Panther” yet, though she’s planning on attending with her husband and twins. But when the scene shifts to Killmonger’s encounter in the museum, she expects to feel at least a twinge of discomfort.

“Crowning Glory: Art of the Americas,” a small show of terra cotta, wooden and ceramic artifacts from Mexico and Central America spanning more than 2,000 years is currently at the Walters through Oct. 7. The exhibit includes several pieces donated by the late John Bourne. All told, Bourne, who died in 2016, bequeathed 300 pre-Columbian artworks from a vast territory ranging from Mexico to Peru, and $4 million to the Walters. Marciari-Alexander acknowledged that for many of these pieces, the record of archaeological excavation is unknown, raising the possibility that they may originally have been stolen from the sites of ancient ruins. According to published news reports, looting in Latin and South America has been widespread since the mid-1980s.

The Walters has already participated in the return of one artwork from the Bourne collection that had been pilfered from Peru, a gold pendant of a monkey’s head studded with turquoise and lapis that dated from between A.D. 100 and 800. According to a press release issued by the New Mexico Department of Cultural Affairs, the pendant was owned by the New Mexico History Museum but was on a long-term loan to the Walters. Both museums cooperated in restoring the pendant to its home country in December, 2011.

Marciari-Alexander said museum staff members are working to establish the provenance of each object in the Bourne collection. In addition, the Bourne collection artworks have been posted online for the better part of a decade on an object registry maintained by the Association of Art Museum Directors. In that time, Marciari-Alexander said, the Walters has received no requests for repatriation. Should such requests be made in the future, they will be reviewed on a case-by-case basis.

“These are complicated issues,” Marciari-Alexander said. “These are really hard, hard conversations to have, and this country has its own set of laws around cultural patrimony. But they’re also really useful and important conversations to have. We can use the past to make a better tomorrow.”

As part of its Constructing Cultural Contexts lecture series, the Walters is hosting a discussion on Museum Displays and Power Dynamics on Thursday.

Most U.S. museums were built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and for about 100 years, individual collectors and institutions happily snapped up cultural treasures from the world’s great civilizations without asking too many unpleasant questions about the circumstances under which those objects been obtained. Attitudes began to shift in the 1970s after UNESCO adopted provisions allowing for the seizure of stolen artworks if corroborating documentation could be provided. Many museums will say now that they have a policy of not acquiring artworks unless a clear chain of ownership has been established; whether they always adhere strictly to that policy varies by institution.

Jackie Copeland, the director of education and visitor services for the Reginald F. Lewis Museum of Maryland African American History & Culture, joked that just one aspect of the scene of Killmonger in the museum struck her as inaccurate.

“You would never have a curator carrying a cup of coffee inside a gallery,” she said.

Upon reflection, what struck her about that scene is that the wholesale massacre of her fictitious colleagues might have been avoided, had the museum staff engaged in a few more conversations about the artworks they acquired.

“It’s important for museums to listen to people who are from those countries whose cultural artifacts they are,” Copeland said. “Just because you have a Ph.D. doesn’t mean you know everything there is to know about an object.”

Minnesota’s Walker Art Center, where Copeland worked for a decade, became embroiled in a similar scandal last Memorial Day regarding a sculpture called “Scaffold” by the artist Sam Durant. The sculpture was erected in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden on former Dakota land, and evoked the hanging of 38 Dakota Indian men in 1862. When “Scaffold” went up, protesters described the sculpture as culturally insensitive, and the controversy made headlines nationwide. Eventually, “Scaffold” was dismantled with Durant’s permission and buried during a Native American ceremony. The Walker Center’s director, Olga Viso, resigned in November.

“The museum staff never talked to tribal leaders before the sculpture went up,” Copeland said.

“It could be that if they’d had that conversation, everything would have been fine. It’s an example of what can happen when you don’t have the right people at the table when cultural artifacts are concerned. You need to make sure you understand what story you’re really telling.”

If you go

The Walters Art Museum will host a discussion on Museum Displays and Power Dynamics at 7 p.m. Thursday, as part of its Constructing Cultural Contexts lecture series. Free. https://thewalters.org/events/event.aspx?e=5108

mmccauley@baltsun.com

twitter.com/mcmccauley

Copyright © 2018

Bryan Stevenson on What Well-Meaning White People Need to Know About Race

Your work is informed by a powerful sense that history lives in the present. How does the past bear on our current quest for racial justice?

You can’t understand many of the most destructive issues or policies in our country without understanding our history of racial inequality. And I actually think it begins with our interaction with native people, because we took land, we killed people, we disrupted a culture. We were brutal. And we justified and rationalized that land grab, that genocide, by characterizing native people as different. It was the first way in which this narrative of racial difference was employed to justify behaviors that would otherwise be unjustifiable. When you are allowed to demonize another community and call them savages, and treat them brutally and cruelly, it changes your psyche. We abused and mistreated the communities and cultures that existed on this land before Europeans arrived, and then that narrative of racial difference was used to develop slavery.

In what way? Can you elaborate?

I was in East Africa a few months ago. It was the first time I had been there. And it was startling to be in this land and see all of these black people and the beauty of that land. Despite the economic and political situation, there was something so affirming about a space like that. And then I thought about how painful it was that my people, my tribe, my foreparents were in that group of Africans who were kidnapped. Kidnapping is the worst kind of crime in many respects because it lasts for a really long time. Some people have been kidnapped for days and weeks, and that sense of trauma never goes away. And I thought about what it was like for those people to be kidnapped and then displaced, pulled from their land, and then brutalized and tortured and chained. And that’s before they were made to engage in forced labor.

I genuinely believe that, despite all of that victimization, the worst part of slavery was this narrative that we created about black people—this idea that black people aren’t fully human, that they are three-fifths human, that they are not capable, that they are not evolved. That ideology, which set up white supremacy in America, was the most poisonous and destructive consequence of two centuries of slavery. And I do believe that we never addressed it. I think the North won the Civil War, but the South won the narrative war. The racial-equality principle that is in our Constitution was never extended to formerly enslaved people, and that is why I say slavery didn’t end in 1865. It evolved.

Into what?

Decades of terrorism and lynching and this brutal regime where black people were burned alive and hanged and taunted and disenfranchised and threatened. Most people don’t think about the fact that we had Jim Crow laws. We had racial segregation. Black people wouldn’t have agreed with that. They would not have gone into the decrepit colored bathroom when the white bathroom was better. They wouldn’t drink out of the colored fountain—unless there was the threat of violence. So you cannot disconnect lynching and terror and violence from racial segregation and subordination.

And that history continued during the civil rights era, where the response to non-violence was violence. The response to ministers and activists begging for equality was bombs and billy clubs and dogs and fire hoses. And even there, I think we won the legal battle. But, again, we lost the narrative war. The people holding up those signs that said “Segregation Forever,” “Segregation or War,” were not required to act differently, to think differently. And that is the prelude to mass incarceration. That is why I don’t think you can understand the tremendous increase in the incarceration rates, the targeting of black people and menacing of communities of color and poor communities without understanding this history. We have to understand enslavement in a new way. I don’t think we’ve done a good job of educating people about what slavery did.

In your book Just Mercy, you cite a 2003 estimate that one out of three black babies will end up incarcerated, and note that this has everything to do with institutionalized racism, which itself is the product of a great deal of hidden racism in daily life. What does that racism look like?

Well, there is this burden in America that people of color bear. This presumption of dangerousness weighs on you. And when we don’t talk about it, when we don’t name it, the burden only gets heavier. People of color have to navigate around these presumptions, and it is exhausting.

And yet, so hard for so many white people to recognize, much less acknowledge.

But when somebody affirms that it exists, it can be really liberating. It can be really affirming to know that you are not crazy. As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate the weight of a lifetime lived navigating these presumptions. And so I want to affirm for young kids that the world will still do that to them, but they should know that the world is wrong, and that you have to not only endure, but you have to overcome. A lot of people of color applaud when I say this. They do so because they have never had anybody in a public space—in a mixed space—say it. And I think we have to say that, you know. But, yes, I do think that there’s an implicit bias that undermines how we interact with one another, and I do think that, in America, no one is free from the threat created by our history of racial inequality.

Whites included.

Yes. You can be very progressive, you can be very educated, and you can still be complicit in the kind of microaggression that takes place when you look at people through this lens of racial difference. So we all have a lot to learn. I don’t think that we should expect to make progress on these issues without bumping into one another, without making mistakes. We just have to have the humility and the patience and the courage to work through that. What I don’t think we should do is just retreat because we don’t know exactly where all the landmines are.

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If you truly knew what the N-word meant to our ancestors, you’d NEVER use it

A few years ago, I read slave narratives to explore the lives of black agricultural workers after the end of the Civil War. The narratives came from the Federal Writers Project of the Works Progress Administration, a program that employed researchers from 1936 to 1938 to interview former enslaved people, producing more than 2,300 narratives that, thankfully, reside online and are fully searchable.

Those whom the law defined as property recounted various unique human experiences — their daily horrors and monotonies, how they freed themselves or learned of their emancipation, the surge of exhilaration upon securing freedom, and how they endured life on the edges of a white supremacist society in the decades thereafter.

As I pored over the narratives, I was struck less by their experiences, as heartrending as they were, than by how their experiences sculpted their self-perceptions. The best explanation of what I gleaned, what social scientists called internalized oppression, describes the psychological trauma that ensues when a person from a stigmatized group believes those negative stigmas.

White folk indoctrinated them into accepting their supposed inferiority. These narratives illustrate the success of this campaign of mental terrorism, and no word conveyed the depth of this internalized oppression more than “nigger.” Now, whenever I hear the epithet, a visual and emotional representation of the heinous process by which a people — my people — were induced to think they were less than trespasses into my thoughts. After years of habitual use of “nigger,” I banished it from my speech to honor the humanity that many never saw in themselves.

The internalized oppression revealed itself in various ways. Sometimes the former enslaved people clearly, perhaps subconsciously, considered themselves subhuman, just like how their former owners regarded them. Jim Allen, for example, dubbed himself his master’s “pet nigger boy” and a “stray” and thought himself privileged because he could sleep on the floor beside his master’s bed. That he likened himself to a fortunate mangy mutt or frisky feline crushed me. The word laid bare a worldview that held black folk as a lower order of being, as when Irene Robertson claimed her former master Mr. Sanders was mean, in part, because “he beat his wife like he beat a nigger woman.”

“Nigger” also signaled antipathy toward fellow black folk. After the end of slavery, Mattie Mooreman went north to Wisconsin with a white family for whom she worked. Members of the family wanted her to go to the circus to watch a black boy’s performance. She told her interviewer, “Guess they thought it would be a treat to me to see another niggah. I told ’em, ‘Law, don’t you think I see lots, lots more than I wants, every day when I is at home?’ ” But read how she talks about the family’s baby, whom she constantly watched over, fearing, irrationally, someone would kidnap him: “No matter what time they come home they’d find me there. ‘Why don’t you go in your bedroom and lie down?’ they’d ask me. ‘No,’ I’d tell ’em, ‘somebody might come in, and they would have to get that baby over my dead body.” Her eyes fixated on the white baby, but she saw too many niggers.

A barrage of dispiriting uses of the word bloodied me as I combed through the narratives. “The Ku Klux kept the niggers scared.” “The Ku Klux did a whole lot to keep the niggers away from the polls. …” Slaves owned by “nice” masters are repeatedly called “free niggers.” “Niggers ain’t got no sense. Put ’em in authority and they gits so uppity.” “I’se just a poor old nigger waitin’ for Jesus to come and take me to heaven.” Slave traders are called “nigger traders.” Defiant enslaved people required the service of a “niggerbreaker.” “Nigger dogs” aided the recapture of those who escaped.

Perhaps more depressing, ironically, was that circumstances sometimes led them to opt against calling a black person a nigger. William Porter stated that “some of the Tennessee niggers was called free niggers. There was a colored man in Pulaski, Tennessee, who owned slaves.” A black man who kept others in bondage — he’s a “colored man,” yet those who were owned were “niggers.” I instantly thought of a moment from the O.J.: Made in America documentary when a white woman who saw black people talking to Simpson uttered, “Look at those niggers sitting with O.J.” Simpson delights in hearing this because she “knew I wasn’t black. She saw me as O.J.” Porter’s outlook matched that of both the racist white woman and the unspeakably racially deranged O.J.

Since reading those narratives, I’ve noticed this mindset when perusing the remarks of freed people in other contexts. For example, before the trial of Rufus Martin, a black man who stood accused of the 1903 murder of Charles Swackhammer, a woman whom the Fort Worth Star-Telegram referred to as an “old negress who occupied a front seat in the court room” bellowed:

  • “It’s the white people that is to blame. They know that they got to make niggahs work or they ain’t no good and they know as long as they ‘low niggah men to loaf aroun’ low down saloons they ain’t goin’ to work. This man come from a good niggah fam’ly — one of the best I knows of, but the p’lice ‘lowed him to loaf aroun’ without workin’, and to drink and gamble, till he just got to be no good and thought he didn’t have to work. The p’lice ought to raid them low down niggah saloons every day and every night till they make every blessed one of the niggah toughs go to work or else send ’em all to the county road. Them saloons is what makes bad niggahs and the white folks is to blame for it, ’cause they let ’em run.”

That Martin sported a reddish mustache, light hair and skin so bright he could pass for white almost certainly colored her perception that Martin came from a “good niggah fam’ly.”

Black folk rescued the word from the smoldering debris of a virulently racist land, reclaimed it and renovated the slur into a celebration of black comradery — defenders of contemporary usage of “nigger” repeat this. When this tale collides with reality, however, it shatters as a misreading of history — the current use of the word is owed less to white folk calling black folk “nigger” and more to black folk who thought they were niggers and said so. Black people have hurled the infamous word for nearly as long as white folk have. It exists within black speech now because it existed within black speech then. The uncomfortable truth must be confronted: Absent the internalized oppression of those who called white men and women their masters, “nigger” would probably not be a part of black folk’s lexicon. We black folk are reclaiming it not from bigoted white folk but from our ancestors, who, sadly, deemed their blackness a badge of inferiority.

I seek not to usher the word to the gallows. I harbor no aims to kill it. I can still bump a Young Thug track or chortle at a Dave Chappelle routine. “Nigger” does not bar my enjoyment of popular culture. My soul, though, winces whenever I hear it. The decision for black people to include it in their vocabulary, nonetheless, remains personal, and I reject the criticism of black folk who continue to wield it.

I write only to summon the words of former enslaved people from beyond the grave to express that “nigger” is haunted by the ghosts of hate and the more spiritually chilling ghosts of self-hate.

Brando Simeo Starkey is an associate editor at The Undefeated and the author of In Defense of Uncle Tom: Why Blacks Must Police Racial Loyalty. He crawled through a river of books and came out brilliant on the other side.

#IamNotYourNegro; this is not a review

It was more of an experience…

I had recently gone through a crisis and was able to push through and find a suitable solution. The result is that I am happier than I have been in a very long time.

Then there’s politics. Politics never used to be my thing; I despised the subject coming up in conversations. Mainly because I didn’t follow politics or couldn’t keep up with others engaged in the, what I thought was, nonsense. Well, now that I am older it’s time to do my best at learning how it all has been affecting my life.

I have taken to social media; obsessively sharing, reblogging, retweeting, and posting my own content, anything having to do with activism, politics, inequality, et al. Sometimes I even post without reading the content first and then forget to go back to learn what it was all about. Those articles that I do get to read usually leave me feeling upset or ready to fight someone. Thursday, of last week, I had had one of those days of not being able topull away from Facebook, Twitter et al, and I found myself becoming enraged. Extremely triggered, the thought of using [drugs] came up in my mind. I seriously almost fainted went it happened. Grateful that I did not use that night. To get my mind of things, on Friday, after another day of looking at new articles, I chose to go see a movie. Why would I have gone to see this very film if I wasn’t looking to get more upset? Allow me to tell you this, I did not leave the theater upset; I left the theater feeling validated.

image

Arriving late, I missed some of the opening dialogue. Again, my anger was triggered, but I cannot control the MTA. I was trying to find a seat in the Beale Theater (Film Society of Lincoln Center); a place I never had been as I felt it was not built for me. Walking in front of the screen to reach three empty seats, and when I arrived I noticed a coat hanging on the back of the first seat so, in my mind, I chose the second seat in. As I stepped into the row, an older grey-haired white man, seated with his wife (assuming), in the second row, reached for the coat and placed it on his lap. I thought nothing of it until I sat down. Child, if I would have done that, I thought to myself but did not close the thought with a “then”. As I sat in the middle seat, of the three free, I made eye contact with a younger dark-haired white man with a mustache and scruffy beard sitting to the left of the empty seat on my left. Handsome, in those seconds, I thought, and in those very same few seconds, I witnessed white fragility. His facial expression when our eyes met, the way his eyebrows curled up in the center and eyes widened as if he was about to start crying and apologize to me for something. He also appeared to be afraid of either I or himself maybe because when I finally sat down, he took a deep breath and sighed and he pulled his feet up off the floor and placed them on the short partition wall in front of us. That did not look comfortable, it looked like a fetal position.

I still unsure of how much I missed, may not much. There wasn’t any time given for me to start focusing on the film; two white men came to row and asked if anyone was sitting in the two empty seats on either side of me. Telling them, “No,” they asked if they could sit together, so I grabbed my coat and scooted over to the left. This drew the attention of the scruffy young man and again he looked frightened and upset as if he done something wrong.

Finally, we’re all sitting down and watching the film. A clip of Leander Perez advising how “…every…self-respecting…parent” should remove their white child from a school that a Negro has entered. This was followed by a clip of a white woman saying, “God forgives murder and he forgives adultery. But he is very angry and he actually curses all who do integrate.” I whispered, “Oh my God.” From one of the two men on my right was heard a scoff and on the left another deep breath.

From my peripheral, I could see that the couple to my right were holding hands. Kin, another thought. 

I will not review the film, I know the story. I see it daily. Feel it daily. Even drugs did not take it away. 

My experience in the theater itself. My heart raced when I saw film footage, that I had never seen before, of whites, in the south, protesting integration. Those same swastikas and confederate battle flags are waved around today. Frightening that these people are not seen as radicalized rebel forces terrorizing communities. 

As the film moved gracefully along, I noticed something else coming from the left of me. A light, from his smartphone, but not only the light, also a pattern. Every time during the narration of the film or scenes from footage that included James Baldwin, the young man would look at his phone; the smartphone was his “safe place”. Whenever the words “White people are…” “Whites in…” “Whites will…” “Whites have…” (anything similar; I cannot remember the exact quotes)– Anything that would tell him exactly about his privilege, and why he has it, he would run to his safe place.  Again, I thought, I would have done that! And there, I was witnessing that fragility- that dissonance, and it was distracting.

I tried to stay focused. I tried to make mental notes of things I wanted to researched like the photos of Malcolm X holding a camera–He was a photographer? I wanted to see more images–but that smartphone. 

What was I to do? A part of me wanted to snatch it from his hands and throw it across the room shout at him, I should not have to suffer from your dissonance! When the title came up on the screen, “I AM NOT YOUR NEGRO” they are not talking to me; they talking directly to you so LISTEN UP! Your mental disorder is a right and privilege for whites in this country, and every person of color suffers because of it so LISTEN UP! and then I would sit back down. Would not I have become the stereotype they had placed upon before my birth if I had done that? I pushed through and I did not pity him.

I still felt validated before I left the theater of mostly white patrons when the lights came on. I am not alone in seeing that there is a white narrative in 99% of what thrown at us as news, movies, advertising, music, and TV programming. Having us depicted as villains, thugs, uneducated, degenerates, angry black men and women most of the time.  Yawo Brown of TheMagicalNegro.net describes best in this article The Subtle Linguistics of Polite White Supremacy. You hear it in the Bobby Kennedy’s seemly prophesizing the coming of “negro” president. Baldwin’s response is indeed epic.

So, my whole Life I have been experiencing these things– maybe not the same as Baldwin, Evers, X, and King but I know what it’s like to only be given white heroes to choose from. I know the unease of having a police officer in close proximity. I know what it feels like to made to feel less than; to fear for my life– all because of the color of my skin. I also know what it’s like to protest in solidarity with strangers and kinfolk alike for a better America.  The film validated the feelings I was experiencing in the theater. One of the factors contributing to challenges I have face my whole life was playing out right next to me. Some people will show face and pay the price of admission but will not truly listen.

LISTEN UP!!

This is not a review of the film– Go see it


I ended up purchasing the accompanying book to the documentary the very next day

You Likely Won’t Find a More Candid & Comprehensive Interview with Euzhan Palcy Than This One… | IndieWire

Euzhan- Exactly. When African-Americans come to France, the French show them more consideration than they would show an African or a Black Caribbean. When African-Americans come to France, the French people are like “Oh, wow. Oh my God.” But if it’s an African, they’re like ‘Whatever.” It’s all because of the past, because of our history.