How to take a confusing topic (racial identity) and write about it in a way that validates Black and Brown readers, but that also engages white readerHow to take a confusing topic (racial identity) and write about it in a way that validates Black and Brown readers, but that also engages white readers? I'm not sure that this is the only way, but Beverly Daniel Tatum does so with healthy helpings of research and theory; frequent quotations from research participants, memoirs, and articles; and heaping doses of compassion and empathy. Clearly there are problems, but Tatum does not spend her time pointing her finger; she also does not refuse to hold (frequently white) people's toes to the fire. This is a balancing act, yet she does this balancing well (and whites reading this as a first foray into learning about race will likely respond with defensiveness). As she quotes James Baldwin, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
And, it's these quotes and others that I'm drawn to as I write this review:
"(N)o matter what we do, how successful we are, what friends we make, we don’t belong. We’re foreign. We’re not American." – Michael Luo
“I was taught to recognize racism only in individual acts of meanness by members of my group, never in invisible systems conferring unsought racial dominance on my group from birth.” – Peggy McIntosh
“To deny race and ignore the existence of racism actually causes harm to people of color because it a) falsely perpetuates the myth of equal access and opportunity, b) blames people of color for their lot in life, and c) allows Whites to live their lives in ignorance, naiveté, and innocence.” – Neville, Gallardo, & Sue, 2016
“Are you saying all Whites are racist?” When asked this question, … I am conscious that perhaps the question I am really being asked is, “Are you saying all Whites are bad people?” The answer to that question is of course not. However, all White people, intentionally or unintentionally, do benefit from racism. A more relevant question is, “What are White people as individuals doing to interrupt racism?” (Tatum, 2017, p. 115).
I particularly like Tatum's chapter on preschoolers' growing racial identity and how to support it in positive ways. In talking to her four-year-old son about slavery, a conversation she hadn't expected to have at that point, she reported simultaneously trying to achieve three goals:
(1) I didn’t want to frighten this four-year-old, who might worry that these things would happen to him (another characteristic of four-year-old thinking); (2) I wanted him to know that his African ancestors were not just passive victims but had found ways to resist their victimization; and (3) I did not want him to think that all White people were bad. It is possible to have White allies. (p. 147).
I heard Tatum talk about these ideas shortly after the first edition of her book was published. I don't know why it has taken me so long to read her book. I'm glad I did. ...more
Slavery is often depicted as a single, monolithic institution. The Known World in its exploration of slavery, especially slaveholding by free middle-cSlavery is often depicted as a single, monolithic institution. The Known World in its exploration of slavery, especially slaveholding by free middle-class Blacks, shortly before the start of the Civil War, blasts this misconception wide open. Edward P. Jones starts small; The Known World initially appeared to be a series of unrelated very short stories, together going nowhere. Soon, however, it became clear that his stories were "unrelated" in the same ways that the pieces of a mosaic are (i.e., not at all unrelated). One anecdote highlighted and clarified another.
The Known World, then, is a series of stories braided together. Alice's nonsense rhymes were reflected in Augustus' refusal to hear or speak. Saskia and Thorbecke appeared only to bring about Counsel's fall. Although Jones' characters often lacked insight – "She had thought all that day that the three [escaped enslaved people] would return before nightfall, finding it difficult to believe that two women and a boy would leave what she and Henry had made" (p. 317) – his contrasting stories deepened our (my) understanding of slavery and Black enslavers. Calvin, whose mother had owned Blacks (her "legacy"), was opposed to the institution, yet wrote his slave-holding sister that he was "trying to make myself as indispensable as possible and yet trying to stay out of the way, lest someone remember my history [living with enslaving people] and they cast me out" (p. 386).
The Known World often appears to avoid emotion, but that's part of its beauty. As Jones says, "I don't like to use a lot of emotions or what I call 'neon-lighting' because almost all the time whatever I'm writing about has enough emotion in it, and all I have to do is tell the story" (Ellis, 2004). I think adding in cheap emotions would have sapped the book's true emotional depth. We (I) would have felt manipulated and resisted Jones, instead of spontaneously being appalled or angry or wondering about the moral questions raised, as Jones clearly wanted. "Moses had thought that it was already a strange world that made him a slave to a white man, but God had indeed set it twirling and twisting every which way when he put black people to owning their own kind. Was God even up there attending to business anymore?" (p. 9). Or as Peter Jennings, then anchor for ABC News, said about reporting of the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon on 9/11/01: "Throughout my entire career, I have always been conscious that there are times when some people on television talk too much. Silence or natural sound on occasion is infinitely more powerful and relevant" (Graff, 2019, p. 152).
Although some of Jones' characters were clearly good (Celeste or Augustus) or evil (Travis or Counsel), most – Black and white – were morally ambiguous, as were the situations they found themselves in. As Augustus said, "I’ve had a little experience with this freedom situation. It’s big and little, yes and no, up and down, all at the same time” (p. 49). I sometimes liked Moses and rooted for him, although often was yelling at him as he made one error followed by yet another. Similarly, "despite vowing never to own a slave, Skiffington had no trouble doing his job to keep the institution of slavery going, an institution even God himself had sanctioned throughout the Bible. …'Render your body unto them,' his father had taught, 'but know your soul belongs to God'” (p. 43).
It's rarely that easy – as Skiffington discovered.
Their known world was often small, confining, and prevented real communication across racial and class lines. After Minerva disappeared, Winifred, who saw herself as Minerva's mother, put posters all over Philadelphia, asking for her return. The poster included the line, “Will Answer To The Name Minnie.” "[Winifred] had meant only love with all the words, for she loved Minerva more than she loved any other human being in the world. But [she] had been fifteen years in the South, in Manchester County, Virginia, and people down there just talked that way." Minerva heard a very different message and didn't see Winifred again for a very long time" (p. 382).
The first part of Citizen is comprised of short prose poems often describing "small," everyday events in her life or the lives of her friends and famiThe first part of Citizen is comprised of short prose poems often describing "small," everyday events in her life or the lives of her friends and family, punctuated by art examining race/racism. She described a classmate cheating from her work:
You never really speak except for the time she makes her request and later when she tells you you smell good and have features more like a white person. You assume she thinks she is thanking you for letting her cheat and feels better cheating from an almost white person.
Sister Evelyn never figures out your arrangement perhaps because you never turn around to copy Mary Catherine’s answers. Sister Evelyn must think these two girls think a lot alike or she cares less about cheating and more about humiliation or she never actually saw you sitting there. (pp. 12-13)
[image] By Glenn Ligon, reprinted in Citizen
If these microaggressions were clearer, less ambiguous, they would be less confusing. A friend, when distracted, called her by her black housekeeper's name.
You assumed you two were the only black people in her life. Eventually she stopped doing this, though she never acknowledged her slippage. And you never called her on it (why not?) and yet, you don’t forget. If this were a domestic tragedy, and it might well be, this would be your fatal flaw—your memory, vessel of your feelings. Do you feel hurt because it’s the “all black people look the same” moment, or because you are being confused with another after being so close to this other? (p. 14)
Later parts were more well-known stories, which meant that they were less surprising as I read them with today's eyes. Still, her essay on Serena Williams, who had five good shots called out in the 2004 US Open, causing her to lose the match, was as powerful, as surprising. "Though no one was saying anything explicitly about Serena’s black body, you are not the only viewer who thought it was getting in the way of Alves’s sight line" (p. 31).
I liked her use of pronouns throughout – you, she, him – which universalized experience. You was never just one person, nor were she and he singular beings. If they had been singular, it might have been easier to externalize the situation and shrug it off. When these things happened and happened and happened…
"I reminded myself that I was there only to listen. Just listen. The [white] man was deeply earnest and obviously felt helpless about the uncertainty of his son’s future. But it couldn’t be too dismal if Yale was still an option. Don’t think, I reminded myself. Know what it is to parent. Know what it is to love. Know what it is to be white. Know what it is to expect what white people have always had. Know what it is to resent. Is that unfair? Resentment has no home here. Know what it is to be white. Is that ungenerous? I don’t know. Don’t think." (Rankine, 2019, para. 47)
Just listen and wonder what it might be for the other person....more
Tarana Burke description of her life was often messy (I'd read, whispering that she should not go down that path – she rarely listened), but ultimatelTarana Burke description of her life was often messy (I'd read, whispering that she should not go down that path – she rarely listened), but ultimately inspiring and empowering, even before she talked about her work with the #metoo movement.
I like the way that she highlights the importance of social support ("you're not alone"), both in her own life – ""No, he didn’t recognize you because you turned out to be a smart, beautiful, accomplished woman despite him trying to take that from you.".... It didn’t matter anymore that he couldn’t see me because for the first time in a long time I felt like my mother could. He had not won—I had." (p. 253) – but also our willingness to share our own histories of abuse.
I liked that Burke included various parts of herself: the hapless victim, the good daughter, the angry teen, the person in messy and hopeful recovery, the woman in intentional recovery. She included both her mistakes and her attempts to learn from them, Heaven being one important example of these. Some books describe the Victim and the Victor, without clearly describing the steps in between. Burke showed us how she got from point A to point X.
I also appreciated hearing her description of the intersection between trauma and race, how R. Kelly and others were not held accountable in ways that she wanted them to be, yet also that
There is no escaping America’s painful history of weaponizing sexual violence as a tool against Black men. The Black community is all too familiar with the fact that we are socialized to respond to the vulnerability of white women in this country. Black folks had seen too many instances of white women’s tears marking the end of Black men’s lives in one way or another. But surely, I thought, our community could see the difference between a Black man being railroaded by the lies of white folks and Black women disclosing the harm they had experienced from our men? (p. 246)
Finding that middle ground has been difficult throughout the short history of work on sexual trauma. It's certainly one of our growing points....more
"I know how to tell stories, but how does one begin to tell silence?" (p. 51).
I read an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education today, critiquing "I know how to tell stories, but how does one begin to tell silence?" (p. 51).
I read an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education today, critiquing how race is talked about in universities (Patel, 2024). Eboo Patel hoped that race could become a source of pride rather than a status of victimization, that we could see all iterations of diversity and recognize those differences as strengths. Further, he hoped that we could bring diverse people around a common table to learn from and cooperate with one another.
I think getting to these "productive" conversations is often more difficult than we expect, in part, because in the 21st c. US, the loudest voices are often those that exclude or denigrate Blacks and other marginalized groups. One VP candidate in this election said about his wife, "Obviously she's not a white person… but I love Usha, she's such a good mom." But? Maybe he misspoke, but I hope he meant "and." And, before we can sit and sing "Kumbaya," we must feel that all parts of ourselves are heard.
As Kei Miller argued in "Mr. Brown, Mrs. White, and Ms. Black," Black, Brown, and white people feel that they need to be silent about some things. It would be scary or dangerous to put everything we think and feel into words – why I would not be an early adopter of a telepathy app. "We keep things to ourselves. We withhold them because of fear—because those things that we need to say, or acknowledge, or confess, or our own failings that we need to own up to—they can feel so important, it is hard to trust them to something so unsafe as words" (p. 11).
So, Miller gives voice to the ways that whites (and Browns and Blacks) are racist and the ways we talk or fail to talk about these things. Mrs. White "found she could only ever be intimate with a man who was able to see beyond her colour and race—a man who could see her simply as a person. The truth is, it usually took a white man to do that [in Jamaica]" (p. 34). Or, Ms. Black, who is called "a disgrace, an embarrassment, an intellectual lightweight. Black by name, but dark by nature. It is not that Ms Black does not understand things, and their complexity, but it is not always easy for her to attach the right words to that complexity. She has to take such care and such effort with her words and sometimes that makes her thoughts seem jumbled" – a difficulty that disappears when she talks with her mother in patois (pp. 43-44).
Miller talks about color and secrets in families, discovering only as an adult that the woman he'd thought was his cousin's grandmother was not. About the ways that lovers used their "whiteness against me as a weapon. I knew that what he said was true—that any story he chose to tell would be believed. It would be believed because of our different bodies, and the different meanings that our bodies produce" (p. 68). Whose story gets believed? Why? Why were some white friends surprised that there are dogs and poets in Jamaica? Why, when poor, gay boys living on the harbor reciprocated attacks, were they dangerous, squatters, prostitutes, thieves, murderers, beating up innocent people, the worst of the worst? "The offence they caused was in their own bodies. It was the way they walked in their bodies, and the way they danced in their bodies. And also, it was because they were poor" (pp. 112-113).
Miller described the way that whites and Blacks responded to an essay that was both generous and racist.
The white woman says: But I was being attacked! The critics came for me with sharp knives. And when one of us is attacked, all of us are attacked!
The other white woman says: Nah! When you is attacked it mean that you is attacked. It mean you have to ask yourself, what have I done? And you gots to put on your big girl pants and your big girl shoes, and you parse out what is truth from what is fuckery and you deal with it. (p. 131)
I'm working on putting on my big girl pants and my big girl shoes and parsing out truth from fuckery. Not easy, but I am trying. Things I Have Withheld, of which I have only offered a glimpse, is an important part of this journey. ...more
Since learning to read, I've read somewhat indiscriminately (e.g., cereal boxes and classics). I started reading Not What She Seems, thinking that it Since learning to read, I've read somewhat indiscriminately (e.g., cereal boxes and classics). I started reading Not What She Seems, thinking that it was a memoir I'd downloaded; it turned out to be something another family member downloaded. And yet I continued reading.
So… Not my genre (this was at the thriller end of mysteries); characters were two-dimensional and evil/not, although the narrator was sometimes confused about these categories; people acted out of character or changed somewhat unpredictably; and the plot didn't make sense to me (see above about thrillers). I didn't buy the premise, characters, or the ways they came together.
And yet I continued reading, despite not liking books with gratuitous and continuous violence. Sigh....more
I struggled through Huckleberry Finn earlier this much. I didn't particularly like the characters or the story. I raced through James, which is based I struggled through Huckleberry Finn earlier this much. I didn't particularly like the characters or the story. I raced through James, which is based on Huckleberry Finn: its characters were more likable, the story made more sense and hung together, rather than feeling like a series of vignettes. (I wondered whether Finn had been serialized before being published as a single book.)
That doesn't mean that James is all sweetness and light. The first Part was relatively light, although largely because Jim was in hiding and speaking slave talk. Here he is teaching his daughter to speak "slave," so as not to make whites uncomfortable:
Lizzie cleared her throat. “Miss Watson, dat sum conebread lak I neva before et.”
“Try ‘dat be,’ ” I said. “That would be the correct incorrect grammar.”
“Dat be sum of conebread lak neva I et,” she said.
“Very good,” I said. (p. 14).
This first Part is very similar to Twain's narrative, although it's told from Jim's perspective. Later parts deviate significantly, in part because Huck and Jim were separated for significant parts, in part because James is put in increasingly difficult situations, begins using standard English in a wider variety of situations and stops hiding his ability to read and to understand philosophy, and becomes increasingly politicized, able to decide what he can handle and what he won't. That is, he becomes James.
The Second and Third Parts of James were a more uncomfortable read – and more fulfilling. There were evil whites, but there also kind and good whites – who objectified, bought and sold Blacks, and didn't beat Blacks more than they (believed Blacks) deserved. James began to clearly see the world clearly. It was largely a racist, objectifying, and dangerous place, even when, perhaps especially when around people who believed they were good slave owners.
The wordplay in James was both entertaining, but also enlightening. Jim/James doesn't just show us, but also helps us decode it – and doesn't do so in ways that will make us comfortable. "My change in diction alerted the rest to the white boys’ presence. So, my performance for the boys became a frame for my story. My story became less of a tale as the real game became the display for the boys" (p. 15).
James is quite aware that language, writing, reading – and the abilities to do so without apology – are power. "The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him" (p. 290).
I will be reading this again. And probably again....more
All That She Carried examines a sack given 9-year-old Ashley by her mother, Rose, when she was sold at auction: "it held a tattered dress three handfuAll That She Carried examines a sack given 9-year-old Ashley by her mother, Rose, when she was sold at auction: "it held a tattered dress three handfuls of // pecans a braid of Roses hair. Told her // it be filled with my Love always // she never saw her again" Ashley's granddaughter, Ruth, embroidered this charming, succinct, and heart-rending oral history on it.
[image]
Without this embroidery, Rose and Ashley would have been completely wiped from South Carolina's history. As Stephanie McCurry (1995) noted, "Historical visibility is everywhere related to social power."
Nonetheless, this sack had little provenance, and Tiya Miles was forced to engage in considerable speculation. Miles wandered through many rabbit holes, trying to understand who this Rose and Ashley were – Rose was a common name, but Ashley was uncommon in the middle of the 19th century, especially for a girl. Miles also explored the meaning of the sack, the implications of giving it to Ashley, and her choice of the dress, pecans, a braid of her hair, and even the colors of Ruth's embroidery floss.
I enjoyed Miles' questioning, an act making her speculation visible and engaging us with it:
How does a person treated like chattel express and enact a human ethic? What does an individual who is deeply devalued insist upon as her set of values? How does a woman demeaned and cowed face the abyss and still give love? (p. xiv)
I didn't like Miles' frequent use of adjectives (e.g., horrific, terrible, awful), however. I wanted the possibility of choosing adjectives to describe my dismay. I probably would have landed on horrific, terrible, and awful, but I wanted this to be my choice. As it was, my inner oppositional child initially resisted her labels – until my more grown-up mind stepped up and said, horrific, terrible, and awful. Would anyone reading this have arrived at another conclusion?
This was a Community read in Indianapolis, one that I was glad I joined. ...more
I read fiction for different perspectives on the world. Toni Morrison's characters in A Mercy are, as one GR reviewer wrote, both sympathetic and compI read fiction for different perspectives on the world. Toni Morrison's characters in A Mercy are, as one GR reviewer wrote, both sympathetic and comprehensible, while still being remote and unfamiliar, even foreign. They are largely motherless and bought and paid for, whether they are Rebekka, outwardly free, but purchased through an advertisement overseas; Lina, a Native American orphan who survived a smallpox epidemic that wiped out her village; or Florens, who was given to relieve a debt and whose mother suggested she be taken because Jacob saw her "as a human child, not pieces of eight" (p. 158).
Regardless of color, station, or status, their situation is precarious; they are reliant on men. Nominally, Rebekka was in a better place than the women she lived with – Lina, Florens, or Sorrow – but she would likely lose her farm after Jacob's death, likely be married off, while the others would be sold. "To be female in this place is to be an open wound that cannot heal" (p. 155).
Does any of this make sense to them, each of whom feels alone or rejected at various points. Florens, for example, felt abandoned and unloved by her mother, who saw Jacob taking the young girl just before the dawn of womanhood as "a mercy." In such a time and culture, what would it mean to be a good mother?
Morrison's comments on gender, race, and slavery are sufficient reasons to read A Mercy. Her language – poetic and vivid – is sometimes difficult reading, but also drew me in and sank its hooks, not letting go.
"To be given dominion over another is a hard thing; to wrest dominion over another is a wrong thing; to give dominion of yourself to another is a wicked thing" (p. 158). ...more
In An Inconvenient Cop, Edwin Raymond asks what a police force should do: (a) create and promote safe and secure communities or (b) make arrests and jIn An Inconvenient Cop, Edwin Raymond asks what a police force should do: (a) create and promote safe and secure communities or (b) make arrests and justify their ongoing employment.
Raymond, a young dreadlocked Black man, was a member of the NYPD during the period described in An Inconvenient Cop. He entered the police force idealistic, hoping to prevent crime, in a system that rewarded its members for writing summons and making arrests, especially for small, nuisance crimes (e.g., jumping a subway turnstile or littering), and discouraged officers from making felony arrests.
Doesn't make sense, right? – unless you subscribe to the largely discredited Broken Windows theory (that visible signs of disorder and misbehavior in an environment encourage further disorder and misbehavior, leading to more serious crimes). If subscribing to the Broken Windows theory, you want to make many nuisance arrests (to "clean up" a neighborhood). And, if you are in a leadership position, you want few felony arrests (to demonstrate that the community is now safer).
There are several problems with this approach to policing. Especially in the US, such policing, often takes place on the backs of black and brown people, which then creates problematic policing, distrust between communities and the police force, and likely future crime and community dysfunction. As Van Cleve (2016) argues, "Racially disproportionate incarceration contributes to a cycle of poverty, growing structural inequality, and higher (rather than lower) crime rates” (p. 2).
I like, in theory, assessing the police department – or any organization or change project – by counting desired behaviors (e.g., arrests). As Raymond described here and probably many of us have experienced, people and organizations move toward the reinforcers, even though achieving the reinforced behavior may cause other problems. "When you measure people based on a number, they are going to make achieving the number their goal" (p. 318). They are going to make achieving the number their goal rather than doing the right thing.
Over a period of 14 years, Raymond tried to create changes in New York's police department, to occasional applause and much more frequent criticism and harassment. Nonetheless, he has been doing the right thing and attempting to get the rest of us to fall in line....more
The Girl I Am, Was, and Never Will Be is two or more intertwined stories: Shannon Gibney's story of growing up as a biracial adoptee, adopted by a whiThe Girl I Am, Was, and Never Will Be is two or more intertwined stories: Shannon Gibney's story of growing up as a biracial adoptee, adopted by a white family, and her speculations about who she might have been if she had grown up as Erin Powers, raised by her white, neurotic, lesbian birthmother. Erin's speculations feel, here, as real as Shannon's story.
In Shannon and Erin's shared search for a more complete picture of their origins and who they are, their stories are occasionally connected by a mysterious portal. The portal feels like an awkward narrative device to me, even though I like some kinds of science fiction. Perhaps I don't like my "peas" (memoir) and "carrots" (sci fi) to touch on my plate.
Gibney documents her/their story with reproductions of her own adoption documents, letters and cards from her birthmother, family photographs, interviews, medical records from her cancer diagnosis, and brief essays on the absurdities of the adoptee experience – and supplements this with still other stories of "the girl who is not me, who might have been me, who is me" (p. 135).
The end result is fascinating, something that those of us who are white parents of biracial adoptees or friends of transracial adoptees should consider reading, contemplating, and discussing. Certainly, two pieces that come up repeatedly, especially but not only in her birthfamily, are the random and uninformed racism and other microaggressions that she experienced, and the patriarchal and colonial attitudes that society has about white adoptive parents and their brown, black, or yellow adoptive children.
In sum, The Girl I Am, Was, and Never Will Be was occasionally frustrating, but it was also eye-opening, a worldview rarely discussed outside of the therapy room....more
“I have dark brown skin, curly hair, a broad nose, some of my ancestors were slaves and I have been detained by pasty white policemen in New Hampshire“I have dark brown skin, curly hair, a broad nose, some of my ancestors were slaves and I have been detained by pasty white policemen in New Hampshire, Arizona and Georgia and so the society in which I live tells me I am black; that is my race.”
Monk (actually, Thelonious "Monk" Ellison) cannot get his novels published. He writes thoughtful, literary fiction with themes from Greek myths. His books aren't "Black enough." He is simultaneously aware of his race and yet that fact does not touch his life on a daily basis.
The hard, gritty truth of the matter is that I hardly ever think about race. Those times when I did think about it a lot I did so because of my guilt for not thinking about it. I don’t believe in race. I believe there are people who will shoot me or hang me or cheat me and try to stop me because they do believe in race, because of my brown skin, curly hair, wide nose and slave ancestors. But that’s just the way it is.
Out of frustration, Monk wrote a book jam-packed with racial stereotypes – eventually titled F*** (without the asterisks) – and sent it to his agent, who sent it to publishers, who surprised both agent and author with an enthusiastic acceptance and a huge advance.
"I was a victim of racism by virtue of my failing to acknowledge racial difference and by failing to have my art be defined as an exercise in racial self-expression. So, I would not be economically oppressed because of writing a book that fell in line with the very books I deemed racist. And I would have to wear the mask of the person I was expected to be.
Erasure is, of course, about having a nonconforming racial identity erased, but his family are also erased in different ways: dementia, murder, homophobia; yet, em>Erasure is also about coming to find identity, moral courage, and authenticity in unexpected places (or not).
Erasure is a montage of superficially-unrelated pieces: Monk's own story, F***, descriptions of trout fishing and wood working, and dialogues between pairs of artists. I hated F***, which would have pleased Monk, but the rest was lively and thought-provoking. For a largely friendless man, I enjoyed spending time with him.
I listened to Erasure while traveling and, although I liked the narrator's work, the book is complicated enough structurally that I found myself wishing that I was reading it rather than listening – and certainly wished I was listening while walking around town or cooking, not while speeding down the highway.
I loved My Sister, The Serial Killer until its ending. Oyinkan Brathwaite wrote in short, punchy chapters, showing, not telling the reader about abuseI loved My Sister, The Serial Killer until its ending. Oyinkan Brathwaite wrote in short, punchy chapters, showing, not telling the reader about abuse, misogyny, patriarchy, and the objectifying power of the male gaze. Some of these men were clearly abusive or arrogant, but others were kind and good-hearted in most parts of their lives. But, could they see beyond Ayoola's beautiful surface? What danger comes when they fail to do so?
I kept thinking of the folk figure, Anansi, while listening to My Sister, The Serial Killer. Anansi (and Ayoola) outsmarts more powerful opponents with cunning, creativity and wit. Anansi (and Ayoola) often takes center stage and is both protagonist and antagonist. Anansi's character often functioned, as it did here, as a model of resistance: labeling that something was wrong and identifying that there were solutions.
Nonetheless, its ending, which aligned Korede with Ayoola, spoiled the book for me. It seemed like Brathwaite took the easy path. Are there other responses to abuses of power? Contrast Brathwaite's choices with Safiya Sinclair's in How to Say Babylon, which I'd just finished and haven't yet reviewed. In some ways Brathwaite's choices were more satisfying (in the short term), but presumably Korede and Ayoola have to live with themselves at the end of the day. (I'm not a thriller sort of person, so this may be me.)
I listened to the audiobook. Adepero Oduye gave a wonderful, nuanced read.
I read two memoirs by Caribbean-born authors simultaneously: this and How to Say Babylon. The latter is often dark (and beautiful), while this had me I read two memoirs by Caribbean-born authors simultaneously: this and How to Say Babylon. The latter is often dark (and beautiful), while this had me smiling throughout, despite some unconvincing dialogue and homophonic errors that an editor would have corrected quickly (e.g., "white color worker"). Her discussions of finding home, despite leaving home (Trinidad and Tobago) and family, were interesting.
Although I didn't know her, except by name and reputation, the author and I worked in the same place, and probably crossed paths frequently. She talked about people I knew, including one who connected the two of us, leading to her sending me a copy of her book. ...more
Memory is a river. Memory is a pebble at the bottom of the river, slippery with the moss of our living hours. Memory is a tributary, a brackish streamMemory is a river. Memory is a pebble at the bottom of the river, slippery with the moss of our living hours. Memory is a tributary, a brackish stream returning to the ocean that dreamt it. Memory is the sea. Memory is the house on the sand with a red door I have stepped through, trying to remember the history of the waves. (p. XI).
You get the picture: a memoir that recognizes memory as changing and changeable. A poet's memoir.
How to Say Babylon was written by a Rastafarian musician's oldest daughter. Although there are various Rasta sects, they all are part of a nonviolent movement that aim to free the poor and downtrodden of "Babylon’s colonial system." Rasta attempts to challenge poverty and racism through unity and Black empowerment. Nonetheless, in a racist colonial system, he often felt excluded by both Blacks and whites and oppressed by wealthy Jamaican and Foreign whites. He attempted to find a foothold that fed his soul, protected his children, and kept his daughters pure – although often did not have enough money to put food in his family's stomachs or keep lights on in the evening. "He believed that if he kept playing his reggae with righteous conviction, this crooked world would wake up and change. If he kept playing, he could save Black people’s minds, and we would reach Zion, the promised land in Africa" (p. 44).
Sometimes love saves us. Sometimes it kills. Safiya Sinclair's parents followed different paths in sharing their love. Her mother was nonjudgmental and nurtured Sinclair's mind and poet's soul. She fought to give her unimagined opportunities. Her father's love was fearful and paranoid. In his eyes,
the perfect daughter was humble and had no care for vanity. She had no needs, yet nursed the needs of others, breastfeeding an army of Jah’s mighty warriors. The perfect daughter sat under the apple shade and waited to be called, her mind empty and emptying. She followed no god but her father, until he was replaced with her husband. The perfect daughter was nothing but a vessel for the man’s seed, unblemished clay waiting for Jah’s fingerprint. (p. 107)
Often memoirs arc from poverty and abuse to empowerment and success. How to Say Babylon is no exception. She described finding the courage to change, discovering a voice and meaning through her poetry, being mentored (well and poorly) as an intellectual and a poet, and forgiving. Just because this arc is frequently described does not make it any less compelling – especially as I don't think I'd read about Rastas before, at least a first-person narrative.
Read with reggae in the background, hot sun on your shoulders, and mango sliced into a turquoise bowl. ...more
"The country we know as the United States is just a parcel of land that was stolen and repurposed as a settler state using European logic and the laws"The country we know as the United States is just a parcel of land that was stolen and repurposed as a settler state using European logic and the laws of white supremacy. This book is a story about a strong-arm robbery. It is about family and friends trying to recover what was stolen. It is the testimony, and the verdict that a jury of our peers has never heard." (p. 9)
Black AF History is a rollicking, often irreverent Black-centered history, shared as a series of stories. Michael Harriot's goal is to recenter history, challenge old ways of looking at that history and provoke new ones. He argues that history – told by whites – is a series of fairy tales to justify their (our) behavior rather than admit to the atrocities committed by their (our) ancestors. We have whitewashed history and patted ourselves on the back for a job well done. For example,
the condition we broadly refer to as slavery has existed in so many different iterations that it is almost unfair to sweep all the different variations of human bondage under the umbrella of one language’s inadequate definition. Is a prisoner of war the same as a domestic servant? Does an unpaid worker serving a period of indentured servitude fall synonymous with a woman forced to enter an arranged marriage? Is criminal incarceration indistinguishable from mandatory military conscription? (p. 42)
What is the difference among these groups – other than who tells the story? As Harriot observed, "Of course, “Give me liberty or give me death” sounds perfectly rational when it comes from the lips of a white person. But logic, common sense, and the narcissistic delusion of whiteness dictates that Black people who would rather die than be enslaved must be mentally ill," and should be diagnosed with drapetomania (p. 113).
Harriot used family stories to reframe historical events. He followed these with briefer narratives, as well as multiple choice questions:
The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world. Why doesn’t it have the lowest crime rate?
a. Because incarceration doesn’t stop crime. b. Crime is caused by poverty, not lack of cages. c. It’s probably a coincidence. d. Seriously, was slavery outlawed? (p. 333)
Those questions were often followed by Activity prompts, this one includes part of the questions in "Name the Race":
Assign the race of Asian, Black, Hispanic, Native American, white, or “Other” to the following people.
++ A person whose ancestors were from France, except for one great-great-grandfather, who was from Africa.
++ A person whose ancestors were from Africa, except for one great-great-grandfather, who was from France.
++ A person who emigrated from Ireland before Irish people were considered white.
++ A Spanish-speaking indigenous native of Texas when it belonged to Mexico.
+ An English-speaking indigenous native of New Mexico. (excerpted from a much longer list, pp. 66-67).
Obviously, Harriot intends to be provoking – thoughts and emotions (both laughter and anger). One shouldn't read Black AF History dispassionately, simply moving a highlighter across the page.
I've listened to a number of books this past year, some of which I'd wished I'd read. This was one that I wished I'd listened to....more
If Chain-Gang All-Stars was a movie, I would assiduously avoid it (its characters must kill or be killed, often within minutes of a fight, in their quIf Chain-Gang All-Stars was a movie, I would assiduously avoid it (its characters must kill or be killed, often within minutes of a fight, in their quest to be freed from prison –so the rest of us can be entertained).
Chain-Gang is part Hunger Games, part Fahrenheit 451, and part The New Jim Crow, all wrapped into one. Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah aimed at the prison system – with supersized guns – and did so under the guise of entertainment. We had to listen to Tracy Lasser and Mari, to learn to love Staxxx, Thurwar, and the other prisoner/gladiators; we had to read Chain-Gang's footnotes – please read the footnotes! – to see the underlying commentary.
Interestingly, Adjei-Brenyah's abolitionist/dissidents are three-dimensional from the beginning and his prisoner/gladiators become so (maybe as our eyes adjust and our stereotypes drop), while his prison guards and the "entertainment" industry remain flat. My stomach clenched as first one, then another increasingly outlandish fight was foisted on them. Wouldn't such a reality series be popular – both among viewers and the prison system, which aims to make a dime off of others' mistakes? Would such a series be unprecedented?
And, while some prisoners had done heinous things, things that they regretted to their dying day (there are a lot of dying days), some had defended themselves against and killed their rapists, others had committed vehicular manslaughter, and still others were innocent of any crime. Chain-Gang's prison system painted each prisoner with the same broad brush – as we do.
I am teaching a Psychology and Law class in the Spring and contemplating telling my students to read this. Would they recognize the irony, the condemnation? Stay tuned....more
"I feel like it's very difficult for us to get beyond the fact that enslaved people had little to no physical agency. And I think it makes us just fla"I feel like it's very difficult for us to get beyond the fact that enslaved people had little to no physical agency. And I think it makes us just flatten them, right? Like, they're flattened to just be victims often, and even I was struggling with it." (Ward in Rascoe, 2023, para. 6)
Annis is neither flat nor a victim. She is often starving – literally and figuratively – but she is not a victim. She grieved, but was neither lost nor alone.
Not that Annis always recognized this. For much of Let Us Descend Annis descended into a kind of hell, much as Dante's Inferno, which she heard her half-sisters' tutor discussing. She traveled from one hell to another: her sire's rice plantation, the arduous walk to the New Orleans slave markets, the pen where she was kept for sale, a sugarcane plantation. "Us walking cattle, us goats. Us made to be a herd, but we not. We not" (p. 53).
In her travels through various hells, Annis grieves the loss of her mother, her lover, her home. She grieves her loss of agency: that she must fear grabbing a handful of cornmeal for her day's food, that she is put in the hole without food or water for accepting a raccoon from an escaped slave.
For much of the book, Annis is caught in this web, without enough energy to do more than what is demanded of her, even refusing to be awed by a waterfall on her walk, but the spirits all around her direct her, guide her, help her rediscover hope, connect her to her maternal line. They help her read the land, recognize possibilities, and ultimately discover what she wants. Rather than accepting the small bites that Ava, Bastian, and Esther offer, she chose to live life under her own terms.
I don’t want to hide in the city, live my days like a rat, cleaving to walls and corners, averting my face, surfacing at night to beg, filch, steal. I don’t want to give over the tender parts of myself to men like the lady’s husband. And I don’t want to settle on the enslaver’s borders, either, even with Bastian, even with Mary, even with Esther, if they are alive, if, with Aza’s help, I could find them. I could never sleep, never laugh, for listening for the baying of the dogs, for the excited shouts of the hands. (p. 276)
I was wowed by Let Us Descend. Annis' story is both ugly and awe-inspiring. Her voice was clear, direct, and as thoughtful as her half-sisters were sallow, unsure, and mumbling.
…then a family of boar slips through the underbrush, and I watch them go, the bellies of the smallest piglets tickling the earth, and l think: I am not alone. And They Who Take and Give squelch under my feet, and the trees rustle their branches, and I reach out to the Water, and I imagine what my mother would say: You not. (p. 291)...more
Up Home is the inspirational story of Ruth Simmons, born to Black, desperately poor sharecroppers. She was the youngest of 12 children. Against all odUp Home is the inspirational story of Ruth Simmons, born to Black, desperately poor sharecroppers. She was the youngest of 12 children. Against all odds, she earned her PhD in Romance Languages and Literatures, eventually serving as president of Smith College, Brown University, and Prairie View A & M University.
Simmons' mother was uneducated, unworldly, and saintly, working long hours, although never learning to drive a car. Her mother was observant and discerning; as a result, "I began to rely more on the meaning rather than the mere fact of what I was observing" (p. 48). Her father put food on the table, became a pastor, but his behavior often didn't match his expressed values (e.g., running around with other women, neglecting and beating his children). Simmons attributed her success to her mother's influence, but also a series of mentors, siblings and teachers, who took her under their wings, encouraging and challenging her, providing positive (or negative) role models, and often financial assistance (money and clothes).
Although many things went surprisingly well for Simmons, almost unbelievably so, not everything did. She attempted to transfer to Sarah Lawrence and was not admitted to Yale for graduate school, but believes that this worked out anyway. Any failures "forced me to confront the reality that one path foreclosed is an invitation to consider other opportunities that could be equally, and, possibly even more, satisfying and beneficial" (p. 201).
Simmons described a philosophy that was empowering and that is likely meant as a model for high school and college students struggling to succeed under adverse conditions, and yet I wondered. I have worked with many First Gen college students, presumably most raised under considerably less adverse conditions; yet, most do not navigate the system as easily as she seemed to do so. It felt as though she was attempting to connect the dots to her success, while leaving out some significant ones.
Further, while Simmons means to inspire, her language often felt distant. (This may be an unfair comparison with Let Us Descend, which I'm also reading and adore.)...more
There are some books where I feel close to the characters, even some level of fictophilia. I'm sure I'm not alone with this among my fiction-loving frThere are some books where I feel close to the characters, even some level of fictophilia. I'm sure I'm not alone with this among my fiction-loving friends.
I loved Diana Evans' use of language in A House for Alice, her use of adjectives to communicate the complicated nature of feelings: "he’d thought it pretentious, earnest, western, sanctimonious, selfish, self-important, impractical, pseudo-buddhist and yogic, but now he could see her logic" (p. 199). I enjoyed A House for Alice and kept reading, but this was not a book that I wanted to keep going, not a book that I will keep thinking about.
I think there are several reasons. Her language seems designed to impress rather than engage. (I imagine Paul Hollywood's feedback if she were a contestant on Great British Bake Off: beautiful but needs more flavor.) She often used third person omniscient, which can leave one feeling connected but often doesn't. The cast of characters was huge, and I often wondered who a character was and why he/she was there. Some of the characters' dilemmas were such that I, the reader, found myself prompting them from off-stage. ("No! Don't go there!") Several characters were opaque to the reader – until the end of the book when Evans removed our veils. If this had been a mystery, it would have felt unfair.
This doesn't mean that I didn't like any of the characters: Ria, Melissa, and Michael were favorites, while I never liked either Carol or Adel. I liked the political dilemmas the characters faced as Blacks in London – as immigrants, as parents of Black boys, as caregivers to a cantankerous and abusive father, as parents to children with mental health and criminal justice issues, etc. – but I didn't feel that I got new insights in the ways that I'd expected.
And, yet… Alice would occasionally say something about her desire to move back to Nigeria that made me think, made me smile:
That was why she wanted her own house, to make herself strong again, even just for the leaving. “He take my life,” she said. “I blame myself for stay with him, I didn’t know, I didn’t know where else but be with you children.” Taking her napkin, she wiped it roughly across her face and eyes, then screwed it up in her hand. “I try to feel strong...it’s misfortune, my life is still here...” (p. 315)...more
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