I have always considered myself a product of the Crack Era. The violence of the late 80s and early 90s was a nuclear bomb--we remember those who died in the blast, but so many more walked away, done different and irradiated.
.. I didn't simply fear being hurt, I actually didn't like hurting other people. I only changed because it was made clear that the quickest path to peace was, in fact, a sharp, immediate demonstration of violence. ..
The acceptance of this violence was framed by still greater violence. For all of us it was the violence parents did to children. But for many of us it was more--sexual violence, the violence adults did to each other, the violence brought out by addiction, the constant presence of the police. ..
I have never, in my life, been as scared as I was on the first day of middle school. What petrified me was that the boys--most of whom were older--spoke the language of violence. Violence shaped how they walked. Violence shaped who they walked with. Violence shaped when they laughed and what they laughed at. Violence shaped how they wore their Starter caps. Violence told them when to give dap and when to give the ice-grill. It was an entire range of cues, an intricate dance, all designed to either protect your person, or dramatize the effort.
..You remember the overpowering darkness of it all--and you remember this (the not knowing) even more then you remember the bumrush.
Only
twice in my life have I felt as lost as I did on that first day at
Lemmel: When I moved to New York and when I started studying French. The
obvious point is that "not knowing" on the streets carries a kind of
consequence which "not knowing" in French class does not. And yet the
fear--the darkness--is still powerful. Violence isn't simply physically
painful, it is degrading and humiliating. The worst part about getting
jumped was my helplessness.
This is how I have experienced learning
French. Even the rules of that foreign language are given in a foreign language.
And when she calls on you, it's with the expectation that you will
understand. And you never do. I experience this as a bumrush, as a rain
of blows from all directions.
When I was a boy, I did not understand. More, I did not understand that
not understanding was how it all happened. I was left in the dark--and
then forcibly remanded to a strange immersion. And yet I learned the
syntax, the vocabulary, the sounds. And I came to like the sound. I got
fluency and then fraternity. I walked outside. And then I got love.
White Privilege --Ta-Nehisi Coates , The Atlantic
There's a very nice note in the comments section for my post below this one from a gentleman who was kind enough to read my memoir ..
I want to stress that I really appreciate this note. While I wrote thinking mostly about a young black kid who might find himself in the sort of situation I found myself as an adolescent, I also wanted the book to be open and hoped that people who were nothing like me might find something in there. / I did. middle school (when immersed with peers ~ after wh I got my way? ~ of finding myself outside of hierarchy) being in the know even the violence yes //
There's a very nice note in the comments section for my post below this one from a gentleman who was kind enough to read my memoir ..
I want to stress that I really appreciate this note. While I wrote thinking mostly about a young black kid who might find himself in the sort of situation I found myself as an adolescent, I also wanted the book to be open and hoped that people who were nothing like me might find something in there. / I did. middle school (when immersed with peers ~ after wh I got my way? ~ of finding myself outside of hierarchy) being in the know even the violence yes //
I don't want to speak for any other black person, or any other
black writer, but it needs to be understood that my identity isn't
founded on the losing end of "white privilege." I understand the use of
that term for social scientists and perhaps literature critics. But I
generally find it most powerful and most illuminating when linked to an
actual specific privilege--not fearing sexual violence, not weighing
one's death against the labor of birthing, living in a neighborhood
bracketed off by housing covenants, not having to compete for certain
jobs etc. In its most general invocation, I'm often repulsed because I
think these sorts of questions often break down in the face of actual
individuals.
The world of the individual--and often the black individual--is the
space where I write. It is true that I can tell you how
racism--indirectly and directly--affected my life. But you should also
know that I truly believe that I had the best pair of parents in the
world, that I had six brothers and sisters (sometimes more) who took
care of me.
In short--you need to know that I was privileged. I can run you all
kinds of stats on the racial wealth gap and will gladly discuss its
origins. But you can't really buy two parents like I had. Money can buy
experience and exposure--but it can't make you want those things. It
can't make your parents curious about the world. It can't make them
moral, compassionate and caring. It can't make them love their children
White commenters who were financially "better off" than me should
assume only that, and no more. They should certainly not assume they
were more privileged. I certainly do not. It is the privileges which I
experienced, as an individual, that brings me here. If you read
something on this blog, or in one of my books, that resonates, holler at
me. Don't apologize. Don't feel guilty. The guilt isn't about me
anyway. Address me straight up. You didn't do anything to me. And
fanatically believing in "Coatesian Exceptionalism," I can't even
concede that you had more than me.
I was privileged. I got love for you. But I would not trade with you:)
Bon weekend, folks.
