In the mild
controversy surrounding Django Unchained’s release, one particular event caught
my eye. Houston’s Jake Hamilton was interviewing the cast and crew, asking the
typical sort of questions about the film’s content and production to Quentin
Tarantino, Jamie Foxx and Kerry Washington, and Christoph Waltz respectively.
Last, but certainly not least, came Samuel L Jackson, looking immaculately
young and chiseled—how the fuck is he 64?—in a Jackie Brown hat and stylish
glasses. Having had history with Tarantino’s treatment of race and the controversies
that have surrounded it since the “Dead Nigger Storage” scene in Pulp Fiction,
along with a clear investment in the struggle against racism—Jackson was
affiliated with the black power movement in the late 60’s—, it only seemed
natural that Hamilton would begin with a question on the film’s treatment of
race.
“There’s
been a lot of controversy surrounding the usage of the N-Word in this movie
and…”
“’No?’
‘Nobody?’ ‘None?’” Jackson broke in with deadpan inquisitiveness, “The word
would be?”
“I don’t
want to say it” Hamilton muttered softly through the fading smile of a child
“Why not?”
“I don’t
like to say it”
Jackson
paused thoughtfully for a brief moment, realizing the trap that Hamilton had
walked into “Have you ever said it?”
“No, sir”
“Try it”
“I don’t
like to say it”
“TRY IT”
“Really?
Seriously” Hamilton said, smiling with embarrassment and looking to his sides
for help
“We’re not
going to have this conversation unless you say it”
“…”
“Do you
wanna move on to another question?”
“Yes!
Awesome!”
Jackson
immediately broke out laughing in loud, pronounced syllables, easing the
tension.
Just when
they seemed to have sailed on to clearer waters, Hamilton decided that the most
prudent thing to do would be to remind Jackson, once again, that he did not
like saying the word. This started a second round of back and forths that
finally ended with Hamilton retreating from his question and saying “Sorry
guys, it would’ve been a great question” to which Jackson replied “It wasn’t a
great question if you can’t say the word”
Watching
the interview unfold, I was reminded of maybe a half dozen encounters that I’ve
had with black acquaintances where the subject of race was brought up. In each
case, upon seeing my obvious discomfort and quietness, they would laugh
good-naturedly and say something along the lines of “Don’t worry so much. I
love it when white people just be honest and real about race”.
In theory,
I agree with the mindset of Jackson and those black acquaintances. The whitewashing
of our psychological truths only hinders a discourse that could move us forward
as a culture. As Lenny Bruce argued, let’s use and diffuse these taboo words
and subjects. Don’t sit there and pretend that the word “nigger” has never
passed through your lips. There probably isn’t a man alive, white or black, which
hasn’t said it in one context or another. In pretending otherwise you only
obscure the sight of that you wish to combat. Racism in America is a monster,
but how can we fight a monster in the dark?
That is
what I believe. How I actually act is a different story entirely. Upon hearing
the laments for honesty in regard to a white person’s perspective on race, I
nod my head thoughtfully and agree, but I never say anything substantial or
personal. This is because any person’s true feelings on the thorny and
multifaceted subject or race are going to be conflicted and critical and
self-doubting and occasionally negative and occasionally hurtful.
This is the
truth. I was once working at a youth center. Kids would come in and play
basketball, and it was my job to keep everything in order and do general
maintenance and whatnot. The youth center was located directly on the divide in
between the city and a nice suburb. As it happened, there was a relatively even
divide of white kids and black kids who came in. More often than not, the white
kids were from the suburb, and more often than not, the black kids were from
the city. One day these two kids, who happened to be black, started asking me
about my sex life. When I told them that that was none of their business they
started laughing and saying “what’re you, a faggot?” As I was righting up a
report, one of my coworkers, a black man named Paul who was in his late 20’s
came up to me. “What happened?” he asked. I told him and he shook his head, “Were
they black?”
I cringed “Yeah”
He shook
his head again “Figures. They don’t have any respect for authority”
There was
no self-hatred in his voice; it was a mere observation. He was saying what we
both knew: that the black kids tended to be from the city, that the kids from
the city tended to come from poorer homes, that due to the high rates of single
parenting among lower income households—along with the resulting need for the
single parent to spend more time at work—poorer kids tend to have less parental
presence in their life, and that kids with less parental presence in their
lives are less likely to respond well to authority figures in general. We both
knew that America’s history of institutionalized racism coupled with declining
rates of social mobility and working class opportunity since the 1960’s were
the reasons blacks faced these problems at higher rates.
Objectively
I knew all of this. And yet each time I got called a faggot or a retard by a
black kid in the gym I could feel something maneuvering past my intellect and sinking
into my bones. I could hear a voice in my head going “aw shit” when I’d see a
group of black kids enter the gym. I could feel a tinge of disdain for them on
sight. This was in spite of the fact that most times I had had no previous
interactions with the group in question, and had nothing to judge them on other
than the color of their skin.
Now, that
sort of thinking is obviously an example of racism. But does that make me a
racist? I don’t see myself as one, but then again who does? In the end it doesn’t
matter, at least not in the context of a black acquaintance asking for me to be
open and honest about race. What matters is perception.
Tony
Hoagland, one of my favorite living poets, once wrote a poem called The Change.
Written in first person, it described an unnamed narrator’s emotions as he
watched a professional tennis match between a small white girl and a big, brass
black player with “some outrageous name like Vondella Aphrodite”. As the
narrator watches the match he finds himself, almost against his will, rooting
for the white girl and feeling threatened by the black player.
Such a poem
may have a voice of racism, but it is an example of what open honesty in regard
to race actually looks like. If you don’t believe me, go into any Irish Bar on
the night when they bring some white fighter up for a shot at the heavyweight title.
You’ll see three-dozen middle class dads cheering at each punch landed against
black flesh and wincing at the final sound of white meat hitting canvas.
Of course,
Hoagland’s poem was met with controversy—or as close as the world of 21st
century poetry can come to mustering controversy—when the black poet Claudia
Rankine decried the poem as racist. This is perhaps inevitable. And it is why I
always find myself, in practice, going against what I believe in theory.
Because even if a white person’s honesty does not voice racism, but rather a
compassionate and fittingly conflicted perspective on race, there is always the
chance that it will be misconstrued. That is not to say that black people are
particularly likely to misconstrue a complex message; it is to say that a
certain percentage of people, black and white alike, are shallow, hypocritical
and unintelligent. And so, in offering what very well might be a totally
non-racist, but unflinchingly honest perspective on race, there is always the
possibility that it might be construed as racist. And if one were to make a
habit of being open about race, it would be statistically inevitable that
eventually one would hit upon one of those unintelligent people. It would be
statistically inevitable that sooner or later someone would decry you as
racist. And then your goose would be cooked. This is what all white people desperately
fear—being deemed a racist. I proudly don the informal monikers of “dick”, “asshole”,
and “shithead”, but even I would feel my stomach drop if I was ever deemed as “racist”.
I realize
that I sound somewhat callous right now in dissecting the dilemma that white
people face. I am not trying to bemoan the problems that race causes for white
people. Only an idiot would complain that race relations in America are
particularly hard on white people. But realize this: if Hamilton had been open
with Jackson and had said “yes, I have used the word ‘nigger’ in the past’”,
perhaps his station boss would have respected his honesty and frankness, but
then again maybe his boss would have gotten offended and fired him. So why
would a white person be open and frank in that sort of situation? How could he
be?
Malcolm X
once said something to the effect that the problem of racism will never end until
the day when the white man and the black man can sit down together and speak
openly and without fear of offending the other party. I believe that he was
right. And I pray that that day comes. But I’m not gonna be the one to stick my
neck on the line to bring it about.
Are you?
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