Life, death, and Black maleness

Black boys are dying. Black men are dying. Yes, death is a reality for us all, however, a string of events within the last year involving the death of Black boys and men, particularly the manner in which they have died, (either at the hands of a racist or by suicide) has caused me to more acutely consider my own existential mortality as a Black man. Though normally inclined to introspection, I'd rather not visit the idea of finiteness within the context of being Black, as it is a matter extremely taxing on the psyche. As much as I would have preferred my mind to not be encumbered with that particular subject matter, this past summer found me yet again picking at those thoughts, especially in light of the Trayvon Martin trial and subsequent verdict. At the request of my friend, I wrote a reflection piece for her blog about the verdict. In that post I articulate my thoughts and feelings on the verdict, but also grapple with being both Black and male and the implications that may or may not have for life or death in 21st Century America. The post is provided for you below. Though long, I encourage you to read.

-WAC III-

Saturday, July 13, 2013 10:15pm-Georgetown, DC

Bumbling around Georgetown, my good friend and I find a restaurant still open and willing to seat us at this late hour. Intent on showing my boy a good time in my city, I was glad to make good on our desired goal, seafood. After a few ultra-pleasant exchanges between us and the restaurant staff, Calvin and I wait in the lobby until we’re summoned to be seated. Heading to the bathroom my eye catches the t.v.; it’s on CNN. “Oh yeh”, I think, “the Trayvon verdict is supposed to come out this evening.” I pause. I watch. Silent, lips move, images flicker, and words trek across the bottom of the screen. Not guilty. “Hmph”, I shrug, “I’m not surprised.” Acting against my normal impulse, that moment found me not wanting to wrestle with the implications or pontificate about race. I just wanted to eat. For that moment, that hour or so of good fellowship, I didn’t want my world disrupted. I wanted to enjoy good food, good service, and the company of my good friend. He was oblivious to the ruling at that time and quite honestly, I didn’t want it to influence the tenor of our conversation. Tucking it away and content with not bringing it up again until I’d thoroughly mulled it over,  I went on about my evening.

Not guilty. Not surprised.

Saturday, July 13, 11:45pm-U Street Corridor, DC

A ten minute cab ride uptown finds us at U street. There’s a palpable energy brooding in the atmosphere. It’s almost electric. I sense it when I step out of the cab. Not sure if it’s due to the exaggerated number of folks in town for the Delta convention or if it’s because it’s just another Saturday night in the city, however, there is a something in the air that I can’t identify which keeps my eyes glancing around in expectancy. Just then, a group of protestors bustle down the street. “No justice”, “No peace” they chant. Signs about justice, Trayvon, and the difference in value of Black and White life make their appearance among the crew. Still not surprised at what I’m witnessing (it makes sense to me that people would protest after an unfavorable verdict), I look at my boy and he’s  obviously shocked by the news, yet he’s also ecstatic that he’s watching something like this unfold. A lady who works for some radio station comes up to us holding a tape recorder and asks us for our thoughts on the verdict. Immediately, Calvin starts on a diatribe about the law being unfair, I hear him say “Black”, and then he kind of fades out as I start thinking about what I’m going to say when she asks me. My turn. With my “not surprised and my answer represents all of Black America” disposition fully intact, I respond as honest as I possibly could at the moment and say that I’m not surprised. Feeling like the words I was speaking were ringing hollow, I remarked how I at least hope this will start the conversation about race and the law in the United States.  I say something about calling for a critical examination of race and the law, especially as the United States is becoming more racially and ethnically diverse. The conversation ends, she thanks me for my time, and now I began processing all that has taken place within the last three hours. The term “second-class citizen” comes to mind and it sticks. Later on, I tried to explain to my boys this feeling of second-class citizenship and how situations like this serve to exacerbate and perpetuate that notion. I talked to them about that strange place that we as Black folks still occupy. That place where as a Black person, you hope the law will protect and provide justice, giving credence to your human existence, yet you also contend with the historical narrative and constant feeling that the law doesn’t fully protect your interest as a person.

Not guilty. Not surprised.

Sunday, July 14 and Monday, July 15, 2013

Rhetoric. Noise. Outcry. Numb. Debated with myself if I racialized the issue too much.

Monday finds the door to my office closed the entire day. I try to do work but it is to little avail, as I grapple with existential questions concerning my identity as a Black man. 

Not guilty. Not surprised.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

As I try to make sense of this thing, thoughts come to me and I jot them down. My day is invaded with random pieces of phrases and thoughts regarding the case. Here’s an excerpt from an email I sent to my mentor that day:

As I write this email I'm poignantly reminded about the importance of our work, that if even incrementally, stereotypes, perceptions, misunderstandings and knowledge concerning Black people must be challenged and reshaped. May this be the passion that both informs and guides our writing.

As my parent’s only son, I wanted to reach out and hug them, letting them know that I love them and that I care, let them know that I was still here. That day I wanted more to reach out to and check up on the young Black boys and men in my life. I wanted to let them know that they’re special and that I care because that day it hit me. Trayvon could have easily been one of my students. He could have been a young Black boy, fresh faced and wide-eyed, on his way to George Washington University to sit in my classroom for the semester. He could’ve sat in my office as we discussed what it means to be a young Black man at a highly-selective PWI (Predominantly White Institution) and I would’ve told him that he is capable, he belongs, and that I am excited about his success.  I would've helped him navigate the institution. I would've dapped him up. I would've told him I was proud. But now that’s not possible. Reflecting on this, I was reminded about the space that Black men in America occupy: at once both feared and hated, oft misunderstood, recipients of undue scrutiny, always thought to be suspect. A space of being othered instead of embraced. This is the reality of Black men. Earlier that day I wrote this:

Frustration. The angst, I feel it now. It makes sense to me why I should feel mad. On the bus to work today I see Black men. Some are wearing caps and sneakers, others suits and dress shoes. They span the spectrum and the common denominator is that they're both Black and male. And as such, subject to be misperceived. Kanye's Poplar Trees is blaring in my ear. A scowl invades my face. I write.  I get it. I'm upset because others still view us, yes us, as a monolith and as a result of this monolithic thinking, Trayvon could've been my o…

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

So what’s my resolve? It’s more so preventative in that I fervently hope my thoughts, actions, interactions, work, and research challenge and reshape stereotypes, perceptions, misunderstandings and knowledge concerning Black people, so another Trayvon Martin will not be killed. 

"The process is what makes the results..." (Cox, 2014). 

"...educational opportunity that is limited only by individual desire, ability, and need -is the most valuable service that society can provide for its members" (Adler and Van Doren, 1940). 

Just Go...

I was chatting a moment ago with my fellow Scholar, and our blog came up. We talked about how we haven't posted in (cough) years, and speculated as to why not. We used to write so much, and fairly often. We wondered if our minds were simply too taxed in other areas - work, schools, etc. - to give us the bandwidth to blog like we used to do. I dismissed this idea quickly; when we started the blog, school and work were just as prominent in our lives as they are now (although we have since reversed roles: I the student; he the worker). Then a thought occurred to me: maybe we needed to go back to the beginning, to when we first started the blog. Originally, we created the blog to give ourselves space simply to write and share what we thought, about any and everything. We had no grand plans for it. We just wrote what was in our heads or on our hearts. Most of the first few posts were a few sentences long. Wisps of thought. Looking back, I believe these unfiltered snippets were like literary kindling, catching fire quickly, growing into blazing flames. We got hot. We got used to going off at a moment's notice, putting pen to paper (or more aptly, finger to key) and leaving the contents of our minds flashing brilliantly across the page in full forest fire fashion. But the desire to produce consistently at such a level became more of a burden than bliss, and our fire slowly burned down, until almost nothing remained. But as a phoenix rises from its own ashes, embers can be coaxed back to life...

I realized we needed to get back to the basics. To simply write, however and whenever the urge hits. To resist the pressure to "go off," and to simply "go..." Sometimes, you can get so caught up in trying to produce at such a high level that you get stalled, worrying more about the results as opposed to the process. The process is what makes the results, not the other way around. Sometimes, you need to stop worrying about doing great things, and just do...something.

This is the rebirth. The beginning. We'll stop trying to go off...and just go. Where will we end up? Well, that's the fun part...

-JMC-