Nigger in a Suit (part1)
"It is a peculiar sensation, this double consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness - and american, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."
- W.E.B Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk, 1903
I am often asked if I have ever been called a Nigger. My response: "Only once...to my face."
Almost every conversation I have witnessed between black and white people on the subject of race and racism inevitably degenerates into an injunction to the black person to quantify and qualify the existence of racism by recounting all or at least the most violent/ shocking racist encounters he or she has ever experienced. The subtext reads thus: Prove It. Tell me about the time you were called a nigger.
And every time one is put to the task of "proving it," it feels as ridiculous and insulting as a man asking a women to prove the existence of sexism by recounting every instance in which her body has been made into an object. How common can violence against women be, really? Why don't you paint a picture for me: tell me about the time you were raped. If you had to count them all up, how many times, roughly would you say it has happened to you? Where, EXACTLY did he touch you? Come on. Just tell me - just dig down into those memories that you hoped to lock away and recite to me details without pain - like telling me what you had for breakfast, or who your first kiss was. Tell me, please, what did he whisper in your ear? Tell me so that I can believe. So that I can maybe empathize for a second and take your word that sexist bullshit and violence against women really does exist in these modern times that we live in. Tell me so that I know you are not blowing things out of proportion.
You (dear reader) have almost certainly been on one or another side of this conversation at some point in your life. For those of you on the inquiring side, that is EXACTLY what it feels like to be on the proving side. But even if we, the provers, (non-white) can dredge up the most horrifying tear wrenching story - the time we saw our father spit on in the subway, every unnecessary encounter with the police, the way our dark skinned parents were thought to be kidnappers when trying to pick our light skinned little brothers up from day care - all that, all the Crash's and Higher Learnings and American History X's that you can fit in to a DVD box set cannot even touch, cannot begin to portray to the micro racisms - the mini encounters that happen day to day and how close you sometimes feel to breaking after a 5 day week.
...if you are still interested in what actually happened today that made me go off on this shit, check out "Nigger in a Suit part 2" - i'm doing it R Kelly Style
- W.E.B Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk, 1903
I am often asked if I have ever been called a Nigger. My response: "Only once...to my face."
Almost every conversation I have witnessed between black and white people on the subject of race and racism inevitably degenerates into an injunction to the black person to quantify and qualify the existence of racism by recounting all or at least the most violent/ shocking racist encounters he or she has ever experienced. The subtext reads thus: Prove It. Tell me about the time you were called a nigger.
And every time one is put to the task of "proving it," it feels as ridiculous and insulting as a man asking a women to prove the existence of sexism by recounting every instance in which her body has been made into an object. How common can violence against women be, really? Why don't you paint a picture for me: tell me about the time you were raped. If you had to count them all up, how many times, roughly would you say it has happened to you? Where, EXACTLY did he touch you? Come on. Just tell me - just dig down into those memories that you hoped to lock away and recite to me details without pain - like telling me what you had for breakfast, or who your first kiss was. Tell me, please, what did he whisper in your ear? Tell me so that I can believe. So that I can maybe empathize for a second and take your word that sexist bullshit and violence against women really does exist in these modern times that we live in. Tell me so that I know you are not blowing things out of proportion.
You (dear reader) have almost certainly been on one or another side of this conversation at some point in your life. For those of you on the inquiring side, that is EXACTLY what it feels like to be on the proving side. But even if we, the provers, (non-white) can dredge up the most horrifying tear wrenching story - the time we saw our father spit on in the subway, every unnecessary encounter with the police, the way our dark skinned parents were thought to be kidnappers when trying to pick our light skinned little brothers up from day care - all that, all the Crash's and Higher Learnings and American History X's that you can fit in to a DVD box set cannot even touch, cannot begin to portray to the micro racisms - the mini encounters that happen day to day and how close you sometimes feel to breaking after a 5 day week.
...if you are still interested in what actually happened today that made me go off on this shit, check out "Nigger in a Suit part 2" - i'm doing it R Kelly Style
posted by CJ Hunt | 8:13 PM
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