Today is the 60th anniversary of the March on Washington (for Jobs and Freedom). The extraordinary visuals and atmospherics of that hot summer day, now long ago, in the nation’s capital – the warmth emanating from that place and the crowds that filled it, the affirmation to a faith that had sustained, the richness of words and music reaching its crescendo in the “I have a dream” speech delivered by Dr. Martin Luther King (Jr.) before the Lincoln Memorial – are the stuff of which legends are made. In the air was hope rather than despair, a promise of better days. A dream for all ages.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered on Aug. 28, 1963, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
What remains all these years on? The sonorous tones of Dr. King and Mahalia Jackson, imbued with the words and music according to any Gospel, soar today as then, but humanity without hope is a humanity not fulfilling its promise, and for many peoples, in all corners of the world, that is the reality. On this day to recognize that that reality still applies to many Black people living in the most powerful nation on the earth can fill one only with anger – and it especially must do so for just those people; for they the descendants in spirit of the multitudes who would have left Washington that day sixty years ago infused with Dr. King’s dreams, his lyrical words ringing in their ears. It is the legacy of each generation to embrace the spirit of that day and, in each, in their own way keep those dreams alive.
That, a lesson in positivity, now …
The year after the march, the Civil Rights Act (1964) was signed into law, but in 1967 Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dreams seemed as far from fulfillment as ever, impelling him to deliver the below embedded speech at Stanford University – sometimes titled “The Other America”. Startling, to me, is the extent to which King’s disillusionment has grown in the passing of so few years. No longer does he feel convinced that alone the good will and essential kindness of many will win over the day, rather that the few (or just as many) are embedded so deep in the power structures and institutions of the nation that a more radical approach is demanded. Eloquently he deconstructs the so-called “white backlash”; as if it describes some kind of reasonable reaction to the realignment of society brought about by civil rights and the accompanying activism (and militantism) when it was, in fact, a response triggered by inherent racial animosity.
Martin Luther King, Jr. at Stanford University on April 14, 1967
“I Have a Dream” is beautiful. Tragically, “The Other America” is closer to the reality. A year later on April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.
may I remind myself to reactivate my paused Netflix account! My morning peruse of The New York Times alerts me to the coming soon (Nov. 10) of Rebecca Hall’s adaptation of Nella Larsen’s 1929 novel Passing which I wrote about at the beginning of the year.
In her excellent NYT piece, Alexandra Kleeman not only offers a wonderful portrait of Rebecca Hall – the privileged and complicated biography that so informed her film making, the difficulties of financing and maintaining her artistic integrity – but also revisits her own first encounters with Larsen’s novel and reflects upon her own multi-racial heritage. Kleeman’s appreciation of the monochromatic aesthetic and the grey areas in-between where truth resides is about the best thing about film I have read in a long time.
Unbeknownst to me in the months since the film was previewed at Sundance, there has been an enormous amount of banter, especially surrounding the social and historical phenomena of “passing” and how it should be portrayed, and the various degrees of “colorism” that remain prevalent in society and reflected in Hollywood (or vice versa!), and the casting choices that are (or are not) made accordingly.
Surely, I will have more to say after seeing Hall’s film.
As previously pondered, listening to The Ezra Klein Show every week has now become firmly entrenched in my personal well of information, and is as good a way as any to stay abreast of topical matters in US politics and society – and quirky and accessible it is for good measure. And, it is to Ezra’s podcast that I owe my introduction this year to some interesting new (to me) people. Though his guests cover the gamut of race, ethnicity and gender, they are mostly of a similar socioeconomic milieu (though not necessarily born into it); one which can be broadly defined as the professional urban class (academia, government, media, think tanks) and of liberal, left(-ish) persuasion, and mostly young (-ish), that is, in the middle of life and career (though he has pulled in a few golden oldies, like Sanders and Chomsky!). Reasoned, articulate voices from “the other side” are an exception, but when there, are also well chosen and not those seeking provocation for the sake of provocation.
One such typical guest last week was Eve Ewing. Beyond the very interesting conversation that flowed easily between her academic work as a sociologist, her literary endeavors as poet and author and her active commitment to justice and equality, I started thinking about her as a typical example of an evolving coterie of younger, opinionated – and Black – people that have joined the fray with a vengeance in the very recent times and come to my attention with their impressive array of talents. (May I say: highly educated, articulate, courteous, humorous, without being accused of intimating all these traits to be an exception? Probably not. I guess I will just have to accept assumptions made of me as I dare say I make of others – but not here! The question I pose and the answer I give are predictably defensive.) More than anything, I have been impressed by their fearlessness in harnessing their diverse talents to explore and experiment with different mediums, how steadfastly they resist being pigeon-holed, and how uncompromising they are on matters of principle. (I only now realize, for instance, the breadth of Ewing’s range, and how cleverly she blends her artistic interests with the larger societal imperatives that are important to her.)
For Eve Ewing, and an issue only mentioned in passing, that applies (amongst other things) to the policing system and its abuses. I read this forceful essay in Vanity Fair last year, in which Ewing makes her case in respect to police unions that operate (actually as their names often suggest) more as brotherhoods. She traces there a line from the enforcement of the Black Codes at the end of the Civil War through to a system of unionized labor such that solidarity across unions (especially in the public sector) meant that whether police unions were in fact of the same tradition was not questioned. This was an aspect that I had not taken into account when, like many others outside the US, and however sympathetic one may have been to the cause, I found myself aghast at the absolutism of “de-funding”, “getting rid of” and the like that evolved from Black Lives Matter and the outrage about the sanctioned murders from which that movement and others emerged. Though not one averse to the radical, I was skeptical of some of the activist’s demands and their prospect of ever being implemented. That may well still be so, but Ewing and others have convinced me that sometimes it is plain, stark language that is required to attract an audience; later, the most attentive among them will persevere and extricate the details to force a workable agenda.
To digress; a time for reflection: Who then will enforce laws? one such as I may well ask – and too hastily. Perhaps, a more valid question would be: What is to do when laws are inherently prejudicial and, it follows, applied with prejudice? Change the laws and rethink their enforcement, may well be an answer. For example, and this is hardly original: greater concentration and resources on fighting poverty, improving access to employment, education, health-care; better funded outreach into neighborhoods: schools, community and youth centers, churches; using trained interventionists instead of armed police to mediate low-level conflicts (arising through drug or alcohol abuse, civil or domestic altercations, mental health issues). I understand the “de-funding argument” (which has got the most attention) have ideas like these in mind – in other words, redirecting some of (or a lot of!) the funding given to police departments into other areas and into the improvement of (less confrontational) institutions. That is not abolishing the police, but it is at least diversifying enforcement agency and exposing the system to greater scrutiny. Then there is the problem of electing lawmakers who support a different approach to law enforcement; here there must be an acceptance by the greater society – by voters – of the inadequacies and plain wrongfulness of a judicial system too beholden to historical precedent. A year after the murder of George Floyd and the conviction of his killer, is there is an indication of some move in that direction? I don’t know.
Eve Ewing first came to my attention with her poetic contribution to the NY Times acclaimed (and to some controversial) 1619 Project and later (I think) her involvement with a boycott of The Poetry Foundation, but the tone of the conversation with Ezra was more “street” – more community, sociologically steeped. Ewing’s comments, based on her research and writing, specifically in terms of a school closure debate in her home town of Chicago, and how public schooling access are conditional to the neighbourhood in which one lives, were really thought provoking. And, just her fundamental concern that public schools should even be “categorised” (or, it follows, “stigmacized”), I share so much. A question I have often asked is: Why are there bad schools anyway? Bad schools should not exist! Wealthy countries (forget about variations in the subsets thereof) must be able to figure this! One would think.
The way to recognition of Juneteenth has been long and sometimes contentious, but then such are the highways and byways of the Lone Star State and the routes leading out, but yesterday the US Congress passed a bill to make June 19th – “Juneteenth” – the United States’ eleventh federal holiday.
Until last year I had only heard vaguely of this particular day, or of its origins – and I defy many outside of the US to even pretend otherwise! And, I now read that there are an awful lot of Americans equally as ignorant. It seems, over some years now, many of the States have adopted a variety of “Emancipation” or “freedom” days that relate to their specific history, and so there is some reason to question, as Kaitlyn Greenidge does in her guest piece at the NYT, the sincerity of a unison national embrace around an event that honors the implementation of the Emancipation proclamation (of Jan 1st 1863) in Texas (two and a half years after the fact!). Kevin Young, in his essay, shares some of her misgivings but is more hopeful that Juneteenth will maintain its celebratory characteristics but evolve from being a mainly Black day of festivity into a shared national experience. Yes, to be hoped; after all, freedom now, as then, requires two committed parties: one in need of being freed and another willing to free, and an awareness that freedom is not unconditional but being permanently tested and renegotiated.
The bill as introduced to the 117th Congress.
Irrespective, today, President Biden will sign the bill into law, and another small but important step is taken by the United States on a path towards a new culture of collective memory. That can’t be a bad thing, and reason enough to celebrate.
As a matter of interest, in terms of legislation, the Congressional Research Service arm of the Library of Congress is one of the providers of information to members and committees to assist in their decision-making process – which didn’t deter fourteen (all Republicans) from dissenting on the Juneteenth legislation. The relevant so-called “Fact Sheet” is available here at the CRS, or may be directly downloaded below.
Generally, these Fact Sheets offer some very accessible insight into even complex material (of which this example is actually not one), and a place to go when the media gobbledygook gets too, well… convoluted …or worse, suspiciously too well spun!
“Caste – the Lies that Divide Us” by Isabel Wilkerson
Las castas. Anonymous, 18th century, Museo Nacional del Virreinato, Tepotzotlán, Mexico.
That is the thing with definitions, be they of word, phrase or more complex description; beyond the essential vocabulary and grammatical rectitude, precision is rarely absolute and very often determined by context; imbedded in society, geography and time.
One such word that provides an interesting example is ‘caste’. As an Anne with an ‘e’ like she from Green Gables, and having always been uncompromisingly for its quiet but firm closing presence both in word and speech, I have blithely accepted caste so spelt to have just one definition, and that firmly rooted on the Indian sub-continent and descriptive of the system of social stratification that has existed there since ancient times. Now, of course, it turns out to be infinitely more complex than that, even when specific to Indian society, but the etymological route from the Latin castus ‘to be cut-off, separated’ through to the Portuguese casta meaning ‘breed or race’ and adopted by – and complicated by – the British Raj is clear. That the very ordinary and malleable word cast is strongly associated is equally so (though a matter to which I have not previously given thought!) – always somehow to do with throwing together, throwing away – a troupe of players (cast of characters); iron (cast-iron); a fishing line; a dice (literally, and metaphorically as in iacta alea est; the die is cast) And then there are all those who are cast out, away; who are downcast, typecast.
My copy of “Caste – The Lies that Divide Us”, Allen Lane, UK, 2020
Not wishing to cast aspersions (to stay with my train of thought!) on Oprah Winfrey, but when a tome comes my way emblazoned with “Magnificent. Profound. Eye-opening. Sobering. Hopeful” my antennae begin to twitch nervously. Be that as it may, I said here that I would read Isabel Wilkerson’s 2020 book Caste: The Lies That Divide Us (as my copy is titled), and I have, and so give here a few of my thoughts.
Only now after reading Caste and upon reflection, has it occurred to me that Wilkerson also used that terminology in her 2010 bestseller The Warmth of Other Suns; though, I think, sparsely and without particular emphasis, nor can I remember that she specifically explained her choice of vocabulary. Of course, I may be wrong on this, but on any account it is obviously a means of framing race that she has mulled over for a relatively long period, and one that she thought needed refining and deserving of its very own book. This I am not so sure of; I would even contend it even muddies the waters.
And, this is not to say that I didn’t find Caste an interesting enough read; for despite the objections I have – and there are a few (or maybe many!) – and however dissatisfied I was in the conclusions drawn by the author, Wilkerson is a very good writer and journalist, who can weave the factual with anecdotal to present the narrative that she very well wants to tell, and in the interests of a firmly held point of view and, furthermore, in an accessible style well suited for popular consumption. Perhaps here lies the crux of my criticism – the author, it seems to me, was so intent on telling her one version, that she has not even attempted to identify faults in her argument or to consider whether her reasoning may be inadequate or does not lend itself to generalization (across vast expanses of time and place). And as colorful as they sometimes may be, her more personal micro-narratives with typical micro-aggressions at their core have a tendency to aggravate. Now I can’t be sure, but who hasn’t been pushed, shoved, insulted, etc., by some dude on a plane (though I’ve never had the luxury of first class!), or felt out of place or ignored in a crowd, and my irritation hasn’t been lessened by reflecting upon interviews that Wilkerson has given in the last year or so in which the same anecdotes are rattled off. That’s okay, but one has to wonder what she thinks they add to her argument, other than presumably offering up herself as an example of the subordinate caste. As a highly successful, Black American woman of renown, fair or not, that premise rests on shaky ground. When I say this, I don’t wish to diminish the sensitivities of those who are subjected to or slighted by everyday racism, or sexism, or both, it is just that I think when putting forward an argument, or espousing a theory, sometimes it is better to stand back – a little less subjectivity is more.
On a fundamental level, I have to say I struggled with Wilkerson’s ‘update’ of an ancient caste model to expound her own “eight pillar” theoretical framework, one in which racial discrimination is inherent, and racial purity and allocation of labor constrained within each hierarchy is aspired to. And, to then whittle this down to the existence of a rigid three tier caste system in the United States; one in which the white majority in all their, presumably homogeneous, glory reigns on high, a Hispanic and Asian middle struggles to ascend – whereby the very possibility of doing so is antithetical to a caste construction, and a Black minority, relegated (and by virtue of their skin color alone) to the lower caste. The result is, in my opinion, a much too simple reading of the dynamics at play in a modern society driven by capitalism; Wilkerson’s absolute decoupling of race from capital fatally ignores the latter as the ultimate “pillar” (to use her language) in supporting – perpetuating – racial inequities in the United States.
While writing last year about Brit Bennett’s The Vanishing Half, and the fictional childhood town of her protagonists, with its “coloured” populace peculiarly intent on becoming about as fair-skinned as they could; I diverged to mention the town of Eatonville near Orlando in Florida – one of the first all-black municipalities to be founded after Reconstruction – which was lived in and then “fictionalised” by Zora Neale Hurston. I didn’t investigate any further into where other such communities may have evolved and what their fate may have been. This week, though, I have learnt about one such other. Ended well did it not.
From May 31st into this June 1st day in 1921, a white mob descended on the prosperous Black community of Greenwood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, murdering hundreds of residents and destroying more than a thousand homes. One hundred years late(r), a US President will visit a place, revisit an abominable event that has found no place in history books or civics classes, and pay respects, homage … and probably not much else. The careful dance around reparations, in this case as in others, and generally, will continue.
What can be said, though, is that remembrance of this event has come at a time when ignorance can no longer be an excuse – not for governments, nor institutions and not for the public. The tragedy of Greenwood is out there for all to come to terms with. It is telling, I think, that it is another glaring omission both in the national historical narrative and, it follows, from many – or most – of the school history curricula in the United States. (If you don’t believe me or the mainstream media on this, Tom Hanks has his say. A rare high spot in the new genre of “celebrity woke essay”!) And it is a tribute to the tenacity and courage of those who have kept the memory alive, who have fought for recognition and justice.
In The New York Times; an excellent photographic and multi-media essay that juxtaposes the flourishing community that was, pulsing with human endeavour and industry, against the decimated remains after the rampage. And thisNYT Magazine piece by Caleb Gayle (Black and from Tulsa) about the contemporary legacy of a trauma and a history too long wrapped in silence and rarely admitted to is a good read.
There are few works of contemporary fiction that have left their mark as profoundly as Colson Whitehead’s 2016 best-selling, prize-winning novel, The Underground Railroad. A magically realised narrative, a tour de force that takes the reader on an uncompromising journey amongst souls, alive and dead and and in the murky depths in-between; through their suffering and degradation; on a restless search for absolution for sins not committed and some dignified resolution, and to be granted sanctuary; a place to call their own, a place to rest without fear or sacrifice – even when it be the final.
In only three sittings I have brought to a conclusion Barry Jenkins’ brilliant adaptation of the novel. Presented as a ten part series on Amazon Prime, I would have to say that this is a format very well-suited for such an intellectually and viscerally powerful work, and I am not sure it could be easily pared down to feature film length. (I really wasn’t looking to sign up for another streaming service, but the chatter of late had become so intense and the temptation too great.)
Admittedly, some of the opening scenes are discomforting, even threaten to overwhelm with their brutality, but there is this one undeniable reality – the barbarity of slavery – that must be confronted before the layers are stripped back to lay bare the soul of the characters – in whatever world they inhabit and wherever their journeys may lead. The alert viewer will recognise early that Jenkins is operating on multiple planes of narrative filmmaking; not just that of a stark, unadulterated realism, but that which blends tangible human experience with the emotional response and psychological mechanisms without which those experiences could not possibly be endured – memories and dreams; as alive as the cotton boll, as the whip, as the next to be lynched, but holding the promise of a way to freedom.
Another outstanding aspect of the series is the haunting soundtrack from Nicholas Britell that accompanies most every frame; conjuring an extraordinary atmosphere of foreboding, of unrelenting disquietude, of an unresolved tension between the living and the dead. As a taster, a guest essay by Scott Woods – excellent read – in today’s New York Times led me to the following on Vimeo (fifty odd minutes, so give it time); Barry Jenkins visual homage to his extended cast is augmented by Britell’s musical composition. (And, here is a wonderful NYT Magazine piece on Britell, and a close up on his collaborative creative process with Jenkins. )
Starring a cast of many from Barry Jenkin’s “The Underground Railroad, and with score by Nicholas Britell
On the Vimeo site is an informal and insightful text written by Barry Jenkins; describing the circumstances under which the accompanying film evolved during the greater film-making process. An act of seeing, and with the black gaze, a tribute to his players and the histories of all their shared ancestors. A gesture of gratitude, of respect, of love.
[…]we have sought to give embodiment to the souls of our ancestors frozen in the tactful but inadequate descriptor “enslaved,” a phrase that speaks only to what was done to them, not to who they were nor what they did. My ancestors – midwives and blacksmiths, agrarians and healers; builders and spiritualists, yearn’ers and doers – seen here as embodied by this wonderful cast of principal and background actors, did so very much. […]
Jenkins may well think that should he never make another film, he has left some work of substance in his stead – I read this the other day – and, of course, that is so, but after watching and thinking about The Underground Railroad, I await, and with confidence, the realisation of that which is yet to come.
Adam Shatz talks with Hazel Carby, January 12th 2021
This podcast is an accompanying conversation to Hazel Carby’s essay in the current London Review of Books (Vol. 43 No. 2 · 21 January 2021) on Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents; published to acclaim last year. Carby’s argument, like all those that go against the grain, is provocative. Interesting, is that the critique comes from a wider, global perspective of race and the historical complexities of the greater Black diaspora; and ironic, in that it is precisely with this broader brush that Wilkerson claims to make her case in her comparisons with the Indian caste system and Nazi Germany. But, Carby argues, Wilkerson is in fact bound by, and limited by, national constraints (be they inherited or learned), and constructs her “origin” story accordingly; one that depends on a (United States of) American exceptionalism. Carby does make at least one very persuasive argument; in that I am persuaded to add Wilkerson’s book to my reading list! Beyond that, only a reading will tell. (I often wonder about the considerations that lead to a book title change; why and to what end – aesthetic, linguistic, marketing. In the LRB review above, “Caste: …” is (mistakenly?) subtitled as in the US, but in the UK it seems to actually have been published as Caste: The Lies that Divide Us.)
January 17 2021: As I intimated above, prior to hearing this podcast, only positive takes on Wilkerson’s book had come my way, but a newsletter that I receive regularly from Jamelle Bouie (which always has something interesting to read, think about – and sometimes to eat!) has just suggested this review by Charisse Burden-Stelly in the Boston Review, in which, similarly to Hazel Carby, she considers “caste” to be an inadequate, even misleading, terminology under which to talk about race in the United States. Their critiques may differ in emphasis, but both reviewers dismiss this (imported) system as too rigid in structure and too dependent upon popular acceptance to lend itself to the complex interplay of politics, class and resistance in a volatile, changing social construct such as that which has evolved – continues to evolve – in the U.S.
