My name is Max Reddick. I am an adult African American male. And I’m afraid of becoming a racist.

For anyone who cares, I need to make a statement. My name is Maxwell Rene Reddick. And I’m afraid of becoming a racist. But perhaps racist is not the correct word to describe how I feel; however, in the same instance, perhaps it’s the only word.

You see, I am gradually experiencing an erosion of trust, a waning of faith. Suddenly, I am beginning to see my fellow Americans in a new light.

It began sometime during the last presidential election. And I am not so naïve as to believe that racism and racial resentment did not exist before that time, but I guess that the ease and the unabashed manner with which they dragged out the ghosts of the past caught me by surprise.

But then I reasoned that they had just given in to the emotions of the moment. That when President Obama took office, all the racist rhetoric would die down. That the Republican leadership would come forward as a united body and denounce the campaign’s racism and allay the imagined fears of some Negro take over.

However, they did not. Instead, they increased the rhetoric. They upped the ante. They even rolled out their own Gestapo like force skilled in the use of racist rhetoric and general mayhem. They called them the “Tea Party.” But soon the “Tea Party,” drunk off their new found sense of power, spurred on by their success, spun out of their control, out of their grasp, and they found themselves, too, at its capricious whims.

So, Saturday I’m watching the whole lead-up to the historic vote on health care reform unfold. I am seeing the crowds gather in protest on the street. I am watching the talking heads get in their talking points on the cable news networks. Then I get a text message. Someone has been called a nigger. Someone has been called a faggot. Someone has been spit on. And almost coincidently the cable network news people confirm these reports.

And I feel my ire rise. I feel a level of indignance that I have not felt in quite some time. And there is something else there too that causes me to clench my fist and bite down on my lower lip. Is that hate or just anger? And then the devil pours me another drink as he laughs at my vulnerability.

But then later I’m in my yard, and a pick-up truck passes with a “NOBAMA” sticker and a “Is it 2012 yet” sticker displayed prominently in the back window of the cab. And then a late model Mercedes-Benz passes going in the other direction. The driver has affixed a sticker with the word “SOCIALISM” with a big red circle with a slash through it.

Then I mentally count the distance between my home and the next home containing a black family. I note my neighbor out working in his yard with his shirt off—he’s really too big to be outside with his shirt off—and I think to myself, “Is he one of them?”. He certainly looks like one of them or what I believe one of them would look like.

And when I am in the grocery, I am looking in white faces, thinking to myself, “Is he one of them? Is she one of them?”. The lady at the gas station smiles at me as she swipes my card. I do not smile back. Is she one of them?

And I tell myself that I cannot be racist. Haven’t I got a plethora of white friends. But that’s the first thing racists say, isn’t it? I remember that from my first year of grammar school until my last year of grad school, I have been surrounded by white people; usually I have been the only, or one of a very few, Blacks in the class. In the military, I lived with white people, slept with white people, ate with white people. I remind myself that my aunt, my mother’s brother’s wife, is white though I have never thought of her as being white before this moment.

But I don’t think that it’s racism; I think it is a lack of trust, a lack of faith in my fellow Americans and their motives. This is, perhaps, how my grandfather felt when he was a young man. Which of you are for me? Which of you are against me? Because I have no way of knowing until you are standing in front of me, spitting on me and calling me a nigger.

However, I refuse to give in to hate. To calm my nerves, to clear my mind, I pick up a book to read, and I come across a quote by James Baldwin: “The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”

And then I realize that I cannot hate. That it is perhaps not in my best interest, our best interests. That it is perhaps not even in me to hold grudges. But I must work on this whole trust thing; I must work to rebuild my faith. But trust and faith are hard found when all around you hate and acrimony seems to be the order of the day.

Yesterday, for the first time in my career, a student called me a nigger

A student called me a nigger yesterday. And he just didn’t call me nigger all quick and simple like, but he drew the words out as he said them, snarled them at me—neee-grrr—in such a vindictive, baleful manner that I knew he did so with seemingly the deepest hatred, the most malicious intent.

I sat with the dean on one side of me, and this lady from some administrative office (I don’t quite remember her function) on the other, and as the last syllable of the word reverberated throughout the room, it seemed that something else entered. It seemed as some awful miasma filled the room. It caused the dean to turn beat red. It caused the lady to gasp and clutch at some imaginary pearls. And it caused my mind to suddenly pitch backward to another incident.

This is the very first time that some student called me a nigger, though I feel as if I have almost been called a nigger, or I have at least been called a nigger in so many words, many times since I began teaching.But my mind went back to the first year I taught.

I taught high school English then. I wanted to teach at an inner city school, an urban school, but because of integration mandates, the district assigned me to a suburban school filed with spoiled, snotty rich kids.

And every time I stood up before them, it seemed as if they were accusing me with their eyes; every smile seemed to be a smirk; in my imagination, every chuckle turned into uproarious laughter at my expense.

But there was this one student in particular. Every day he arrived in class with glassy bloodshot eyes without books, without pencil, without paper—with nothing—and promptly put his head on the desk and went to sleep. And at the end of the semester I graded him accordingly.

Then his mother arrived at the school in a fit of pique. And when the two of us finally came face to face, she looked me up and down, and suddenly her lip curled into a sneer, and suddenly this look of triumph crossed her face as if she had already won some contest that I didn’t even realize we were engaged in. And she began to berate me. And insult me. And threaten me.

She questioned my mental acumen. My credentials. My reason for being there and not at some other school, one of those schools. She used her head to indicate the direction, due east, right back toward the center city.

But I did not relent. I would not change his grade. Besides, what did I have to grade him on? He had done nothing to receive any grade other than the one he received. So, with her closing remark, she declared her husband would be back to deal with me.

She didn’t call me a nigger, but she might as well had. She hurt me. She cut me to the quick.

And in anticipation of her husband’s visit, I drug out my diplomas. I drug out every award I had ever gotten. I drug out my Honor Society shingle. I even drug out a fraternity paddle. And I hung these all on the wall behind my desk like talismans to ward off any accusations or charges against my ability, my qualifications, my being.

And when his father arrived, he surveyed my wall of accomplishments, eyed me up and down, and then his lip curled into a sneer, and the same look of triumph crossed his face, and he launched into a similar diatribe against me.

But again I did not relent. And the principal said I had his full support. However, he asked if I would just compromise, if I would just work out some deal with the parents. Wasn’t I taking this whole thing just a little personal? He said he understood if I was, but surely they would take this matter before the school board, and ultimately they would win.

And the parents did threaten to take the matter to the school board, but before they could, their child was arrested for something, a drug charge I heard, and I never saw him again. However, I have always been haunted by this incident. I wondered if I defended myself, my actions, vigorously enough. But then I wonder if should have given any credence to their accusations by evening trying to defend myself and my actions at all.

And I chastise myself for dragging all those things out just to impress people who though they thought they hated me, though they convinced themselves that I was their antagonist, really despised themselves for their own impotence in dealing with the problems and challenges of the next generation.

But back to the moment in question. I could feel the dean’s eyes on one side of me, wondering, anticipating the action I would take. And I could feel the woman’s eyes on me on the other. But my gaze did not leave the eyes of the young man who sat directly in front of me. And momentarily his facial expression softened, and he suddenly looked defeated.

Surprisingly and perhaps inexplicably, I did not feel angry. I did not feel hurt. And I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I think I might have smiled just slightly. I may have even chuckled just a bit. Yes, I think I chuckled. I don’t remember. I do know I shook my head, gathered my paperwork, and dismissed the student who skulked ruefully out.

The lady told me how sorry she was, but her attempt at condolement only irritated me. The dean asked me how I thought he should handle it, but I left it to his discretion. I think the whole incident had more of a negative effect on the two of them than it had on me.

Yesterday, for the first time in my career, a student called me a nigger. But as I looked upon this scion of privilege, born with every advantage in the world, I could only feel pity. Because in her hatred born of anger and frustration because that privilege, those advantages, seem to be slowly becoming meaningless, he took his best shot, and that best shot was predicated and subtended only by worn-out, impotent rhetoric.

And I didn’t need a wall of sheepskin, plaques, and awards to remind me of who I was, to buoy my confidence; I was suddenly buttressed from a strength and assuredness that came from within.

The Problem with Niggers

“In the remotest depth of the European unconscious an inordinately black hollow has been made in which the most immoral impulses, the most shameful desires lie dormant. And as every man climbs up toward whiteness and light, the European has tried to repudiate this uncivilized self, which has attempted to defend itself. When European civilization came into contact with the black world, with those savage peoples, everyone agreed: Those Negroes were the principal of evil.” --Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks

“It’s not the Negro problem. It’s the white problem. I’m black because you think you’re white. You’re the nigger, baby.” --James Baldwin

It’s much too late, and I’m much too tired. Plus, I promised myself I would not do anymore posts like this. I promised myself I would not use that word again. But the events of the past few weeks are tugging at me, pulling me violently from the comfort of my passive aggressive shell, forcing me to act out of character.

Could you please answer a question for me? What would cause supposedly civilized people to conduct themselves as those crowds, those mobs, have conducted themselves recently at the town hall meetings? What would cause people to act in opposition to their own interests? Keep in mind the conservative activist, who just happens to be black, who claims he was attacked by union members, is now seeking donations to help him with his medical bills because—now get this—he was recently laid off and lost his medical insurance. [Click here for full story.]

At first, the racism was only subtle, hinted at. But as time progresses, it becomes clearer and clearer that the right wrestles not so much with presidential policy but with the president himself. Or to be more exact, with the president’s race. Somehow the notion of the nation being lead by a black man and a Latina sitting on the Supreme Court seems cause enough to bring the whole structure crashing to the ground. The right would rather see the country fail than to concede defeat. Consider the following clip taken from a recent episode of the Rachel Maddows Show:

You see America has a problem with niggers. It has had a problem with niggers since its very inception. But it is not the problem what it, the nation, thinks it has.

You see America has never taken the time to examine itself critically. It never has taken the time to hold itself up to the light and search for the rough spots, those rough edges that could use smoothing out. It never has taken the time to measure its ideal against it reality. And it has not has to. It has always had niggers.

It was always able to blame the very worst of itself on niggers. Its most immoral, intolerable fantasies—blame it on the niggers. Its most violent, repulsive impulses—the fault of niggers. Its most rapacious, unspeakable proclivities—again, niggers.

That explains the sudden, violent animus. That explains the years of oppression of black people and brown people and red people and yellow people. That explains the religious intolerance, the continual denial of the basic rights of gays and lesbians. America needs niggers so that it will never have to know or admit the truth[s] about itself.

So, this is what’s at stake. If the president, a black man, succeeds, then American must rethink the way it feels about niggers, the way it sees niggers. If the president succeeds, the whole sordid truth will become known. If a black man succeeds where so many other white men have failed, America will then have face itself, examine itself and its history, and see the truth, the ugly reality of it all.

America will be forced to come to terms with itself, and it will no longer have niggers to blame. And the true nature of niggers will become plain. Dictator. Socialist. Terrorist. Dangerous outsider. Interloper. Racist. Nigger. These accusations against the president are but the deathbed confessions of a dwindling and dying majority.

Racist or Racialist or Does It Even Matter?

Years ago, I read an academic article that posited the notion that American society and culture could no longer be considered a racist society or culture, but must be thought of as a racialist society and culture.

In other words, the virulent racism of the past is now defunct. The angry racial hatred and animosity of the past that undergirded racial violence and widespread discrimination is no more. In its place, we find a certain racialism. That is, American society and culture has turned away from racism, but the race-based myths and stereotypes remain intact and must be overcome through evincing the ability to participate and function within mainstream society and culture.

As long as one can prove his or her worth to the mainstream society and culture, as long as one can provide evidence that he or she is able to participate in the mainstream society and culture, that person’s race is ignored and they are allowed full entrance and participation in mainstream society and culture.

To make this illustration complete, allow me please to give the following examples. As long as I speak well, I am in. As long as I dress the part, I am in. As long as I keep my voice down in public, as long as I do not laugh too loudly, as long as I am non- threatening, I am in.

And as a young graduate student, I bought into that argument. It sounded so much like the black progress arguments my father always made when I was a young man. But after I revisited the article years later and viewed it with a more critical eye, I could plainly see its implications. And after the arrest of Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates in his own home, I could see how false and dangerously misleading that theory really is.

Basically the theory provides a very narrow prescription for complete personhood. It informs me how I should speak, how I should dress, how I should conduct myself, both in public and in private. And if, after following that prescription to the tee, I am approved by a panel of those who would be my peers, I can join mainstream society and culture with all the rights and privileges thereof. I have earned a place at the table. In other words, check your right of self-definition at the door.

With the arrest of Henry Louis Gates, we can go ahead and tear that chapter from the book and move on. Certainly, Dr. Gates has met the prescription for inclusion and participation and then some. But in all that he has achieved, on last evening, in his own home, race became the sole determining factor in who he was or who he was perceived to be.

As long as the mainstream society and culture can look upon my hue and from that brief glimpse apply a narrative of deviance and depravity, there remains a despicable contradiction to all American society and culture claims to be.

Perhaps if he had presented police with his curriculum vita and several letters of recommendations from acceptable white faculty members and other members of mainstream society and culture, they would have just apologized and left him alone. Perhaps Michael Steele could have vouched for him.

Whatever we want to call it or however we want to describe it, racism is alive and well. Post racial my black assumptions. So, let us not be deterred from our goal by semantics or false arguments; the struggle continues.

What are your views on this matter? Was the arrest of Henry Louis Gates an honest mistake, or a glaring example of the persistence of racism? Is there any difference between the concepts of racism and racialism?

The Changing Same: A Momentary Diversion

Okay, kids. Get you a bowl of your favorite sugary cereal, and check out this cartoon. I'm on the road taking young Aaron Beaste to Tennessee for a summer program at Vanderbilt University.

I'll be back at 6:06 pm sharp with this week's Saturday Afternoon Cinema feature. You don't want to miss it! And keep in mind, as much as things change, things stay the same.

Peace,

Max Reddick

The Madness of a Nation

“Most people cling to their guilts and terrors and crimes, compounding them hour by hour and day by day, and are more likely to be changed from without than from within.”
--James Baldwin, essayist, novelist, activist

“The subject resides in my memory like old road-kill…Recalling all of this presents an onerous task. I am getting near the end of the diving board.”
--James Von Brunn, U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum Shooter


This is not the post I wanted to compose. This is not the post I had scheduled to run this morning. But this is the post I feel I must write; I must confront this issue head-on if I am to move sanely through my day.

This morning I am somewhat angry; I am very dismayed.

Yesterday, James Von Brunn, a frustrated artist, writer, and all around angry man, burst into the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, shooting and killing a guard.

Today, most major news outlets label him a white supremacist. In doing so, they can then decry Mr. Von Brunn as an anomaly, as someone who lives and thinks far out of the mainstream. But is he such an anomaly? Or is he simply the representative of a school of thought prevalent in our society. Think about it. How many people think and believe as Mr. Von Brunn does but just have not decided to write long, rambling treatises or post their beliefs to a website or burst into a place dedicated to peace and remembrance guns-a-blazin’?

I would conjecture that there are many more Von Brunns out there. But they exist in anonymity, silently allowing their hate to slowly fester, to slowly build to a boiling point until they reach a point of no return, or as Von Brunn so eloquently phrases it, “near[ing] the end of the diving board.” But such is the madness of our nation.

We have come a long way as a nation. Even so, perhaps no one was as surprised as I when we elected an African American as president. And I’ll probably be criticized for say this, but I am even more surprised that there have not been more threats on his life than those reported. But that is the scary part.

I know that there are those out there who are unsettled by President Obama's victory. I know that there are those out there who hate unabated, whose rage simmers just beneath the surface, waiting to emerge in the form of full-throated violence. The increase in white supremacist activity and membership perhaps bears this out.

But most of us are lulled to sleep by President Obama’s victory. Most of us think the nation has finally arrived. Most of us have fully bought into that notion of a post-racial society. But don’t be fooled. Keep in mind that even during our nation’s darkest racial hours, even during the most virulent expressions of hate and racism, the mainstream of the nation denied there was even a problem. The mainstream of the nation imputed the unrest to those dwelling on the margins. However, the source of the problem can be found firmly in the mainstream and its unwillingness or inability to read the signs.

Racism, hatred, and bigotry still poison our nation; we have come a long way, but we still have far to go. And I’m afraid that it will get far worse before it gets better.

I in no way intend to be a prophet of doom, but you see, we have yet to reach that crisis point, that point of catharsis, that decisive moment in which we must decide just what we would like our nation to be and in which direction we would like our nation to go. We need to be very honest with ourselves, and those good people, the ones who usually remain silent as not to make waves, must find the courage to stand up, to speak out, to encourage confrontation so that we might truly be able to work for genuine, enduring change.

Until that time, we are just marking time, addled by our madness.

See also: GOD HATES FAGS! & Other Fallacies of the Right

The Slave Side of Sunday: Institutional Racism and Economic Exploitation in Professional Sports

In a post a few days ago, I posed the question “Are Black Athletes Being Played?".  Well, an anonymous reader forwarded the URL for the video clip featured above.  In it ex-NFL cornerback Anthony Prior and sportswriter Dave Zirin discuss the institutionalized racism and concomitant economic exploitation inherent in professional sports which for the most part goes unchecked and unchallenged.  The clip was made in promotion of Prior’s 2006 book The Slave Side of Sunday.  

The Nation published an excellent review of the book if you are interested in finding out more about it.

If you have a few minutes, it’s well worth your time.

Racism in Shades of Gray

This post comes late, at least later than I would prefer; the event to which it was supposed to respond has long past. Please forgive me, but I wanted to make sure all my facts were straight. In addition, this post runs rather long. Again, please forgive me, but I have a point I am trying to make.

This post is in response to The Old Black Church’s (OBC) post on Friday, April 24. In that post, OBC brought to light a number of cases [Case 1; Case 2] in which local government leaders were attempting to make it a crime to wear sagging pants, or as described in one such proposed law and/or municipal ordinance, “[P]ants that ride below the waist exposing skin or underwear.”

In the end, OBC finally concluded that these proposed laws and municipal ordinances were inherently racist in that they targeted African Americans in general and young African American males in particular. And I agree with OBC wholeheartedly; however, I also believe there exists a gray area within that charge of racism that offers an opportunity for meaningful dialogue.

Though these proposed laws and ordinances are undoubtedly racist, and as such must be rejected accordingly, I unapologetically agree with them in spirit. Allow me to explain further by presenting a similar case.

The Jacksonville Landing is located along the river in downtown Jacksonville, Florida. It features some shops, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs, and the ocassional concert. Once it was one of the most popular spots in Jacksonville. On occasion, I enjoyed taking my family there and having a good meal and then browsing the shops, catching a concert or walking along the landing to some event at the adjacent concert hall.

But then came the hordes of teenagers, mostly African American. They came in large groups, and they came cursing, fighting, and generally behaving boisterously. And then there were the reports of theft, though I believe these reports were greatly exaggerated. [Related stories: Story 1, Story 2, Story 3]

What was the public’s response? Of course, they stopped patronizing the Landing. The merchants, who were losing money, appealed to city leaders who then proposed a number of municipal ordinances meant to cure the problem.

Among these ordinances was a 6 pm curfew for unaccompanied minors 18 and under, and minors could not congregate in groups greater than three.

Is this racism? Yes, I believe it is in that the ordinances were aimed particularly at young African Americans. Nevertheless, I still agree with them in spirit.

What are we to do when the very laws targeting a group of people actually work in our favor? What if these laws actually performed those actions we should be performing ourselves? No one should have to tell these young men (and increasingly young women) to pull their pants up. This is a parental function. They look absolutely disgraceful and slovenly with their pants hanging down. I am tired of seeing young African American males with their pants hanging off them and their underwear showing. So, I am almost positive white folks are offended too. So should we become angry when white folks finally get fed up with it and decide to act?

Similarly, I enjoyed spending time at the Landing. However, these young people targeted by the municipal ordinance managed to absolutely ruin that experience. How many times did my wife and I look at each other and declare something should be done? So, how can I get upset when something finally is done?

You see, racism is not always simply black or white. Both sets of proposed laws and/or municipal ordinances are racist, yet in the same instance, they address problems and issues which desperately need to be addressed and remedied by someone at some level.

So, I understand and agree with the cry of racism by African Americans, and on the other hand, I understand the impetus driving those laws and municipal ordinances and in some cases agree with them. And it’s all so confusing to me. I can’t figure out which side of the fence I should be standing on.