When I was in high school, a conversation gripped the entire school for a number of months. It concerned the issue of course leveling, which, more visibly, revealed itself to be an issue of race. Yet, as I delve further into my studies, I’m beginning to realize that very little in life has to do with solely race.
I have never experienced in the United States a place which is more simultaneously homogenous and heterogeneous as the land in which I was raised. New Jersey, that armpit of a state – how so little is known about the Garden State, the narrow strip of land between rivers which once cradled the young and ignorant youth of the American film industry, which has sustained the lives of two great American cities with its sweat and its anguish. How it reeks of both inequality and the promise of advancement, the city skyline – which is different depending on where you live – an image of all our dreams, of all our fantasies and all our fears. It is here that I found myself clutching towards a consciousness which is still underdeveloped and raw, and it is here, among the trees and the broken pavements, where my soul will likely be bound.
Because I am from New Jersey, I feel qualified to judge her, and to do so ruthlessly. For only a person from the armpit can truly know of the inner machinations therein, of the insidiousness of class conflict and the brutal visibility of race.
Du Boisian double-consciousness applied to writing narratives.
I have been reading James Baldwin’s Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone for the past three days now. I’ve been absorbing such heavy doses of the stuff that my mind is spinning around literary questions. In this book, Baldwin is actually speaking from the perspective of a Black narrator, unlike Giovanni’s Room, where the narrator is a white man. Yet, I wonder if there are any Baldwin books – I have not read them all, sadly – where the narrator is not a Black or White man. A Latina woman? A Black woman? An Asian man?
It is striking to me to think of the various first-person narrators throughout literary history and to see how closely their race reflects the race of their writers. Nick from The Great Gatsby, Yunior from The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Janie from Their Eyes Were Watching God, Jim from My Ántonia – all of these characters belong to a specific racial narrative, the likes of which is hardly crossed… and perhaps for good reason.
What does it mean for a white man to write from the experiences of a Black man? Of a Black woman?
Reflections on blackness, class and privilege.
Anyone who sees me around campus is likely to see me in this navy “Pace University Alumni” t-shirt. This t-shirt is one of my favorites, not only because its comfortable and well-worn (that is, it fits my body well from me stretching it out just enough so that it doesn’t lose its shape or look sprayed-on) but because of the symbolism behind it. I never really paid attention to the fact that my parents had both graduated from college until I arrived at Swarthmore. It was an unspoken part of my reality, an unseen privilege which was only made apparent to me when I realized that other people didn’t have it as well. And I suppose it may have been due to the fact that I was embarrassingly naive in high school or simply out-of-touch with the world around me, suspended in the little bubble that is my town.
And it didn’t really mean all of this to me when I started wearing the shirt around the house, at that time during this weird weight loss journey of mine when the shirt was still too tight for me to wear it in public. It didn’t even dawn on me when I noticed for the first time that I really liked the way I looked in that shirt, or when I realized how upset I was when I found a hole in the armpit. It wasn’t until this summer that I sort of became cognizant of it all, to be honest.
Continue reading the middle