W.E.B Dubois & Ta-Nehisi Coates
- Emily A. Miller
- Sep 26, 2017
- 6 min read
It would be quite an accomplishment to live in The United States today and be completely incognizant of the ever-present racial tensions between white and black Americans. The latter part of the 20th century would have any respectable, “colorblind” individual believing that racial discrimination is archaic, and the election of President Barack Obama could be enough to convince a benevolent member of the majority that racism is dead. Therefore, the recent and radical uptick in tensions between black Americans and the country’s Police force and it’s blind-faith supporters, as well as tension rising from America’s pre-conceived notions about black culture, are likely bewildering these same individuals who not ten years ago believed the Civil Rights Movement was over, and this country had reached a pinnacle. While nobody can express the struggle each Black American faces individually in this country today, the effort must be made to illustrate that Freedom means two very different things in America, depending on the color of one’s skin.
It’s no secret that the concept of violence has been lumped in with Black Culture in America. When white men owned slaves—when they beat slaves, raped slaves, kidnapped slaves, and murdered slaves—they justified these acts by depicting black folks as brutish, and dangerous. Black men were considered violent. When men sought to, “debauch the race thus caught in [their] talons, selfishly sucking their blood and brains in the future as in the past,” in the name of “national decadence,” the men’s victims were considered violent,” (Dubois 310). During the reconstruction of the Union after the Civil War, Black men were tarred and feathered without justification, or beaten to death for whistling at a white woman, Like Emmett Till. During the Civil Rights Movement, protesters were spit on, hosed down, jailed and beaten for petitioning for their right to exist equally in a country that was founded on freedom. With the emergence of Hip-Hop and Rap, the gang-violence and drugs sung about by a small few became quickly representative of a whole people. In his address to his son, Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates addresses a lasting version of violence this country has only recently turned its eye toward: Police Brutality.
Coates mentions Eric Garner, Renisha McBride, John Crawford, Tamir Rice, and Marlene Pinnock being murdered by the very force that exists to protect them; however, Coates states that, “[these] destroyers are merely men enforcing the whims of our country, correctly interpreting its heritage and legacy,” (Coates 279). Coates is not suggesting that the police who shed innocent blood are correct in doing so, but they are pawns in a much larger scheme designed to tear away at Black Americans. An argument present in today’s race rhetoric is that these acts of violence that make it from the scene of the crime into our living rooms every night are few-and-far between; and while that may be so in a grand sense, one must acknowledge how it is a black man or woman being gunned down incessantly far more often than any other race. This prevalence is frightening and discouraging to law abiding black Americans. And for those who like to consider how far we have come, ask if this modern expression of timidity differs from what W.E.B Dubois called in 1903, “a shriek in the night for the freedom of men who themselves are not yet sure of their right to demand it,” (Dubois 310).
An aspect of black lives more abstract to white folks than violence is the idea of permanent awareness, or as Dubois calls it: double consciousness. Unfamiliar because an individual belonging to the majority has lived the vague parts of their life wholly aligned in the nations ideals of what is “normal,”. Sure, every life has its own set of intricacies, strife and particulates that separate us, but being white in America means being the default setting in any situation. The concept of double consciousness is looking at oneself through the presumed eyes of the world, constantly asking oneself how does the world see me? The answer to this question for Coates is in his use of the word “body” to emphasize the blackness that the world sees. Because slaves were considered sub-human, emphasis was placed on their bodies, not their whole selves, and Coates uses this metaphor to demonstrate that this line of thinking still exists today. Upon explaining a situation that happened between a television host and himself where the host was asking about his views as a black man, Coates says, “by now I am accustomed to intelligent people asking about the condition of my body without realizing the nature of their request,” (Coates 277).
The metaphor Dubois uses to explain this split-identity that accompanies double consciousness, is that of “The Veil” or, a permanent partition that he, as a black man walks through life within. Dubois explains that the Veil is the first thing that others see when they look at him, and the most important thing being considered about his character. To highlight this idea of living a veiled life in his own work, Coates asks the question, “how do I live free in this black body?” and continues by stating, “America understands itself as God’s handiwork, but the black body is the clearest evidence that America is the work of men,” (Coates 280). It is this placement in society, coupled with the generational fear Coates discusses when addressing the various forms of punishment shared by himself and his friends growing up, that separates black American life from white American life without direct racism even coming into play. No one, deliberate, isolated act had to occur to cause this chasm—this chasm was built along with this country, and it’s benefitting one group over another.
While one can make the argument that the media seems to be siding with black America these days, and as Coates says on page 280, “we live in a ‘goal-oriented’ era,” and that, “Our media vocabulary is full of hot takes, big ideas and grand theories,” he goes onto say that he “reject[s] magic in all its forms,” (Coates). By referring to the popular media rhetoric that is “goal-oriented,” as magic, such as the photo he discusses with the 11-year-old black boy hugging the police officer, Coates is rejecting not only that media is on the side of black America, but that it is on any side whatsoever. In fact, media often acts as its own third party in situations, being either an instigator or defender by its own best interest alone. Media’s influence is no different here in the case of boosting the argument for hope in that picture of the black boy and the cop.
Hope is something that every man, every woman, and every child can identify with. Often, we hope for gains, either personal or grand—but hope is not exclusive to all that is positive. People have hoped for the collapse of others either out of hate, fear, or misunderstanding. But the hope that propagates good intent is a driving force in the betterment of our society as a whole. A particular art form has grown in popularity among black artists as a means to educate society on the strife that comes with being a black American, but also to proclaim the parts of their culture in which black Americans are particular proud and hopeful. On display at the Spencer Art Museum until only a few weeks ago was the largest exhibit of African American quilts. Among the histories, the urban stories and the catalogues of black culture were two quilts that embodied the idea of pride and hope in black culture. Against the wall of the gallery, hung a technicolored quilt weaved with pictures of the infamous Tina Turner. In big, block letters read, “We love you Tina!” surrounded by a montage of quasi-quotes from fans stating that they wished to be like Tina, dress like Tina and wear their hair like Tina. On a wall opposite of Tina’s hung a quilt more reserved in composition, boasting portraits of famous and influential members of the black community throughout the years, and small anecdotes of their accomplishments. Beside a jazz singer’s face was the reminder, “Billie Holiday was a black woman!” capturing the feeling of pride in their culture and the hope that it provides those who have looked up to her and continue to do so.
Since the establishment of these United States, our men have fought for freedom. They have fought for their brother’s rights to state their opinion—even if they disagreed with their brother, because we recognize that it is not the content of the words, but the right to say them freely that keeps a country alive. For far too long these rights, these freedoms, and these opportunities have been given out unfairly, and the single largest reason for such unjust is racism. And while there are many Americans White, Black and Brown that see racism as a thing of the past, “such curious kinks of the human mind exist and must be reckoned with soberly,” (Dubois 310). It is the only way we have even an opportunity at the equality our fellow Americans so rightfully deserve, at last.
Citations:
A Special Thank you to the Spencer Art Museum for allowing our class to meet for a tour of the African American Quilt exhibit on September 07th
Coates, Ta-Nehisi. “Between the World and Me.” Ways of Reading, 11th ed., Bedford, Boston, MA, 2017, pp. 277-286.
Dubois, W.E.B. “Of the Training of Black Men.” Ways of Reading, 11th ed., Bedford, Boston, MA, 2017, pp. 309–319.
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