Mostly I wanted to stay out of this discussion about Rachel Dolezal because Black people and people of color have been contributing important sides to the debate of "Why is this ok/not ok? Can she be Black? What is Black?" Part of the problematic aspect of this is the silencing of "authentic" Black voices, particularly of Black women (but we're finding out it's hard to say exactly what that means). I find it very strange that politically progressive people are being race police here. I've been reading a lot about it and following feeds of Black facebook friends I look up to politically, and it's been helping me understand and have a more nuanced view than a lot of the coverage I've seen. But also, as a White activist who does lots of anti-racist work, I feel like I understand something about someone in Dolezal's position (even without knowing much about her personally). There are two ways I identify with the extremely odd case of "reverse passing" recently discovered of Rachel Dolezal: (1) the want to shield yourself from White racist comments, which although not directed at you may be felt deeply personally, and (2) the complicated nature of me figuring out how I'm "Jewish," as someone marrying into the religion, deeply atheist, but nevertheless heavily involved with my synagogue and proud of Jewish history. I tried to process these thoughts on camera, for myself as much as to add to the discussion, leaving out issues that were more well-presented by others.
|
The wheels of justice, like gears inside a two-faced watch,
lay on separate and opposite planes. One is keeping twisted time well oiled and moving. The other’s insides are rusted together frozen just past midnight. The white side spins so swiftly, like a merry-go-round controlled by a mean, drunk man. His children are thrown from the ride. Those white trimmings, dirty and cut, try to step on again as the wheel turns faster and faster. They are struck by the turning wheel, and their noses bloodied. The others stay back. They turn their sights to darker children, playing on a broken wheel. It is so dark at their edge of the playground that you only see outlines of objects. "They almost look human," the white-siders say. In the darkness, one has to feel with their hands, but the metal on their wheel is old and broken and rough. It becomes a game, the white-siders wander through the darkness slapping the air, sometimes striking a darker child. “I got one!” says a white-sider who makes contact. There is no slap back. So all is peaceful. Among the white-siders, there are onlookers. But their eyes can’t adjust to the dark edges, the shady periphery where this special game is played. A sun is in their eyes. They can hear, and they imagine what might be happening. “What does he mean, ‘he got one?’ Is something bad happening over there?” It can’t be seen from here. I fear there is something bad happening there. But I’m too scared to go. What if they slap me? Still, all is peaceful. Bullies can be reformed, you know. And there are courageous children of all colors. A mirror is held, “Not to look at us, to see them,” says one of the white-sider children. The mirror is placed in a ray of sun, and angles to the darker edges. As suspected, as rumored, there are the bullies wandering around slapping the darker children. In the light the bullies are seen, but they don’t stop. Now they can better see their targets, hit harder, more sure. The darker children, now seen for the first time, direct their eyes at the onlookers as they are slapped. It is too much to look at. “We cannot stand for this. This is not peace.” Reforms are made. There are signs put up on their side of the playground, “No slapping dark children.” Mirrors are placed to shine lights into the dark corners, and some of the behavior is monitored. Walls and cameras. There are still bullies, but there is punishment for the slapping that is seen, and a few of the darker children can come to the center of the playground, to play on the white-sider merry-go-round. Dark children are thrown just as well as white ones. A similar red blood drips from their scraped knees. All is peaceful, because it lasts this way for a while. A generation later: the drunken man spinning the white-sider merry-go-round has been laid to rest. A grown child takes his place. Odd this time, because it is one of the darker children who grew up on the white side. But this child, now an adult, takes to the drunken wheel nicely. Drinking and spinning just fast enough so that most of the white-siders are thrown off. Again, a new generation of bloodied, tossed trimmings turn their frustrations to the edges of the playground. “Look what they’ve done with their side. They are animals. We’ve given them everything and look what they do with it.” "It’s true." The rusted wheel at the center of the darker edge was rebuilt in the last generation. They took new parts and made a wheel that spins, a smaller replica of the larger, faster wheel at the center of the playground. But now, even that new wheel is rusted. Without oil, it wouldn’t spin. And what’s the point of a merry-go-round that won’t spin? It rots. Its twisted metal was stripped bare. Sharp pieces of metal, used at first to protect against remaining bullies, are now waved unfocused at whoever is nearby. Each dark child walks with bloodied limbs, wounded by other dark children or gripping their defensive shards of metal so tight that their own fingers sever. Some of the brightest ones take piles of those severed fingers and spell out novels, poetry, music. Look at that. Such talent. Still, all is peaceful. Sometimes the Black arms swing out towards the center of the playground. White-siders are battered by both the white, whirly wheel, and occasionally cut by the metal shards as darker children stray farther and farther from the edges of the playground. Peace is threatened. Peace keepers are assembled for community peace keeping. They will be a diverse group, because we are a diverse, new world. Everyone caught with a blade is taken. For the benefit of their own community. To remind them what it was like before, how bad it was before, they will be placed for a time in the darkest corners, beyond the playground, where the rules are the same as the past generation. Slaps in the dark. It teaches a lesson, and then they’re back. They’re back, but we have taken their tongues. All is peaceful. Peacekeepers, walls, and cameras. Tongues removed. The wheels of justice, like gears inside a two-faced watch, lay on separate and opposite planes. One is keeping twisted time well, oiled and moving. The other’s insides are rusted together, frozen just past midnight. Without tongues, without fingers, the dark children see that their clock is not moving. They know it has been stopped for generations. For a moment, their strength is united on pushing the hour hand forward. But rusted and old, it snaps like a twig. “They’ve broken it!” They try the minute hand next, but that is even weaker and bends at the base. “It’s just not right." "We all agree their clock should tick, but that’s not how to make it go!” White-siders are scared that the only oil that will grease the Black wheels is the marrow inside their white bones. Bones will be broken for that marrow, to pour on the gears, to oil the clock, to make it tick. They know this is true. It must be. Because as a white-sider you learn before you can speak that the white wheel only spins so fast with the grease of the marrow of Black bones. |
AuthorI'm trying to keep tabs on what the hell I'm doing in the world, and what the hell the world is doing to me. ArchivesCategories |
RSS Feed
