Class, Race Anxiety, and Race Men (from Readin & Fightin #3)
“Do you ever try to understand why people like me cannot get over the past, cannot forgive and cannot forget?”
―Jamaica Kincaid, A Small Place
A lot of the books on my reading list deal with anxiety, and how women of color deal with anxiety and alienation because of things outside themselves—experiences as the only kid of color bussed in to their school or accepted on scholarship, being mixed-race, coming out as queer or trans, disabilities, immigration, language barriers, sexual violence and trauma, body shame, etc. Many of these books have characters who are so deeply anxious about who they are and where that places them in the world that they withdraw themselves from other people or become silent altogether (Maya Angelou and Maxine Hong Kingston, as well as Arundhati Roy’s character Estha, each spent periods of their youth silent because of traumas they couldn’t otherwise deal with). Anxiety is often the running theme through collections of short stories on my reading list: Many of Asali Solomon’s characters, all black teenagers and young adults, are the only black student at their school or newly-integrated suburb. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s characters are often navigating the tension between African-americans in the literal sense (by being immigrants from Africa) and African-americans in the ancestral sense (by being descendants of Africans in the americas), the disconnect between Africa’s diverse views of itself and whites’ views of it as a monolith, and the meaning and usefulness of pan-African identity to begin with. Jhumpa Lahiri focuses on the awkwardness of South Asian immigrants “making it” in white american suburbs.
And yet, very few of these books are about characters who are capable of dealing with these tensions and anxieties directly, or who have the resources and support to do so. Instead, they keep their anxieties inside, bottled up and unspoken. In some cases, they are left with no other recourse than to lash out at others, or respond to violence with much greater force after years of abuse (the title character of Sula, thought to have no empathy; the main character of Woman at Point Zero who responds to sexism with violence; many of Alice Walker’s short story characters lash out with pent-up rage in ways no one understands). In some cases they don’t know of any alternatives, so they repeat the same traumas done to them; a brilliant study of this is in Breath, Eyes, Memory.
A lot of these stories develop their characters through navigating the anxiety that seems inevitable in being a racialized in a white-centered world, even more complicatedly so when these characters are women. It is an important distinction that this anxiety doesn’t come from being a woman of color, but from the ways white supremacy treats women of color.
In some ways, I also think there is an anxiety caused by integration. Some of these characters, specifically those in Solomon’s stories and Dee in Walker’s story “Everyday Use,” are the first generation of their family to be brought up in a (supposedly) integrated society. Their coming-of-age experiences unfold almost like those of immigrants, yet their foreignness comes from being othered and made into outsiders in their own homes. In a conversation I had recently about race and gentrification, my explanation of what racism means to individuals is that there is often no happy, comfortable, and welcoming place for people of color to be. Instead, we end up forging happy-enough communities to shield us from the outside; I gave the example of older people fondly remembering their childhoods in the projects, knowing first-hand how racism and classism functioned in their lives to put them there, but also knowing that in the midst of it they build close communities with the resources they had. Integration, like immigrations, forces them out of this forged safe space and into a world that they’re not supposed to belong to.
Shange’s Lady in Brown channels Haitian revolutionary Toussaint L’Overture to help her deal with the pressure and alienation of her “integrated home/integrated street/integrated school,” concluding that, because of these pressures, “1955 waz not a good year for lil blk girls.” This is, in her life, reason enough to need revolt. In fact, one of the major integration battlegrounds of that period (and still) was the school system. In order to integrate a school system, students, some of them very young, were the frontline, being sent into incredibly hostile, violence, and degrading environments where they were expected to stay intact and eventually get an education. How could we not expect that school year in a racial warzone to take a toll on their psyches?
Class tension within p.o.c. groups seems to be something that, even within candid discussions of racism, remains untouched. It also seems that, as families of color rise through class-based power, their interactions with not just white individuals but white society as a whole increase. By class-based power I mean not just the actual wealth a family has,but the social capital as well, that may not even be backed up by money. The example I often use i my own family, where everyone has always been encouraged to pursue creative arts that are often upper-class arenas, or my own attendance of an Ivy League college but on heavy financial aid.
There is a tendency to allow this unspoken class tension to become all-out alienation once people of color have “made it.” Capitalism thrives on this alienation. Within my extended family, there are deep division and estrangements that come out of the mentality of, “We’re living like the Huxtables, so forget where we came from and forget all of y’all.”
I grew up middle-class and in a middle-class black neighborhood surrounded by an upper-middle-class white neighborhood which literally put up barriers to keep us separated. I always had messages running through my head that come straight from W.E.B. DuBois’s less-than-class-conscious ideas of racial uplift—that black people’s collective life improvement can come from the efforts of the “Talented Tenth,” the upper echelon of black intellectuals and culture creators into whom we can pool our resources now to feed off of later. Certain “Race Men,” members of the Talented Tenth, can show white people, through ceaseless effort and mastery of all realms of (white) culture, that all black people cannot be inferior if a select few have mastered whites’ own game.
(ETA:Rereading this months later I just want to be clear that I’m not into the idea of the Talented Tenth. I’m not sure if that came through clearly. Being pushed toward that position from an early age is the source of a ton of my anxiety. I’ve also read more since I wrote this piece about how DuBois himself changed his mind on this idea, but the idea of racial uplift in this manner is still around.)
Recommended reading on race anxiety:
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The Thing Around Your Neck, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
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The Unknown Errors of Our Lives, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
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White Rat, Gayl Jones
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A Small Place, Jamaica Kincaide
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The Woman Warrior, Maxine Hong Kingston
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Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
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Sula, Toni Morrison
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Mixed: An anthology of short fiction on the multiracial experience, ed. Chandra Prasad
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The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
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Caucasia, Danzy Senna
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White Teeth, Zadie Smith
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Get Down, Asali Solomon



