Summary: A man writes his son a letter about being a black man.
Rating & Recommendation: 5/5; recommend for those who don't understand fear
Review: I had been meaning to read this for some time now, and I regret not reading it sooner. Ta-Nehisi Coates is special - he's articulate and nuanced, but clear and firm - a black man who graduated from the streets to trans-Atlantic vacations.
“I always thought I was destined to go back home after college – but not simply because I loved home but because I could not imagine much else for myself. And that stunted imagination is something I owe to my chains.”
If you’re black, at some point, you’ve heard your parents, your family, your mentors, remind you of that fact. “Don’t forget that you’re black.” Worse, you’ve heard your parents apologize for your blackness, for how hard it is. For the fact that they can’t fix it, make it easier, make it fair. I thought this was going to be an apology, from father to son, about the injustices of blackness, about things outside his control.
“Black people love their children with a kind of obsession. You are all we have, and you come to us endangered.”
Instead, it’s an explanation, which is infinitely more poignant, more educational, more thoughtful. It neutralizes the anger in some places, mobilizes in others. Coates calls out the hypocrisy of the American Dream and of American Exceptionalism. He tells his son in this frank and sad letter that fear is part of being black, part of being of a people whose bodies are disposable. It’s not okay, but there’s no shame in it either. The struggle isn't just against chains, but against ourselves. The hope is that we don't stifle ourselves, our children, or community, in order to be more palatable, acceptable. We won't compare ourselves to the Dream, which is smoke and mirrors.
“...your relatively privileged security can never match a sustained assault launched in the name of the Dream...”
He somehow explains with perfect clarity the concept of being privileged, but not privileged enough. Of being black and educated, black with two parents, black with family vacations and cars and luxuries. But there's no amount of means that can combat the Dream, which rests solely on the backs of subjugated peoples. There's a pain to knowing there's more, but seeing that it's out of reach. But is that pain worse than being relegated to the bottom - to blackness - forever, without even the knowledge that there's more? He talks about the privilege of travel, the privilege of language and the written word, and the privilege of having parents who are both fearful and inspiring.
We work twice as hard to accept half as much. We're told to take up less space and to look after our bodies, because no one else is.
I regret not reading this sooner, because it well articulates the diverse experiences of being black, but why there’s a pulse to the community, a universal understanding of your collective positions. This book is the nod, the dap, the look. He calls it "the birthmark of damnation."
It’s required reading, plain and simple.
Comments