Tim,
I am a White Man. According to the currently accepted definitions of “white” and “man”, this is an incontrovertible fact. You are certainly aware of this aspect of my social identity, as surely observed by your own eyes. Your fair orbs, as well as others’, have seen my snow-white skin, ocean-blue irises, and grain-blonde hair. One, upon meeting me, cannot help but make certain assumptions about my background, upbringing, and experience based on my appearance.
There is some truth to these presumptions; I had the fortune to be born into financial security and had an enviable education. However, I have experienced more than my share of hardship — emotional, social, and psychological. In many regards, my life has been no easy undertaking. An outsider looking in may find my misfortunes easily avoidable, almost self-imposed, but I have many unhealthy mental predispositions. Because I am not always able to control my behaviour in a given situation, my biography is fraught with misfortune. Therefore, when I was told that I was somehow privileged by the mere merit of my skin colour and gender, I was confused and frustrated.
I had been frequenting blogs and forums on the Internet and reading the posts of many bloggers spouting the most ridiculous views. They wrote that Black People have a significantly more difficult time in this country; that in every case, White People are more privileged, regardless of their economic background. They rallied behind the slogan, “Black Lives Matter”. Of course black lives mattered, but what about my life, Tim? What about all human life? Furthermore, they stated that, to compensate for this disparity, America must continue the institutions of welfare, affirmative action, and possibly even engage in reparations. I was aghast! How, 150 years after abolition, 50 years after the civil rights act, could there still be need for Black Restitution? I had to offer my opinion to these delusional activists.
On one of the most extreme threads, I posted my remark: “I must say that I find these ideas to be most concerning. The vehemence with which you espouse the most ridiculous claims about the hardship of the Negro is unsettling and offensive. I assure you that in this advanced year the Black Man is regarded quite equally by the White Man. His struggles are no longer that of slavery or segregation, but rather of those that many Americans face, regardless of colour. I thoroughly resent the implication that my position in life has been gifted to me and that my successes are unearned because I am a member of a certain race.”
The backlash was immediate and excessive. Within minutes the thread exploded with acerbic attacks against me. Some commenters were so angered they even forgot to turn off their caps lock. I was called a “PIG”, a “SHITLORD”, and, confusingly, a “CISGENDERED PRIVILEGED WHITE FUCK”. This was hardly unexpected but I became disheartened. What was once a calm debate had turned into a heated argument at the drop of one dissenting hat.
I was about to log off and give up on further understanding the issue when a notification popped up in the upper right corner of the page. I had received a new message. It was an apology from a blogger who called herself “Trigg3rUnhappy”. She was ashamed at the way her peers had responded to my comment. According to “Trigg3r”, I was merely misinformed. If only I understood the facts and the personal stories, I would realize that there is still a form of racial injustice in America. She sent me a list of essentials: required books, articles, and movies to understand the status of Black Americans. I thanked her for her compassion and her level headed reaction. She graciously received my thanks and told me to inform her of my impressions once I had made my way through some of the material.
Impress me it did, indeed, Tim! I was so engrossed that I stayed up for several days consuming the entirety. I learned about 400 years of slavery — the deplorable treatment of the black body in shipment, and in the implementation of forced, unpaid labor, the separation of families for the sake of a sale, and the continuation of that peculiar institution for the benefit of the southern economy despite the hypocritical violation of fundamental human rights. I learned about the Jim Crow south — the coercion of freedmen into sharecropping, working the same fields for their former masters for minimal pay, the theft of the right to vote, and the violent lynchings in response to petty crimes or, often, less than criminal behaviour. I learned about the Great Migration. What seemed like promise was actually more of a compromise as northern cities practiced a less obvious, but equally as insidious, form of racism through redlining. I learned about how, even after the Civil Rights Movement, Black People still suffer more poverty and higher rates of incarceration than other racial groups. Then I learned about the recent instances of brutality against Black People by our own police departments and the subsequent mishandling of said cases by our judicial system.
Every story, book, article, movie, and LeVar Burton television series was another depressing chapter in the long tragedy of the Black Man in America. Over the course of my digestion, I vomited several times from the overwhelming sadness. Even after exhausting myself with a marathon of learning, I still could not find slumber. My guilt was keeping me awake. I lied in bed bleary-eyed and fitful, thinking of the relative ease my ancestors had in this country and how I continue to enjoy the benefits from our privileged status. It was not fair, Tim! It was not right. I could not stomach the idea that I was living in comfort at the expense of my fellow man. I pined for absolution. I needed to express these feelings, so I messaged the friendly blogger from before.
I told “Trigg3rUnhappy” that I had devoured everything she sent me, and gave her an account of my reaction and my current emotional state. She was impressed that I was able to read through it all so quickly and recommended that I refrain from the use of the antiquated term “Negro”, but was concerned for my emotional well being. She assured me that, despite the current forms of racism persisting in America, Black People have made large strides and are continuing to make progress. That what is important is for America to recognize that more still needs to be done to establish true equality. This only partly abated my guilt. I wanted to do something to allay the plight and the effects of the history of discrimination.
While conversing with her, I had an idea. I told her I wanted to organize another march on Washington — to take to the nation’s capital to rally for improving the African-American’s situation. She loved the idea. She had clout with an extensive network of contacts throughout the Internet and The Black Lives Matter movement and could help me organize the event. I was ecstatic. We started planning immediately.
To all the major blogs we went, announcing our intention for a grand peaceful protest. Excitement was fomented rapidly. Countless members of the online community agreed that America needed another organized march. Anon, there was a Facebook event with nearly a million followers. The clamour was inspiring. Several civil rights leaders were scheduled to speak and even more entertainers booked to perform but I conferred with “Trigg3rUnhappy” and asked if I could make the opening speech. She allotted me a few minutes to orate. A formerly ignorant White Man, talking of his journey towards reformation could be motivating.
Initially, I was positive about the upcoming occasion and enthusiastic about my chance to speak — my opportunity for exoneration. As the event drew closer, however, my anxiety swelled. The estimated attendance surpassed 2 million. This would be a record-breaking protest. Was I prepared to lecture in front of a crowd of that magnitude, Tim? I did not truly understand the plight of African-Americans. What was I, a White Man, a privileged oppressor, thinking talking to droves of mostly Black People about civil rights? I would be jeered off the podium, in front of millions of people nonetheless! By the time I reconsidered, the now-looming event was in only a day — too soon for me to retract. Therefore, in the final hours of the night prior, I made extensive preparations for my momentous declamation.
There could not have been a more splendid day for our march. The weather was more than accommodating; a partly cloudy sky, a temperate springtime degree, and a balmy breeze gently graced us. I met with “Trigg3rUnhappy” earlier in the day to go over the events. I told her I needed time alone to rehearse my speech.
“Your three minute speech?” she clarified.
“Yes. This must be flawless. I cannot cause any further injury towards the “Black Lives Matter” movement. Not after all my years of naïveté. Please understand,” I pleaded.
“I suppose, if you think it’s absolutely necessary,” she said.
“I absolutely do. Thank you. Now if you will please leave me alone.”
She went away and managed the event with aplomb and competence. I secluded myself in the pillared shadows of the Lincoln memorial, my back to the wall, continuously rehearsing my speech and attempting to calm my nerves.
Before long the moment came. I took a seat on a stage in front of the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, next to the other speakers — Civil Rights leaders and experts, better versed than I. “Trigg3rUnhappy” started with a small introduction, and thanked everyone for coming out in support of this important cause. After a few inspiring words she announced me to the crowd.
I strode across the stage towards the microphone. The throng of people all looking at me was imposing. I nearly succumbed to jitters and almost collapsed on stage. I made it to the center and approached the podium.
“My fellow Americans,” I started, “I come before you today to tell you my story of ignorance. You see, I was born a privileged white child — pampered, well-educated, and unaware of the struggle that many Americans endure. I believed that every American was judged by the content of their character. I thought that Martin Luther King’s credo had taken root in this country. I held these beliefs until only a few short weeks ago, when the organizer of this very event endeavored to teach me the errors of my thinking. I came to realize that our country is not as enlightened as I had previously supposed. I now understand the necessity of the Black Lives Matter movement! Together she and I arranged this event, and together we will all strive to overcome and abolish the systemic racism that persists in our country today!”
This last statement was met with deafening applause. I stood back and smiled tearfully. The ovation of thousands of African-Americans symbolized that absolution I so craved. A better reaction could not have been anticipated. However, I had only just begun.
“But,” I continued, “Steps must be taken. Plans must be put into action. Real change will not occur without real, definitive measures. Last night I thought about this event and how it might drive real change. We have had civil rights marches before, though, and they, clearly, have not done enough as you all will surely attest. I thought about the root of the problem. What do people think when they see a black man, or a white man? How do they act based on those perhaps prejudiced thoughts? Well, my friends, I said, “What if people did not see a black man or a white man? What if they just saw a human being of flesh and bone? Would that not solve the issue?” And I then realized my vision for the future of race in America.”
With this statement I took a quick step aside from the podium and held my arms out wide. I grabbed the center of my suit and pulled it off in its entirety in one swift motion (I had made slight tears in my clothing the night prior for ease of their removal). I was now completely naked, barring my dress shoes and argyle socks. People were surprised, but little were they aware of their impending revelation. In my hand, I brandished a sharp knife, suitable for slicing through flesh. The crowd was halted and silenced by surprise. I took my shiny dagger behind my head and pressed the tip of it to the very bottom of my skull. From there, I dragged it up and over my head slicing down the very middle. I continued in this motion down the center of my face, past my jaw and down my neck. At this point in my performance people became scared and confused. The entire throng started shouting cries of “Oh my God!” and “What is he doing?”. But I did not stop, Tim. How could I? I was about to grant them enlightenment.
I incised down my torso to my belly button where I figured I had made sufficient progress. I leaned over to the microphone to say one last word.
“I am no longer White Man. I am no longer of any race or color. I am no longer shackled by the irons of racial perception. I will be…We will all be… Equal human beings!”
With this, I began at once to tear at the halves of skin made by my knife. It worked almost as planned, however, I am no anatomist, and I did not understand the mechanisms of how skin is attached to the body. My epidermis did not slide off like the peel of a banana as I had hoped, but rather flayed like that of an annoying packaging sticker; in little strips, leaving behind sticky residue and difficult to grasp remains. Therefore, I recaptured my scalpel and hacked away like a butcher preparing a prime cut of freshly killed game. Of course, the crowd was appalled. “Somebody please stop him,” a concerned member shouted. But of all the millions of people there, not one person was willing to endure the ordeal of getting near what was rapidly becoming the very picture of gore.
My upper body was a complete mess of skin, blood, tendon, and bone. Other than a vague “v” down my center, tattered strips of flesh covered my front. My scalp and face were torn away as I continued throwing my knife at the surface of my head and body. I was completely disfigured; unrecognizable from my appearance just moments prior. Blood streamed out of the gaping wounds being rapidly created and dripped down onto the floor.
I was nearly ready to abandon my task — the pain and the effort were becoming increasingly unbearable — when a gust of wind graced the event, and caressed all the exposed nerves of my body. Receptors in my brain ignited like a wildfire. I saw not only stars, but giant celestial bodies and entire galaxies. I directly vomited and fainted. My body collapsed in such a way that my injuries landed in the acidic puddle.
I awoke in a hospital bed, bandaged in gauze from my waist to the top of my head. Coincidentally, the television set hanging in the corner of the room was turned on to the news covering the story of the recent event. Contrary to every possible reaction I had hoped, my antics had completely tarnished whatever good would have come of the march. In fact, my display had sparked the worst race riots in history. When I heard this terrible news, I would have cried, if my tear ducts had not been cleaved out by my flailing hand. It was then that I noticed Trigg3rUhHappy sitting beside me, awaiting my return to consciousness. She looked at me with complete disgust. “How could you?” was all she stated. Then she stood and walked out. Another bout of nausea possessed me and I retched on my bandages again.
I was left alone in my room with nothing but the droning TV and my tortured thoughts. Covering my face with my hands, I wailed. I wailed louder than I thought I was capable. Through my dry sobbing I pondered upon all the mistakes and transgressions I had made the day prior and how thoroughly they caused the opposite of my noble expectations. My misdeeds had set the civil rights movement back an inestimable number of years and it was known to all that I was the culprit. To have set it back at all would have been unbearable to me; this was completely insufferable. I had no choice but to live out my guilt-ridden life in reclusive exile and consider whether that was worth living.
Story by Daniel
Original Artwork by @basper01
Originally published at deartimtheblog.tumblr.com.
