A Multi-Genre Commentary: Race and Minority Struggle
The following is a multi-genre project, a collection of works from various genres including poetry, literary analysis, and narrative writing, on race and minority struggle. The aim of this project is to create a better understanding of the different ways in which racism is conveyed and minority struggle is experienced, along with a contextual understanding of the historical origins of racism and minority struggle. (Edit, August 2019: This month, the New York Times released the 1619 Project, a collection of works aiming to rewrite the history behind slavery and its modern impacts. Much as the 1619 Project combines essays, visuals, poems, and quotes to create a better understanding of slavery, this project combines works from multiple genres to reach its aforementioned goal.)
Table of Contents
Dear Reader
The Middle Passage (Repetend)
The Blacker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juice
Statistics on Racial Bias in the Criminal Justice System
Slavery (Repetend)
Overt Racism and Microaggressions in Huck Finn
A Twig in a Bed of White Flowers
A Quote on The Struggle of Maintaining Pride in Traditions
Mispronounced Names of the Minority
Colonialism (Repetend)
Racism Today
Notes Page
Dear Reader,
Racism is not as uncommon as you may think. It’s not something you’ll only find in the deep South where Confederate flags fly proudly and where the smell of fried grits wafts through the air. It’s nothing something that only happens in isolated incidents that occasionally appear on your Facebook feed. And it’s not something that has ceased to exist today; it’s not something that faded away when slavery or segregation were struck down. Racism is, in fact, alive and well.
I can say that from personal experience. I’m a seventeen-year-old Indian American from Westchester, New York. Although I’ve grown up in fortunate and well-protected circumstances, I’ve experienced racism countless times in my life, sometimes without knowing it. These are the experiences -- experiences that collectively form minority struggle -- that I wanted to bring light to in my project. A number of pieces in this project detail some of my personal encounters with racism, including the project’s lede -- a very personal piece that’s intended to spark your empathy right from the start of the project.
But there are also so many other people facing racial discrimation in a variety of forms. I felt it was important to underscore these experiences, too, because they create a better understanding of modern racism’s broad scope. I chose to present more obvious instances of racism with pieces on police brutality and racial bias in the criminal justice system.
But -- and this is something that I hope you’ll realize from my project -- racism is not always overt. Racism can come from microaggressions: subtle, indirect, and often unintentional actions or incidents. These actions and incidents reflect the ingrained racism that exists in society today, and they are damaging because they operate subliminally, often leading to internalized racism. I tried to use my literary essay as the bridge between my focus on overt and subtle actions of racism. The pieces following the essay aim to provide examples of microaggressions and show that microaggressions are harmful because they cause victims to devalue their identity and lose pride in their background.
I understand that my project provides a lot of examples of racism and its lens is very wide. That’s intended, because I want you to realize that all of these examples culminate to form what is minority struggle today. I want you to realize that minority struggle is a wide-reaching issue that affects so many. Most importantly, I hope this project compels you to stand up against racism. Until more people can empathize with the oppressed -- an empathy only fostered from exploring their experiences -- minority struggle will persist, dehumanizing minorities and depriving them of America’s glorified promises
Best,
Zain
The Humor of Minority Youth[1]
We know that minority children are those who fail to see what’s been promised to them, but we don’t always remember that these are the children who are surrounded by unfamiliar traditions and customs, immersed in a system in which assimilation can feel unattainable, while a failure to do so can be overwhelming and debilitating.
Quite often, these children feel a repulsion of their culture from their peers, leaving them with a choice: conform, or walk away with the threat of not being accepted. Conformance results in self-deprecation -- a disrespect for and a deviation from the cherished traditions of their childhoods.
And quite often, I’ve been left with this choice -- an allegorical fork in the road between my culture and their culture that forces me to choose whether or not to disrespect my upbringing.
When a plane passes overhead while we’re walking around outside, I’ve been asked by friends if my uncle is in there, ready to crash into a building. I’ve heard other friends yelling Allahu Akbar. Friends have implied that underneath my sweatshirt may be a bomb vest. Everytime I hear one of these “jokes,” I have to decide: do I stand up for myself through reason and then walk away, or do I appease their ignorance with compliance so I can be taken in with open arms?
The same happens for the Asian student who incessantly has a choice to make when vollies of stereotypes about his voice, his math skills, and whether he likes to eat domestic animals are fired at him. The same happens for the Mexican student who is questioned about whether he can jump high since he probably needed to in order to cross the border. The same is true for the African American student who is continuously offered watermelon at lunch.
I’ve seen this be true for many of my own friends. I’ve seen Hispanic and African American friends make the border-hopping and watermelon jokes about themselves. I’ve seen Asian friends make the math and dog-eating jokes. And I’ve seen their white friends laugh hysterically. And I’ve seen those jokes recur again and again, and consequently, the minority kid talk more and more with their white friends.
That friendship, however, is built on a condemnation of minority cultures. I can’t help but shake my head and turn away every time I see one of these interactions: I think of that kid going home and sitting down for dinner with immigrant parents at a table of traditional food, just as I do every night. And it’s for this reason that I’ve struggled sometimes to find casual friendships with peers: I can’t justify abandoning my culture and disregarding my identity for their friendship. No minority student should feel like they have to desert their culture in order to be accepted.
The Blacker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juice[3]
The boy lies on his bed crying. Tears trickling down his dark, rugged cheeks, salt to his wounds. Not just stinging, though. A sharp pain. Warm and piercing.
Like a gunshot wound.
There again is that familiar sound. Sirens. Blaring. Out from the dark, seemingly just behind the mustard yellow of the street light outside the window. Unambiguous. A sound that is impossible to miss. As it always is.
That sound that he despises. Loathes. That sound that embodies everything that is wrong with what’s around him. His source of darkness -- the source of darkness for the blacks of the city.
****
The young black bodies in the streets. Covered in blood. Punctured by countless bullet holes. The unsuspecting teenager gunned down. Deemed, because of his darkness, that he was a threat. That he was dangerous. The officer was justified, for he was in imminent danger, the court said.
For them, the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.
Years ago, there were all those riots, all the activism, all the outcrys and uproar. The government’s response, though, wasn’t to listen.
It was to make things worse, lay down the law. They buffed up the police, made them more powerful, more lethal. Why? Because people like the boy and like his father were dangerous, they said.
Because people like the boy, like the father, shouldn’t see the light, they said. Because only some deserved to see the light.
****
The boy sends a text to his friend: Where do you want to meet?
By the corner store.
What time?
10.
You sure it’s safe out that late?
We’ll be fine, no reason to be scared.
But there is reason to be afraid. Over the course of five nights this past month, when darkness descended from the heavens, seeped into side alleys across the city, erased the comfort afforded by the light, and ominously signaled the nighttime patrol, eight of his friends were shot dead by the police. Laid out in the streets. Faced down against the concrete. Their blood oozed out, seeped through the cracks like the stream of sprinkler water that snakes down the driveway.
He pictures the dark red of their blood, cascading from the dark black of their skin, against the dark black of the concrete. That all-too-familiar sight that marks finality and loss.
On these nighttime patrols, the police walk around, their sticks beating uniformly and routinely against the concrete like a warrior’s spear as he marches into battle. They glance into your eyes, scrutinize your soul, weigh your intentions in one quick glance. If they feel you are doing something unlawful, they come after you. Relentlessly. Full steam towards you. You can try to run, but what’s the use?
First, they strike you with their batons and kick you as if you are a monster chomping at their legs. Then, they yell in your face, falsely accusing you of disobeying and chastising you, ironically, for your transgressions of the law. Finally, they unclip their holster, slide out their weapon, and discharge it as if they are frantically mashing a remote controller in the midst of a fast-paced video game. Or they drag you off and throw you in prison, as if you’re meat to the wolves. Locked up -- likely forever.
****
He rounds the corner and sees his friend. They walk into the alley and sit against a dark cement wall, its cracks and chips poking sharp against their backs. Talking. Quietly so they can avoid detection. First about normal stuff: music, girls. A reprieve from the horror that normally surrounds them, especially on these black, desolate nights. The conversation, as it always does, drifts to what is going on around them; they can’t believe what they have lost. Their friends, their family members.
They never speak about themselves. But it seems inevitable…
In the midst of their conversation, they hear the tapping. The rhythmic sound of the stick hitting the pavement, coming around the corner. They stop talking and try to hide themselves behind a garbage can out of the streetlight. The officers normally walk past the alley, not bothering to take the trouble to have a look. But one of them decides differently. He turns left, 100 feet away from them. Spotting their silhouettes in the shadows of the night, he yells. The boys run, charging on even as he demands they stop. He comes after them hastily, like a raged bull, hate shining in his eyes in the black of the night.
The boy runs left and hides behind a car while his friend sprints right. The officer goes right, following his friend, closing in ever so steadily. The boy catches his breath and closes his eyes. As beads of sweat tumbles down his forehead, he prays silently for his friend’s safety.
But then he hears five shots ring out.
Another black boy, lying in the streets, blood onto the pavement.
They were only talking.
****
He lays in his bed again. Staring once more at the ceiling. Hints of light creep through the dirty, dust-covered window. And tears creep into his eyes once more, tip-toeing across his face like a child sneaking past his parents’ room late at night.
His best friend was dead.
And he didn’t even stay with him.
Who knows what they are going to do with the body? They might hang it in the city center, leaving the body dangling lifelessly from a rope, twisting subtly right and left, never seeming to find the perfect balance point, all the while bestowing a collective hush amongst the thousands of onlookers who will inevitably pass it during the morning rush or perhaps on one of their midday perambulations as they wander the city aimlessly. Without saying, it would serve as a reminder of the undisputed power of the police -- the fact that blacks are to become like his friend.
Why is it like this?
No one responds.
What have we done to make this happen?
No one responds.
Who else will I lose?
No one responds.
Then, he asks what he has thought all along, but what he never dares ask. The thought that creeps amongst the shadows in the depths of his mind, lingering ever-presently, always peeking out from where his conscience never ventures:
When will I be the one?
Overt Racism and Microaggressions in Huck Finn
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by Mark Twain, is often viewed as the classic American novel. Set in the Antebellum South, the novel examines the morality of slavery through the relationship between a boy, Huck, and a runaway slave, Jim. Through Huck and Jim’s adventures, Twain creates the understanding that racism can be experienced not just through overt actions, but also through microaggressions, and that when the combination of overt racism and microaggressions are internalized, they tear away at identity and cause self-dehumanization.
Throughout the novel, overt racism appears frequently. For one, the novel centers around slavery, an abominable system founded in racist ideology. And on multiple occasions, Jim is the target of outward racist acts. One such instance is the climax of the novel, when the duke and king sell Jim, “after all (Huck and Jim) had done for them,” for just forty dollars that was blown on whiskey (214-215). The fact that Jim is equated to merely forty dollars of disposable alcohol speaks for itself. It’s an unambiguously racist action because it deprives Jim and African Americans of their humanity. African Americans at this time were viewed as property, as profitable objects. They were not viewed as the selfless, compassionate individuals that they were, as evidenced by Jim’s sacrifice for Huck.
The most obvious example of overt racism, though, is the repeated use of the n-word throughout the novel. Featured 219 times in the novel, the word is used casually and without reserve. Seemingly every character in the book -- even those who are considered morally good -- use it to talk about African Americans. The widespread use of the n-word reflects its normalcy in dialect at this time, a troubling reality that shows that racism at this time was normal and accepted. Huck, for example, frequently uses the n-word when discussing or talking directly to Jim: “He was a mighty good nigger Jim was” (158). This quote demonstrates that even when he praises Jim, Huck still derogatorily views him as a black man, not as a human. This is why the n-word is so polarizing and chastised in today’s world: even when used casually or harmlessly, it perpetuates the belief that African Americans are less than human.
While this overt racism is usually what is highlighted in Twain’s classic novel, instances of microaggressions appear as well. For example, when Huck wakes up late one night, and hears Jim crying about his family, he concludes that although it “don’t seem natural,” Jim “cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their’n” (158). Huck supposed that Jim wouldn’t have an emotional connection to his family because he is black, so he is surprised that Jim misses his family just as a white man would miss his own. This supposition, although seemingly harmless, is a microaggression, and it’s inherently racist. Buried beneath it is the notion that African Americans are not as human as white folks -- that they don’t possess the same familial bonds, the same values, or the same emotional complexes. This belief is perhaps even more damaging than the overt racism because it operates subconsciously and tears deeply away at identity.
The damaging effects of overt racism and microaggressions are evidenced by Jim’s internalization of them. This can be seen in Jim’s application of the n-word to himself and other African Americans. By doing using the word against himself and his own race, Jim is dehumanizing himself and his own kin. Jim’s internalization can also be seen in Jim’s subservience to Huck, often letting Huck sleep and filling his night shift, for example. Jim’s subservience is a product of the constant stream of microaggressions he has undoubtedly faced that have taught him subliminally to bow down to the white man.
Jim’s internalization of racism and his self-deprecation is not a process that is unique to the early 1800s; it is a cycle that continues today. Minorities today face microaggressions more often than overt racism, but they still internalize these undertones and as a result, they feel inferior. The reaction is to dehumanize themselves, to devalue their own identities, to lose pride in their own backgrounds. It should be appalling that a parallel can be drawn between the Jim the slavery-ridden South and the minorities of modern America.
A Twig in A Bed of White Flowers[4]
Tall, wispy pines flank the cobblestone road,
Bright white lilies glisten in the sunlight,
But a single twig lays in the middle of them, forgotten by the maintenance crew.
A cart comes flying up the hill, the whim of its electric motor running at full drive becoming more and more audible by the second.
The driver, wearing a striped light blue polo and tan shorts, stares me down --
No smile breaks through the wrinkles of his pale white face,
And his hands, one covered by his pure white golf glove, remain fixed on the wheel.
He speeds by me, disappearing behind the bend of the road, as if I was an invisible specter indistinguishable from the woods behind me.
With my golf bag weighing down on my shoulders, its coarse straps rubbing against my neck, I walk up to the putting green.
I swing it off my shoulder, setting it down with a loud thump.
An hour until my tee time.
With three golf balls and my putter, I step onto the putting green, scouting for a quiet place to get my mind right.
Around me are the best junior golfers in New York --
Some are crouched behind their balls with their eyes laser-focused on the hole, trying to make sense of the steep curvature the ball takes to the hole,
Some are taking three putts from five feet, then three from ten, then three from fifteen,
And some are circled up, chatting with each other, leaning their weight casually -- smuggly -- onto their putters, laughing as the sweltering summer sun pours onto the shiny white of their necks.
They collectively turn their heads my way as I step onto the putting green,
Looking me up and down, top to bottom --
A few whispers resonate from their group, drifting across the green like the pervasiveness of an air freshener that has just been sprayed.
I turn my head down, walking quickly to the opposite side of the putting green where the shadows of the trees paint long lines across the firm, tightly-mown grass.
Thirty minutes before my tee time, I run into the clubhouse to grab a quick sandwich and to get out of the devilish heat.
I sit quietly at a table on the side of the grandroom, tucked away from the rest.
An older woman walks in, her sun-dried white skin dotted with freckles --
She spots me out of the corner of her eye and stops in her tracks
With a shake of a head and a disapproving look, she turns around and walks back to where she came from.
As I walk down the third hole after a mediocre start, I look to see two of my competitors walking up the right side of the hole
I hear dashes of their conversation, ostensibly talking about some of their friends.
But when we reach the green, and I grab my putter out of my bag, I hear the n-word thrown into the air, casually -- smuggly.
There isn’t pin drop silence, and shock doesn’t cross the countenances of any of my other competitors
The conversation continues and hearty laughs persist.
Brown in a sea of white,
Like a single twig in a flowerbed of white lilies.
Forgotten.
A Quote on The Struggle of Maintaining Pride in Traditions:
“My whole life I’ve grown up in a predominantly white society. I once visited my friend, who lived in a primarily Indian community, and she asked me if it was weird to me to be surrounded by so many Indians because I’ve never really been exposed to an environment like that. I thought the question was strange, but after thinking about it, I told her that it felt right. It felt good to be around people who I could relate to in some religious practices and languages, and it felt good to be around people who I felt could understand me better.
“I thought about her question some more and how sometimes I feel like an outsider because I don’t celebrate the same holidays as most people in my school but I still know the names, whereas people don’t bother to learn the names of the holidays I celebrate. Small instances and things like these make me feel different from everyone else.
“While no one directly says anything to me about being brown-skinned, I can feel the difference in subtle ways. I do various types of Indian dance, as well as some hip hop and classical, but primarily Indian dance. I was talking to my friends about how I have an important dance event at the end of the summer that I wanted them to come to. They were beyond excited to be invited, but when I showed them pictures of my outfits and a pre-event photoshoot, I noticed the brief confusion on their faces, for they did not recognize what kind of dance I did. Obviously, they were still excited to be able to come, but it was difficult to explain to them how important this was and what it truly meant because I didn’t know if they would judge me or not.
“Another example of this is the camp I work at and attended as a camper. It’s a Hindu Heritage camp, but for the longest time I was embarrassed to tell people what camp I went to because I feared their reactions. If someone asked me what camp I went to, I told them I forgot the name but it’s somewhere in upstate New York. I am definitely beyond proud to be Indian, but in a predominantly white community, it’s sometimes hard to feel accepted for some of the traditions I have and things I do.”
Mispronounced Names of the Minority
Ah-mur, not uh-meer.
Hah-ris, not hair-ris
Fah-thim-uh, no fuh-teem-uh
Ah-see-ya, not Asia
Un-juh-lee, not Ann-jah-lee
Jah-fur, not juh-far
If you can pronounce Schweinsteiger and Schwarzenegger,
You can learn Malik and Muneer
Farooqi and Chaudhry.
No, it’s not your fault.
No, don’t feel bad.
No, don’t be afraid to ask.
I like it when people ask.
It’s only happened two or three times,
But when it does, a smile breaks out and
I feel warm, recognized.[5]
Notes Page
As I mentioned in my dear reader, this piece functions as a lede. It’s not conventional to have both a lede and dear reader in a multi-genre. I chose to make this decision because I wanted to be able to communicate the project’s overall focus and how the lens becomes narrower. This was something that can only be done with a dear reader. However, I had a leftover piece that was very personal. I thought this piece would work well as a lede because, as I discussed in the dear reader, it sparked empathy from the start -- an emotion that is key to my experiencing my project and key to driving people to protest.
The repetend of my piece is the history of minority struggle. The first shows the Middle Passage, the route that permited the expansive growth of slavery in the Americas. The second, seen later, is slavery in America. The third is colonialism. I chose this as my repetend because I wanted you to know the origins of minority struggle. It’s important to know the history because much of minority struggle today can be drawn back to racism in the past, not just racism today. I also wanted you to understand how long this problem has persisted, how long minorities have suffered, and therefore how ridiculous and disgusting it is that this problem continues today.
“The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice” is a phrase that you may recognize. It has appeared in songs by Tupac and Kendrick Lamar. While there are multiple interpretations of this saying, I applied it as a metaphor for police brutality: in the eyes of the police, the darker the person, the more fruitful the blood. This piece, pulled from another English class, is a dystopian piece that serves as commentary on the prevalent police brutality in modern America.
This piece discusses various experiences I’ve faced at golf clubs and golf tournaments. At most clubs and most tournaments, I’m the only non-white person. And a lot of times, I face microaggressions. It took me a long time to become aware of these encounters, but they nonetheless have impacted me deeply. I also wanted to include one of my father’s experiences in this piece, but it didn’t fit the narrative. There was one time when he showed up for a tournament, only to be told that the entrance for workers was in the back. (He went on to win the tournament.)
A few months ago, during the middle of a lesson, my golf coach asked me how to pronounce my name. I was taken aback by the question because I can’t really ever recall anyone asking. I smiled when he asked the question, and I had a fuzzy feeling the rest of the day.
I struggled initially with where to put this piece. I ended up placing it here for two reasons. First, it made sense to connect it to the colonialism part of the repetend, as Black Panther is, in part, a commentary on colonialism. Second, Black Panther is a portrayal of the what-if. Just as director Ryan Coogler did, I wanted to use Black Panther as a reminder of what a world without racism could look like. Having this at the end allows you to leave the piece with an inspiration for protest -- if you can see what could’ve been without racism, then surely you must feel empathy and therefore must be motivated to protest.
The final piece in this project is a collage of images that show racism in today’s world. Some are more overt instances, like a KKK rally. But also shown are pictures of microaggressions. This is a final reminder that racism is not just over, but can come through undertones and subtle ignorance. I hope that by leaving you with proof of racism’s existence today, you will be compelled to fight racism and minority struggle because you feel empathy.
