So much food for thought here.
Once upon a time when conversation turned to the topic of racial
discrimination, I would say to my friends, "I am not prejudiced". And
of course I really believed it. I had been raised to understand that
we do not judge another by the color of their skin, or by their sex,
or by where they came from. But looking back I can see how silly this
declaration was. How does a White Male raised in a country where
racial prejudice runs wild, avoid being contaminated by it?
When I think of the vast numbers of ways our White Ruling Class has
built prejudice and discrimination into the very fiber of our
unconscious thinking, it is almost too overwhelming to begin to rid
ourselves of it.
This causes me to consider how deeply ingrained in our Culture is the
notion that success is measured by wealth. It is so woven into our
societal fiber that we seldom notice how deeply ingrained it is. And
just as it is with racial prejudice, we have no concept as to how many
ways it influences our thinking and our behavior.
As a child, I dreamed of growing up and becoming a singer or a writer.
But when I thought about these goals, I always phrased it, "A rich and
famous singer" and "A rich and famous writer". Looking back I can see
what I could not see at the time. My real goal was to become Rich and
Famous. Singer and writer were simply the means I thought might get
me there.
Worship of wealth is so ingrained in most everything around us that we
accept it as our Reality.
While I think that Black men and women have taught themselves to
recognize prejudice, and to begin building methods of over coming it,
the domination of our Working Class is so complex that we do not seem
to see how controlled our lives are. And in this, we are totally
controlled.
Carl Jarvis
On 7/2/17, Miriam Vieni <miriamvieni@xxxxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:
Jeffrey Sterling. (photo: AP)
What Does It Mean to Be Black in America?
By Jeffrey Sterling, Reader Supported News
02 July 17
When I am released from prison, I must see "I Am Not Your Negro," Raoul
Peck's film about writer James Baldwin and his book that was never written.
The film is the most recent entry in my "things to do when I'm free" list.
The few reviews I had access to were enough to pique my interest in the
film, and that interest became list-worthy after a friend sent me the book
version of the film. The book moved me because it is filled with
reflections
of my own unwritten story. "I Am Not Your Negro" asks the question I have
posed my entire life: What does it mean to be black in America?
When I was young, James Baldwin scared me. I happened upon some of his
writings during my escapes to the public library; his words left me with an
uncomfortable sense of who I was. He was frighteningly clear that America
would see and judge me solely based on the color of my skin. I didn't need
anyone to tell me I was black. I knew it and the realization held more
pride
for me than angst. My challenge was to figure out what being black actually
meant. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to believe what Baldwin was
saying about being black in America; I didn't want to accept it. I was
reading about the same bleak meaning of being black that I was trying to
escape from. I could not accept the recurrent, self-effacing sentiment I
was
hearing from blacks in my hometown that I, and every other black person,
"... ain't nuthin' but a nigger and always gonna be so 'cause the white man
ain't gonna let you be nuthin' but a nigger." What I saw and felt around me
was that blacks were angry, fearful, and in some ways submitting to the
burden of a particular understanding of being black in America. And this
meaning wasn't coming from the big cities or the Deep South that I wanted
Baldwin's America to be limited to; this was from small-town, heartland
USA.
That very real terror was what scared me. I resolved to turn that fear into
determination. I was desperate to convince myself that I could be whatever
I
wanted to be and that I could find an identity that was mine and not thrust
upon me because of the color of my skin. I had to forget about Baldwin and
set out to find my own experience of being black in America. In Baldwin's
own defiant words, "I am not a nigger, I'm a man."
However, time and again, the quest for knowing what it meant to be black in
America provided unfortunate revelations, which became more evident when I
was in school. For example, I remember feeling liberated when I reached the
7th grade because finally I was going to be able to select the classes I
was
interested in. I was so excited to choose more advanced English classes,
hoping to delve deeper into writers like Shakespeare, Haley, and Dickens,
or
discover new voices. And yet, whatever outward excitement I exuded was
short-lived. A few semesters were enough to put others on notice about me.
I
was confronted with questions, interrogations:
"Why you takin' classes with them white folks?"
I neither had the opportunity nor experience to answer these questions
before an answer was made for me: "Hmph ... that niggah ain't nuthin' but
uh
Oreo."
Such were the questions and judgments I heard again and again during high
school, college, and law school, and they weren't limited to the suspicions
of fellow classmates and observers. Even my beloved grandmother expressed
wariness at who I thought I was in response to my excitement about being
accepted into law school. "I thought it was okay you going off to college,
but I don't know about law school," she told me. "I just think that's above
where colored folks ought to be."
I was devastated and confused. While attempting to find my own identity, I
was acting against the social identity expected of me. To my classmates and
my grandmother, being black meant not being white, certainly not doing
things viewed as typically white. There's a still in "I Am Not Your Negro"
from "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" of Isabelle Sanford's character looking
at Sidney Poitier's character with suspicion, almost rebuke, questioning
what he's doing in a place where he doesn't belong. From the first time I
saw that scene, I was haunted by the way Sanford looked at Poitier; this
was
the way I was being seen. Baldwin characterized the look by explaining
blacks didn't like the film and felt Poitier was "in effect, being used
against them." I felt a definite resentment, but I couldn't understand it
because from my standpoint, I was just being myself.
It didn't make sense to me. I couldn't understand why having and pursuing
my
own interests was seen as a denial of my blackness. Blackness carries with
it so many assumptions, so many burdens, and I wanted to refuse them all.
Being black had to mean more than what I was seeing and experiencing. The
angst was so debilitating, my only answer was to retreat into myself and my
dreams with blinders on. I was not denying being black; I was refusing the
burden of the meanings of being black that did not permit me to be what I
wanted and knew myself to be.
Through the years, I revisited Baldwin. After the initial shock, I came to
realize that there was something positive for me in what Baldwin was
saying.
I realized that he was speaking the language of race from and by those
whose
lives were defined and limited by it. By revealing America and its
falsehoods of race, he was telling me that I was more than the obstacles
that would confront me. This newfound encouragement in Baldwin would prove
essential to withstand the burdens to come.
I was proud when I joined the CIA. I used to go around to the front of the
building from the parking lots so I could proudly walk across the emblem in
the main lobby instead of using the usual employee entrances. I had found
my
dream job and I was determined to succeed. I just knew that I was going to
be accepted and treated equally, like any other employee. I, of course,
felt
that was the case until I was told it actually never was.
I was eager and excited when the time finally came for me to take a
position
abroad, out in the field. I completed my training as a case officer: I
studied and learned a new language, and I proved my capability working on
the Iran desk. I was within a few weeks of departure when I was called into
my supervisor's office.
"We've been thinking about your assignment."
"Yeah? I'm just about set to go, is there more I need to be doing?"
"Well, we're ... uh ... concerned. We're worried that you kinda stick out
as
a big black guy speaking Farsi."
I was dumbfounded: they were taking my assignment from me solely because I
was black. The CIA, in no uncertain terms, was telling me what being black
in America meant to them. Once again, I was "beyond where colored folks
ought to be." They were calling me a "nigger" just as, if not more than,
those who didn't feel I fit who I was supposed to be in their America.
''No!" rang through my mind as I calmly asked, "When did you realize I was
black?" "The decision's already been made." They gave my assignment to a
white officer who did not have the operational experience, training, or
qualifications that I had.
That experience was not the only instance of my being subjected to the CIA
definition of black in America. My determination to succeed and not fall
prey to racial prejudice carried me through years of subjugation,
culminating in my suing the CIA for discrimination. Much to my dismay, a
court ruled to dismiss my suit - not because the discrimination didn't
happen, but because such a trial posed a threat to the national security of
the country. In dismissing my action against the CIA and denying me a
fundamental right, in its decision, the court stated, "We recognize that
our
decision places, on behalf of the entire country, a burden on Sterling that
he alone must bear." The court was confirming, under the auspices of the
law, the very real burden of what it means to be black in America not only
for me, but for all black Americans.
I further understood the meaning of being black when I learned that
fighting
the CIA made me a persona non grata to the black leaders and civil rights
organizations to whom I pleaded for assistance. Instead of receiving help,
I
was encouraged to leave the country. And then there was being a defendant
in
a trial that would have made Jim Crow proud. Now I sit in prison, which is
to many the ultimate meaning of being black in America. And it is here that
I have been reacquainted with James Baldwin. His words in "I Am Not Your
Negro" embody my story all along. As much as I wanted to deny him, I have
lived every bit of his pondering, "when you wonder what your role is in
this
country and what your future is in it." I have dared to ask the question,
what does it mean to be black in America? I have learned that it is a
question no one wants you to ask if the answer does not fit within the
boundaries set by the myth of whiteness that taints the viewpoints of both
black and white America. I have had to wonder whether choosing to ask the
question is an answer unto itself. As Baldwin would say, it has been more
of
a journey: "I am saying that a journey is called that because you cannot
know what you will discover on the journey, what you will do with what you
find, or what you find will do to you." Finding what it means to be black
in
America has been a wonderful and tortuous journey, but it was one I was
always going to take.
Jeffrey Sterling, a former CIA case officer, is currently serving a 3
1/2-year prison sentence for leaking classified information to a New York
Times reporter. His forthcoming book will be published by Nation Books.
Reader Supported News is the Publication of Origin for this work.
Permission
to republish is freely granted with credit and a link back to Reader
Supported News.
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