Added: Jonnathan Evans - Date: 21.11.2021 01:33 - Views: 46163 - Clicks: 5192
The committing of a hidden life event to the written word. I used to wonder if my reluctance was driven by shame, or simply my incredulity at what took place all those years ago. Now, I think that it is those things mostly, but also a hell of a lot more. Over the last few years, particularly in the recent crosswinds of our racial and cultural political climate, this life event bubbled to the surface of my memory, never quite boiling over.
I almost never mention it to women.
A few decades ago, when I was just becoming a published author, I was discussing projects with various companies. In one, I dealt with a white male creative, and, when he left, I was ased to someone else, a white woman. I was overjoyed to be taken seriously at last, a bit starry-eyed from the blitz of media and publishing parties, both of which I was unused to. My new contact, charming and jovial, was full of great ideas and encouragement. We hit it off, and got to work right away.
I was young and eager to change the world. Almost right away, my editor began making personal comments that I found highly unprofessional. She said I was cute, and, sometimes when we were sitting at a desk side by side, she would stare into my face when we were meant to be Like black men.
It was unnerving, and, while I appreciated the compliments, which would occur every time we worked together, I began to feel a little uncomfortable in her presence.
Then she suffered a small injury. There was a meeting due, and she called me up, insisting that I come to her house. She refused.
We went back and forth until the conversation ended with her screaming down the phone, swearing at me and insisting I came to her house. I refused. The following day, someone in the company rang me up to inform me I had lost the job. I tried to fight it, but there was nothing I could do. The whole deal collapsed. When I spoke to anyone about what happened, there was a sympathetic shrug and a change of subject. So I responded the same way the majority of people would in this situation.
I let it go. I was perceived to have no recourse, no agency. I had to submit to being exoticised in accordance with the hypersexualised stereotype that black men are often framed by. When I refused to reciprocate, I was punished. My most recent loss was a university teaching post. The interventions of other students saved my professional reputation, but I lost the job anyway.
I know this, and it has in part fuelled my hesitance. To have an honest discussion about the fact that white women, who obviously face a cis, white patriarchal system of oppression, also use that patriarchal system to oppress those perceived as lower on the racial and social hierarchy? Many white women do not use their privilege adversely.
Many are allies, instrumental in standing beside us, even speaking on subjects such as this. They exist.
We see them and acknowledge their presence. That much should be obvious, although I feel it must be stated here to avoid the very real chance of being misconstrued. These examinations are usually from a feminine perspective. Is sex work less morally demeaning if a man is the sex worker and a woman the client? Why is this seen as less mentally destructive, or nuanced? Or the woman who rang after seeing a group of black people barbecuing in a park in OaklandCalifornia. And the woman who threatened to report an eight-year-old black girl selling water in San Francisco — and even a Hispanic woman sheltering from the rain in New York.
It seems an odd conflict; on the one hand, social media proves that contact with certain types of white women can ruin your day, if not your life. All I can say at this point in time, as a solo writer putting one word after another, is a feeling: intense isolation, vulnerability, the wariness that comes from needing to trust in order to continue with our lives, yet having that trust broken time and again.
Like black men fear of being in close proximity with people who may become colleagues, family, lovers, assailants, accusers, abusers or harassers. The danger of loving someone who might possibly racially abuse you in the furious heat of a domestic argument. After that second incident, I was left in freefall, jobless, with to raise and a mortgage to pay. Something — dumb luck or the spirits of my long-deceased grandmothers — came through for me. I prefer to believe the latter.
Throughout it all, and every incident before or since, I have tried to walk as good as I can muster, and live. Maybe one day we will. Courttia Newland. Wed 27 Feb So, OK. I believe we must. Topics Race Publishing MeToo movement features. Reuse this content.Like black men
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