100 years ago a very fiery individual who had a sharp pen wrote:Between me and the other world, there is ever an unasked question:unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through thedifficulty of lightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter around it. Theyapproach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously orcompassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel tobe a problem? they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town; or Ifought at Mechanicsville; or, Do not these Southern outrages make yourblood boil? At these I smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to asimmer, as the occasion may require. To the real question, How does itfeel to be a problem? I answer, seldom a word.And yet being a problem is a strange experience. . . . I remember wellwhen the shadows swept across me. I was a little thing away up in thehills of New England. . . . In a wee wooden schoolhouse, something put itinto the boys' and girls' heads to buy gorgeous visiting-cards--ten cents apackage--and exchange. The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tallnewcomer, refused my card--refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Thenit dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that I was different from theothers; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out fromtheir world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil,to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt, and livedabove it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows. . . . [Idecided that I would beat them at everything] by reading law, by healingthe sick, by telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head--some way.With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youthshrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale worldabout them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in abitter cry, Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in my ownhouse?--W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk, 1903.Could have been written today, if we changed two words, perhaps for"mayhap" and Black for "colored." Otherwise it could have been writtentoday. Race matters. And it's uncomfortable to say that, but it matters inour justice system. Race matters.There are several things that are uncomfortable for us to talk about, buttalk about them I believe we must. Americans have had a historicproblem talking about race, about religion, about sex, and about politicsamong strangers. And those are some of the most important things to usthat affect us more profoundly than most others except perhaps one, andthat's family. And many of us don't want to talk about that either. But it'simportant that we do so.We spend, at the last count that I saw, over $200 billion on crime control.That is a lot of money--$200 billion. I made several trips to Hong Kongand their currency is tied to the U.S. dollar and it takes several of those tomake one U.S. dollar. And whenever I talk about big numbers I tellpeople that, the number I just gave you, those are U.S. dollars, those arenot Hong Kong dollars, $200 billion annually.I was talking to the past superintendent of Oakland public schools severalyears ago. And he told me that he had visited several of the schools andduring the question and answer period one young boy raised his hand andhe said, "Dr. Mesa (phonetic) nobody cares about us, nobody cares." Hesaid the community does not care and the school does not care.
Leave a Comment