I can not count how many times I
finish reading a passage, only to realize I have been holding my breath. I can
no longer recall how often my eyes well with tears as a conflict unfolds. I can
not remember how often a smile creeps across my face at the vision of a
carefully crafted scene. But, I will not soon forget the feelings inspired by
John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me. Through details, setting, language and
tension, Griffin has created a narrative that reaches beyond his experiences as
a white man with black skin to the experiences of black and white American
History. Griffin exposes the side of history that fades the otherwise crimson,
virginal and bold colors of our country’s flag. He embarks on a racial research
endeavor that teaches him more about himself and more about people in general,
than he expects to learn. What unfolds for me is both historical and intimate.
The pages breathe.
Seldom do we discuss race. Griffin
takes us in and out of the homes of our black and white neighbors. He moves
physically and mentally closer than I have been to people of either race, and
does so in glimpses that feel more like meals than mere mouthfuls. He is often
in the awkward position of justifying the actions of the characters he
encounters: Griffin reveals people. By capturing people within their social,
political, ethical and racial surroundings, he is able show them as meaningful
characters—while not (often) undermining their intentions. Griffin shows us
people in their own elements and for the most part, let’s them sink or swim in
their own words. Griffin’s is an interesting experiment. I don’t know that I am
a skin color away from my neighbor. I don’t think I consider skin color as the
only aspect of what defines me as a black woman. As Griffin learns, people
exist outside of their skin color. They conform to circumstance and
opportunity, they respond to fear and succumb to hatred.
When I write, I write from the
vantage point of my experiences and perceptions. Griffin certainly starts with
the self. He doesn’t end there. As a writer, I appreciate Griffin’s examples of
launching with the self and moving through history and culture in a way that
includes political, economical, social and racial perceptions, experiences and
motivations. And, Griffin, like no other nonfiction writer I have read, uses
the elements of fiction to create an historical nonfiction narrative in a way
that saddens, infuriates, and inspires me. Griffin uses the overarching natural
tension between black and white and the tensions that exist between his travelling
from one realm in to the other to create moments that I will endeavor to
duplicate. Suspense slips upon me even at times when I have all the details and
know all of the characters. I find my breath catches at the thought of Griffin
being harmed or revealed. That tension takes talent to maintain: and Griffin
has it.
I am revitalized by this work.
Through details, sensory observations and imagery, Griffin pulls you in to
uncomfortable images, and makes it impossible to turn away. Griffin’s language
and style set scene after scene of despair while not sacrificing the beauty of
language: “A burned-out light globe lay on the plank floor in the corner. Its
unfrosted glass held the reflection of the overhead bulb, a speck of brightness
(page 69)” I can feel the overwhelming weight of gloom chronicled within page
after page. Yet, Griffin sprinkles humor where humor is due. The text is
balanced.
Reading this work, this topic of
race as experienced from someone who knows he is no different black than he is
white, offers a perspective I seldom think on. While racism is still a reality,
this narrative captures experiences I seldom heard from my grandparents. I
rarely glimpsed them as victims. My soul is left whole though bruised from the
reading. Griffin has created a work that feels intimately close to him and to
history. He brings us closer to the psychology of racism and perhaps face to
face with our own psychology. I am so thankful to have read this work. Its
language gives me hope for my place in literature teetering as I do between the
worlds of fiction and nonfiction. I don’t aspire to change the world with my
writing, at this point I can only aspire to change me.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thank you for reading my blog and for taking the time to comment. I look forward to reading and publishing your comment.