Classic social justice literature relevant in the era of Black Lives Matter

Although the book Black Like Me was published in 1961, the theme is as relevant today as when it was written during the height of the Civil Rights Movement.

Let's write about and discuss how to overcome discrimination, especially as we experience Black Lives Matter awareness.

I read this book "Black Like Me" in college sociology class so I was pleased to see this essay echo by Kevin Spinale, published in America Magazine as recommended reading for Roman Catholic bookclubs. 

How else except by becoming a Negro could a white man hope to learn the truth? Though we lived side by side throughout the South, communication between the two races had simply ceased to exist. Neither really knew what went on with those of the other race. The Southern Negro will not tell the white man the truth. He long ago learned that if he speaks a truth unpleasing to the white, the white will make life miserable for him.

Griffin will soon learn that not only would life be made miserable for Black people who challenged the reality of Jim Crow in the South, they would feel the full force of state-sponsored violence leveled against them and their communities. As our country knows well now, such violence persists to the present day.

After he had walked along a highway from Biloxi heading toward Mobile for many hours on Nov. 20, 1959, a series of white Mississippian drivers, without any initial menace, willingly transported John Howard Griffin at least part of the way toward Alabama. Griffin had been living as a Black man in New Orleans and Hattiesburg for nearly two weeks.

He had taken a prescription drug, exposed his skin to an ultraviolet lamp for days and touched up his appearance with darkening cream in order to pass as a Black writer in the South. But he did not see himself as passing for Black; he understood his transformation as “passing over” to a life lived among Black people in the South. Griffin’s “passing over” succeeded. He was deemed Black by all those he encountered—whatever their race.

On the road to Mobile, Griffin soon was aghast and then wearied by white male drivers who constantly peppered him with puerile questions about the sexual activity of Black men. The conversation had many registers, but it had the same content: sexual deviancy and fantasy. One driver goaded Griffin continuously, even quoting Alfred Kinsey and asinine anthropological claims about black men and sex. Griffin’s account of the exchange is exceedingly insightful. More important, it reveals more about Griffin himself than the seemingly intelligent driver who was stuck in a morass of racist sexual fantasy and stereotype. Of the driver, Griffin writes:
It became apparent he was one of those young men who possesses an impressive store of facts, but no truths. This again would have no significance and would be unworthy of note except for one thing: I have talked with such men many times as a white and they never show the glow of prurience he revealed. The significance lay in the fact that my blackness and his concepts of what my blackness implied allowed him to expose himself in this manner. He saw the Negro as a different species. He saw me as something akin to an animal in that he felt no need to maintain his sense of human dignity, though he certainly would have denied this.

By this point, I would imagine readers and participants in the Catholic Book Club will have become deeply uncomfortable with Griffin, his project and the way he writes about it. In this passage, the phrase “my blackness” must seem particularly jarring to the reader. It was indeed so to me. Griffin was not Black; he took on Blackness in a dangerous way and tried to insert himself in Black life in the Deep South. However—and this is an important however—John Howard Griffin did this because he knew that he did not possess the truth. He was painfully aware that he had not even an inkling of the truth regarding the daily life of Black people in the Deep South in 1959.

He possessed some truths about justice, some facts about the furious violence enacted on Blacks in the South, and he was hungry for a fuller truth. His hunger hounded him so much that he was insistent in carrying out this project, even to the point of death. Griffin’s unquestionable sincerity, sensitivity to justice and humility in the face of the truth of the experience of Blacks in the South should be enough for us to hear his story with an open mind and reflect on the profound but partial truths that he discovered in his temporary Blackness. Griffin seems utterly oriented toward truth, which, I think, is a meaningful way for a human being to live.

There is so much to discuss in this rather short book. I offer an extended set of questions below—the most I have ever offered for an introduction to a book. But before I get to those questions, I find one further aspect of Griffin’s account compelling and absolutely central to his account. John Howard Griffin was a husband and father of three young children when he took up this project, and, I think, his deepest insights around the reality of life in the South emerge in his reflections about parenthood.

An important reflection on parenthood occurs immediately after Griffin leaves the puerile conversation detailed above and seeks a bit of rest alone on the highway. The next driver who picked him up was a stolid white man, a construction worker in his early 20s. Oddly enough, the young man’s demeanor put the Black John Howard Griffin at ease. The young man is happy, utterly open, guileless, sincere, thoughtful and without a hint of prejudice—either explicit or implicit. The driver is reminiscent of the peasant in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Platon Karataev, who helps Pierre Bezukhov regain his humanity after Pierre was nearly executed by retreating French soldiers. Griffin’s driver, like Platon, is profoundly human. Griffin begins to understand that this enlightened white man’s lack of prejudice comes not from any education or upbringing or family connection, but, Griffin surmises, from this young man’s love for his young child. Griffin writes:
I could only conclude that his attitude came from an overwhelming love for his child, so profound it spilled over to all humanity. I knew that he was totally unaware of its ability to cure men; of the blessing it could be to someone like me after having been exhausted and scraped raw in my heart by others this rainy Alabama night.
I thought of Maritain’s conclusion that the only solution to the problems of man is the return of charity (in the old embracing sense of caritas, not in the stingy literal sense it has assumed in our days) and metaphysics. Or, more simply, the maxim of St. Augustine: “Love, and then do what you will.”

A few days later, after an even more crude and more suggestively violent ride at the hands of a white driver, Griffin is given shelter by a Black family somewhere in the swamps between Mobile and Montgomery. Sharing a hovel with parents and their six children, Griffin is overwhelmed both by the generosity of his hosts and the nature of their grinding poverty. After the entire family drifts off to sleep on the floor around Griffin, he is compelled to go outside into the dark swamp and weep with sadness and deeper realization—a step closer to a fuller truth. Alone in the swamp just outside where the family slept, Griffin ponders the following:
I thought of my daughter, Susie, and of her fifth birthday today, the candles, the cake and party dress; and of my sons in their best suits. They slept now in clean beds in a warm house while their father, a bald-headed old Negro, sat in the swamps and wept, holding it in so he would not awaken the Negro children.... It was thrown in my face. I saw it not as a white man and not as a Negro, but as a human parent. Their children resembled mine in all ways except the superficial one of skin color, as indeed they resembled all children of all human beings. Yet this accident, this least important of all qualities, the skin pigment, marked them for inferior status. It became fully terrifying when I realized that if my skin were permanently black, [whites] would unhesitatingly consign my own children to this bean [sic.: poor, narrow] future.

John Howard Griffin’s realizations seem to culminate in this notion of parental love and the injustice enacted against Black people in the United States. Not only was there an intricate web of injustice and suffering constricting the existence of Black men and women in the South (and, perhaps, throughout all of the United States), such suffering also permeated the way Black people loved as parents: Those whom they love, those whom they have brought into the world, are consigned to share in the suffering that the parents have already undertaken—and they are totally unable to staunch such suffering in their children.

There is further suffering in such a realization—such suffering that can only begin to be depicted by a novel like Toni Morrison’s Beloved and an author writing directly from her Black experience. Though his book published in 1961, does not have the artistic profundity of a Morrison novel, Griffin’s Black Like Me offers a deeply thoughtful depiction of the truth of the Black experience in the South in the late 1950s and early ’60s from the perspective of a middle-aged white man. I encourage all participants in the Catholic Book Club to give it a read.

Creating a cool mask wearing culture- let's write about patriotism!

Writing can describe trending cultural changes or raise awareness about how to recreate a familiar culture, one that can correlate with modern concepts. This creative essay raises both descriptive and trendy awareness in a literary history lesson, published in the Iowa newspaper The Gazette, by Adam Sullivan, in his commentary "At Liberty".  This essay identifies how our culture has a historic precedent for wearing masks and presents a foundational reason why Americans must respect the need, during this coronavirus pandemic, for everyone to #WearAMask.

A gun, a cowboy hat and a bandanna. 

John Wayne, who Iowa claims as a son, often is seen with these three things in his classic western movies.

It’s an iconic look, but those aren’t just fashion accessories. 

Each one has a practical purpose.

The gun is for administering lethal force against bad guys; the hat protects your eyes and neck from the sun; and the bandanna can be pulled up to act as a barrier against particles, between your face and the rest of the world.

As part of the cowboy mystique, the bandanna is a symbol of preparedness, self-reliance and strength. 

Carry the right tools for the job, or you’re going to have a bad time.

In a pandemic, masks are the new bandannas. Instead of blocking dust on the cattle drive, they help block droplets that might contain the novel coronavirus.

Unfortunately, masks have become a divisive culture war issue. 

Polls show a partisan split on mask wearing. To some of my allies in the defiant right wing, masks are seen as a sign of weakness or subordination to the government.

I’m not interested in government mandates or wagging fingers in the name of public health. But I’m here to tell my friends they’ve got it wrong — masks, actually, are cool.

Cowboys wear bandannas. Football players have face masks built into their helmets. Laborers have goggles and shields. They are tough people, using practical tools to keep themselves and others safe.

Back to guns for a moment. Many of my fellow Second Amendment enthusiasts alter their lifestyles significantly to accommodate weapons — their budgets, their wardrobes, the public places they are willing to visit. They carry multiple firearms and even tourniquets, all for the small chance they will encounter a bad guy with a gun on any given day.

But wearing a face mask at the grocery store, some of the gun guys tell me, is just too uncomfortable.

I have a close friend who regularly carries a concealed handgun and works in the firearms industry. During the pandemic, he’s become an avid mask wearer, and a rare evangelist for the cause to his right-wing Facebook friends.

My friend likens wearing a face mask to carrying a gun: “I carry and am trained in the use of a pistol. When I am alone, or best yet, with others like me, any place I’m near has some level of herd immunity from indiscriminate violence, or so I hope. Get it?”

I get it, but we don’t like doing stuff just because “experts” or some politician told us to. So let’s remember that masks historically have been handy tools for government dissidents.

Masks have been illegal more often than they have been mandatory. Governments here and abroad have used mask bans to erode privacy in the name of public safety — making critics of the state more easily identifiable to the authorities. Headwear prohibitions have also been used to stifle religious and cultural expression.

As an added bonus to slowing the spread of the virus, face coverings might hinder facial recognition technology, helping to block the peering eyes of big government and Big Tech from tracking our activities.

According to legend, bandannas were popularized in America when Martha Washington commissioned a bandanna honoring her husband, George Washington, in defiance of a British order against textile printing.

The George Washington bandanna was a physical manifestation of American subversion against the British Empire, and it might have been used as a handkerchief — to keep the nasty stuff from an American rebel’s nose away from other people. In that way, it’s kind of like a mask during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Be a patriotic American. #WearAMask.

Shelter video viewing recommendations for spiritual and social justice enrichment

 All of us are sheltering in one way or another.  

Our lives have changed. 

Let's write about how to engage in quality time.

Your guide to social justice films on Netflix, Amazon and Hulu

Let's take advantage of this healthy respite, sheltered from the risk of being exposed to the coronavirus pandemic, by enriching our lives with inspiration.

In America, the Jesuit Magazine, a list of social justice videos are listed for those who would like to access recommended viewing for those who appreciate improving self awareness and social justice.

These stories remind us that while the fight for justice is never over, individuals can make a difference.

Documentaries
13th. Ava Duvernay’s documentary about the 13th amendment to the Constitution has become required viewing for those seeking to understand the history of racial oppression and its manifestation in the U.S. criminal justice system. Watch on Netflix.

Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution. Camp Jened, a summer camp in the Catskills designed to accommodate children and teens with disabilities, ran from the 1950s to the ’70s. Many of the campers went on to become instrumental players in the disability rights movement. Watch on Netflix.

Roses in December. The killing of three American nuns and a Catholic lay missionary in El Salvador in 1980 drew the world’s attention to the civil war in El Salvador, which would go on to claim many more lives. Watch on Kanopy.

LA 92. The story of 1992 Los Angeles riots provides essential historical context for the problem of police abuse that became the subject of global attention in 2020. Watch on Netflix.

Emanuel. Two days after the killing of nine African-Americans during Bible study at Emanuel A.M.E. Church, the families of the victims forgave their killer. Watch their moving story on Hulu.
Films

Romero. This classic biopic of the recently canonized Archbishop Oscar Romero, who worked on behalf of the oppressed of El Salvador, is anchored by a commanding performance by Raul Julia. Watch on Amazon Prime Video.

Entertaining Angels: The Dorothy Day Story*. From her less-saintly days to the founding of the Catholic Worker, this movie depicts the life of Servant of God Dorothy Day—an eloquent advocate for the poor. Watch on Amazon Prime Video.

American Son. In this Netflix adaptation of a play by Christopher Demos-Brown, Kerry Washington plays an African-American mother trying to find out what has happened to her biracial son after he was pulled over by police. Watch on Netflix.

Selma. Ava Duvernay’s account of the civil rights protests in Selma, Ala., which led directly to the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, tells the story of both Martin Luther King. Jr. and recently deceased Congressman John Lewis. Rent on Amazon Prime Video or from Apple.

Just Mercy. Michael B. Jordan plays Bryan Stevenson, the founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, in this adaptation of Stevenson’s best-selling book about his legal work on behalf of the poor and wrongly accused. Rent on Amazon Prime Video or from Apple.
Television series

When They See Us. This four-part series on the Central Park Five, the African-American teenagers who were wrongly accused of the rape of a Central Park jogger, is a disturbing look at how public fears about crime can lead to devestating consequences for the innocent. Watch on Netflix.

Cesar Chavez. The legendary leader of the California farm workers’ movement was also a devout Catholic who once broke a fast for justice by receiving the Eucharist. Michael Peña plays Chavez in this 2014 film. Rent on Amazon Prime Video or from Apple.

*Maine Writer post script:  I have seen this film and recommend it because it  shows how Dorothea Day withstood enormous challenges to support her social justice adocacy.  Nevertheless, I would like to have learned more about the French-Canadian, a partner who motivated her ambition.