Citizen: An American Lyric

CITIZEN

AlsobyClaudiaRankine

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CITIZENAnAmerican

ClaudiaRankine

GraywolfPress

Permissionacknowledgmentsappearonpages163–166.

Thispublicationismadepossible,inpart,bythevotersofMinnesotathroughaMinnesotaStateArtsBoardOperatingSupportgrant,thankstoalegislativeappropriationfromtheartsandculturalheritagefund,andthroughgrantsfromtheNationalEndowmentfortheArtsandtheWellsFargoFoundationMinnesota.SignificantsupporthasalsobeenprovidedbyTarget,theMcKnightFoundation,Amazon.com,andothergenerouscontributionsfromfoundations,corporations,and

individuals.Totheseorganizationsandindividualsweofferourheartfeltthanks.

ThisbookismadepossiblethroughapartnershipwiththeCollegeofSaintBenedict,andhonorsthelegacyofS.MariellaGable,adistinguishedteacherattheCollege.SupporthasbeenprovidedbytheManitouFundaspartoftheWarnerReadingProgram.

PublishedbyGraywolfPress

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PublishedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica

ISBN978-1-55597-690-3

EbookISBN978-1-55597-348-3

246897531FirstGraywolfPrinting,2014

LibraryofCongressControlNumber:2014935702

Coverart:DavidHammons,IntheHood,1993.Athleticsweatshirtwithwire.23×9inches(58.4×22.9cm).

Coverdesign:JohnLucas

Iftheydon’tseehappinessinthepicture,atleastthey’llseetheblack.

ChrisMarker,SansSoleil

DonovanHarrisCharlesKellyFrankiePorter

RichardRoderick

CITIZEN

When you are alone and tootired even to turn on any ofyourdevices,youletyourselflinger in a past stackedamong your pillows.Usuallyyou are nestled underblankets and the house isempty. Sometimes the moonis missing and beyond thewindowsthelow,grayceilingseems approachable. Its darklight dims in degrees

depending on the density ofcloudsandyoufallback intothatwhich gets reconstructedasmetaphor.

Therouteisoftenassociative.You smell good. You aretwelve attending Sts. Philipand James School on WhitePlains Road and the girlsittingintheseatbehindasksyoutoleantotherightduringexams so she can copywhat

you have written. SisterEvelyn is in the habit oftaping the 100s and thefailing grades to the coatcloset doors. The girl isCatholic with waist-lengthbrown hair. You can’tremember her name: Mary?Catherine?

You never really speakexceptforthetimeshemakesher request and later when

she tells you you smell goodandhavefeaturesmorelikeawhite person. You assumeshethinkssheisthankingyouforlettinghercheatandfeelsbetter cheating from analmostwhiteperson.

Sister Evelyn never figuresoutyourarrangementperhapsbecause you never turnaround to copy MaryCatherine’s answers. SisterEvelyn must think these twogirls think a lot alike or shecares lessaboutcheatingandmoreabouthumiliationorsheneveractuallysawyousittingthere.

Certain moments sendadrenaline to the heart, dryout the tongue, and clog thelungs. Like thunder theydrownyou in sound,no, likelightning they strike youacross the larynx. Cough.After it happened I was at aloss for words. Haven’t yousaid this yourself? Haven’tyousaidthistoaclosefriendwhoearly inyour friendship,

when distracted, would callyoubythenameofherblackhousekeeper? You assumedyou twowere the only blackpeople inher life.Eventuallyshe stopped doing this,though she neveracknowledged her slippage.And you never called her onit (why not?) and yet, youdon’t forget. If this were adomestic tragedy, and itmightwell be, thiswould beyour fatal flaw—your

memory, vessel of yourfeelings. Do you feel hurtbecause it’s the “all blackpeople look the same”moment, or because you arebeing confused with anotherafter being so close to thisother?

An unsettled feeling keepsthe body front and center.The wrong words enter yourday like a bad egg in yourmouth and puke runs downyour blouse, a dampnessdrawing your stomach intoward your rib cage. Whenyou look around only youremain. Your own disgust atwhat you smell, what youfeel, doesn’t bring you to

your feet, not right away,becausegatheringenergyhasbecomeitsowntask,needingits own argument. You arereminded of a conversationyou had recently, comparingthe merits of sentencesconstructed implicitly with“yes, and” rather than “yes,but.” You and your frienddecided that “yes, and”attestedtoalifewithnoturn-off,noalternativeroutes:youpull yourself to standing,

soon enough the blouse isrinsed, it’s anotherweek, theblouse is beneath yoursweater, against your skin,andyousmellgood.

The rain this morning poursfrom the gutters andeverywhere else it is lost inthe trees. You need yourglassestosingleoutwhatyouknow is there because doubtisinexorable;youputonyourglasses.The trees, theirbark,their leaves, even the deadones, are more vibrant wet.Yes, and it’s raining. Eachmomentislikethis—beforeit

canbeknown,categorizedassimilar to another thing anddismissed, it has to beexperienced,ithastobeseen.Whatdidhejustsay?Didshereallyjustsaythat?DidIhearwhatIthinkIheard?Didthatjust come out of my mouth,his mouth, your mouth? Themomentstinks.Stillyouwantto stop looking at the trees.You want to walk out andstand among them. And aslightastherainseems,itstill

rainsdownonyou.

You are in the dark, in thecar,watchingtheblack-tarredstreet being swallowed byspeed;hetellsyouhisdeanismaking him hire a person ofcolorwhentherearesomanygreatwritersoutthere.

You think maybe this is anexperimentandyouarebeingtested or retroactively

insulted or you have donesomethingthatcommunicatesthis is an okay conversationtobehaving.

Whydoyoufeelcomfortablesaying this tome?Youwishthe lightwould turn red or apolice siren would go off soyoucouldslamonthebrakes,slam into the car ahead ofyou, fly forward so quicklyboth your faces would

suddenly be exposed to thewind.

As usual you drive straightthrough themomentwith theexpectedbackingoffofwhatwas previously said. It is notonly that confrontation isheadache-producing;itisalsothat you have a destinationthat doesn’t include actinglike this moment isn’tinhabitable, hasn’t happened

before, and the before isn’tpart of the now as the nightdarkensandthetimeshortensbetween where we are andwherewearegoing.

When you arrive in yourdrivewayandturnoffthecar,you remainbehind thewheelanothertenminutes.Youfearthe night is being locked inandcodedona cellular levelandwanttimetofunctionasapower wash. Sitting therestaring at the closed garagedooryouare reminded thatafriend once told you thereexists the medical term—

John Henryism—for peopleexposed tostressesstemmingfrom racism. They achievethemselves to death trying tododge thebuildupoferasure.Sherman James, theresearcherwhocameupwiththe term, claimed thephysiological costs werehigh. You hope by sitting insilence you are bucking thetrend.

Because of your elite statusfromayear’sworthoftravel,you have already settled intoyour window seat on UnitedAirlines, when the girl andhermotherarriveatyourrow.Thegirl,lookingoveratyou,tellshermother,theseareourseats, but this is not what Iexpected. The mother’sresponse is barely audible—Isee, she says. I’ll sit in the

middle.

A woman you do not knowwants to join you for lunch.You are visiting her campus.InthecaféyoubothordertheCaesar salad. This overlap isnotthebeginningofanythingbecause she immediatelypointsoutthatshe,herfather,her grandfather, and you, allattended the same college.She wanted her son to gothere aswell, but because of

affirmativeactionorminoritysomething—she is not surewhat they are calling it thesedays and weren’t theysupposed to get rid of it?—hersonwasn’taccepted.Youarenot sure ifyouaremeanttoapologizeforthisfailureofyour alma mater’s legacyprogram; instead you askwhere he ended up. Theprestigious school shementions doesn’t seem toassuage her irritation. This

exchange,ineffect,endsyourlunch.Thesaladsarrive.

A friend argues thatAmericansbattlebetweenthe“historical self”and the“selfself.”By this shemeans youmostly interact as friendswith mutual interest and, forthe most part, compatiblepersonalities; however,sometimes your historicalselves, her white self andyourblackself,oryourwhiteselfandherblackself,arrive

with the full force of yourAmerican positioning. Thenyou are standing face-to-facein seconds that wipe theaffablesmilesrightfromyourmouths. What did you say?Instantaneously yourattachment seems fragile,tenuous, subject to anytransgression of yourhistorical self. And thoughyourjoinedpersonalhistoriesare supposed to save youfrommisunderstandings,they

usually cause you tounderstand all too well whatismeant.

You and your partner go tosee the film The House WeLive In. You ask a friend topick up your child fromschool. On your way homeyour phone rings. Yourneighbor tells you he isstanding at his windowwatching a menacing blackguy casing both your homes.Theguy iswalkingbackandforth talking to himself and

seemsdisturbed.

You tell your neighbor thatyour friend, whom he hasmet, is babysitting. He says,no, it’s not him. He’s metyourfriendandthis isn’t thatniceyoungman.Anyway,hewants you to know, he’scalledthepolice.

Yourpartnercallsyourfriend

andaskshimif there’saguywalking back and forth infront of your home. Yourfriend says that if anyonewere outside he would seehim because he is standingoutside. You hear the sirensthroughthespeakerphone.

Your friend is speaking toyour neighbor when youarrive home. The four policecarsaregone.Yourneighbor

hasapologizedtoyourfriendand is now apologizing toyou. Feeling somewhatresponsible for theactionsofyour neighbor, you clumsilytell your friend that the nexttime he wants to talk on thephoneheshouldjustgointhebackyard. He looks at you alongminutebeforesayinghecan speak on the phonewherever he wants. Yes, ofcourse, you say. Yes, ofcourse.

Whenthestrangerasks,Whydo you care? you just standthere staring at him. He hasjustreferredtotheboisterousteenagers in Starbucks asniggers. Hey, I am standingrighthere,youresponded,notnecessarily expecting him toturntoyou.

Heisholdingtheliddedpaper

cup in one hand and a smallpaper bag in the other. Theyarejustbeingkids.Comeon,no need to get all KKK onthem,yousay.

Now there you go, heresponds.

The people around you haveturned away from theirscreens.Theteenagersareon

pause. There I go? you ask,feelingirritationbegintoraindown. Yes, and somethingabout hearing yourselfrepeating this stranger’saccusation in a voice usuallyreserved for your partnermakesyousmile.

Amanknockedoverher soninthesubway.Youfeelyourown bodywince. He’s okay,but the son of a bitch keptwalking. She says shegrabbed the stranger’s armand told him to apologize: Itold him to look at the boyand apologize. Yes, and youwant it to stop,youwant thechildpushedtothegroundtobe seen, to be helped to his

feet, tobebrushedoffbytheperson that did not see him,has never seen him, hasperhaps never seen anyonewho is not a reflection ofhimself.

The beautiful thing is that agroupofmenbegan to standbehind me like a fleet ofbodyguards, she says, likenewly found uncles andbrothers.

Thenew therapist specializesin trauma counseling. Youhaveonlyeverspokenonthephone. Her house has a sidegate that leads to a backentrancesheusesforpatients.You walk down a pathbordered on both sides withdeer grass and rosemary tothegate,whichturnsouttobelocked.

Atthefrontdoorthebellisasmall round disc that youpress firmly. When the doorfinally opens, the womanstandingthereyells,atthetopof her lungs, Get away frommy house! What are youdoinginmyyard?

It’s as if a woundedDoberman pinscher or aGerman shepherd has gainedthe power of speech. And

though you back up a fewsteps, youmanage to tell heryou have an appointment.You have an appointment?she spits back. Then shepauses. Everything pauses.Oh,shesays,followedby,oh,yes,that’sright.Iamsorry.

Iamsosorry,so,sosorry.

Hennessy Youngman akaJayson Musson, whose ArtThoughtz take the form oftutorials on YouTube,educates viewers oncontemporary art issues. Inone of his many videos, headdresses how to become asuccessful black artist, wrylysuggesting black people’sanger is marketable. Headvises black artists to

cultivate “an angry niggerexterior”bywatching,amongotherthings,theRodneyKingvideowhileworking.

Youngman’s suggestions are

meant to exposeexpectationsfor blackness as well as tounderscore the difficultyinherent in any attempt byblack artists to metabolizereal rage. The commodifiedanger his video advocatesrestslightlyonthesurfaceforspectacle’s sake. It can beengaged or played like theracecardandistiedsolelytotheperformanceofblacknessandnottotheemotionalstateof particular individuals in

particularsituations.

On the bridge between thissellableangerand“theartist”resides, at times, an actualanger.Youngmaninhisvideodoesn’t address this type ofanger: the anger built upthrough experience and thequotidian struggles againstdehumanization every brownor black person lives simplybecause of skin color. This

other kind of anger in timecan prevent, rather thansponsor, the production ofanythingexceptloneliness.

You begin to think, maybeerroneously, that this otherkindofanger is reallya typeof knowledge: the type thatbothclarifiesanddisappoints.It responds to insult andattempted erasure simply byasserting presence, and the

energyrequiredtopresent, toreact, to assert isaccompanied by visceraldisappointment: adisappointment in the sensethat no amount of visibilitywill alter the ways in whichoneisperceived.

Recognition of this lackmight break you apart. Orrecognition might illuminatethe erasure the attempted

erasure triggers. Whethersuch discerning creates ahealthier, if more isolated,self, you can’t know. In anycase, Youngman doesn’tspeak to this kind of anger.He doesn’t say thatwitnessing the expression ofthis more ordinary and dailyangermightmakethewitnessbelieve that a person is“insane.”

Andinsaneiswhatyouthink,one Sunday afternoon,drinking an Arnold Palmer,watching the 2009Women’sUSOpenfinal,whenbroughtto full attention by thesuddenly explosive behaviorofSerenaWilliams.SerenainHD before your eyesbecomesovercomebya rageyou recognizeandhavebeentaught to hold at a distancefor your own good. Serena’sbehavior, on this particular

Sunday afternoon, suggeststhat all the injustice she hasplayed through all the yearsof her illustrious careerflashes before her and shedecides finally to respond toall of it with a string ofinvectives.Nothing,not eventhe repetition of negations(“no, no, no”) she employedin a similar situation yearsbeforeasayoungerplayeratthe 2004 US Open, preparesyou for this. Oh my God,

she’s gone crazy, you say tonoone.

What does a victorious ordefeatedblackwoman’sbodyin a historically white spacelooklike?Serenaandherbigsister Venus Williamsbrought to mind Zora NealeHurston’s “I feel mostcolored when I am thrownagainst a sharp whitebackground.” This

appropriated line, stenciledon canvas by Glenn Ligon,who used plastic letterstencils, smudging oil sticks,andgraphite to transform thewords into abstractions,seemed to be ad copy forsome aspect of life for allblackbodies.

Hurston’s statementhasbeenplayed out on the big screenby Serena and Venus: they

win sometimes, they losesometimes, they’ve beeninjured, they’ve been happy,they’ve been sad, ignored,booed mightily (see IndianWells, which both sistershave boycotted since 2001),they’ve been cheered, andthrough it all and evident toallwerethosepeoplewhoareenragedtheyarethereatall—graphiteagainstasharpwhitebackground.

For years you attribute toSerena Williams a kind ofresilienceappropriateonlyforthose who exist in celluloid.Neither her father nor hermother nor her sister norJehovah her God nor NIKEcamp could shield herultimately from people whofelt her black body didn’tbelongontheircourt,intheirworld. From the start manymade it clear Serena wouldhavedonebetterstrugglingto

survive in the two-dimensionality of a Milletpainting, rather than on theirtenniscourt—bettertoputallthat strength towork in theirfantasy of her working theland,ratherthanbecaughtupin the turbulence of ourancient dramas, like a shipfighting a storm in a Turnerseascape.

The most notorious of

Serena’s detractors takes theform of Mariana Alves, thedistinguished tennis chairumpire. In 2004 Alves wasexcused from officiating anymorematchesonthefinaldayof the US Open after shemade five bad calls againstSerena in her semifinalmatchup against fellowAmerican Jennifer Capriati.The servesand returnsAlvescalled out were landing,stunningly un returned by

Capriati, inside the lines, nodiscerning eyesight needed.Commentators, spectators,television viewers, linejudges, everyone could seethe balls were good,everyone, apparently, exceptAlves. No one couldunderstand what washappening. Serena, in herdenim skirt, black sneakerboots, and dark mascara,beganwaggingherfingerandsaying “no, no, no,” as if by

negating the moment shecould propel us back into alegible world. Tennissuperstar John McEnroe,given his own keen eye forinjustice during hisprofessional career, wasshockedthatSerenawasabletoholdittogetherafterlosingthematch.

Though no one was sayinganything explicitly about

Serena’s blackbody, you arenot the only viewer whothought it was getting in theway of Alves’s sight line.One commentator said hehopedhewasn’tbeingunkindwhen he stated, “Capriatiwins it with the help of theumpiresandthelinesjudges.”Ayearlaterthatmatchwouldbecreditedfordemonstratingthe need for the speedyinstallationofHawk-Eye, theline-calling technology that

tooktheseeingawayfromthebeholder. Now the umpire’scall can be challenged by areplay; however, back thenafter the match Serena said,“I’m very angry and bitterright now. I felt cheated.Shall I go on? I just feelrobbed.”

And though you felt outrageforSerenaafterthat2004USOpen,astheyearsgoby,she

seems to put Alves, and alengthening list of othercurious calls and oversights,against both her and hersister, behind her as theyhappen.

Yes, and the body hasmemory. The physicalcarriage hauls more than itsweight. The body is thethreshold across which eachobjectionable call passes into

consciousness—all theunintimidated, unblinking,and unflappable resiliencedoes not erase the momentslivedthrough,evenasweareeternally stupid oreverlastingly optimistic, soready to be inside, among, apartofthegames.

AndhereSerenais,fiveyearsafter Alves, back at the USOpen, again in a semifinal

match, this time againstBelgium’s Kim Clijsters.Serenaisnotplayingwellandlosesthefirstset.Inresponseshesmashesherracketonthecourt. Now McEnroe isn’tstunnedbyherabilitytoholdherselftogetherandismovedto say, “That’s as angry asI’ve ever seen her.” Theumpire gives her a warning;anotherviolationwillmeanapointpenalty.

Sheisinthesecondsetatthecritical moment of 5–6 inClijsters’s favor, serving tostay in the match, at matchpoint. The line judgeemployedbytheUSOpentowatch Serena’s body, itsevery move, says Serenastepped on the line whileserving. What? (The Hawk-Eye cameras don’t cover thefeet, only the ball,apparently.) What! Are youserious? She is serious; she

has seen a foot fault, one noone else is able to locatedespitethenumerousreplays.“Nofoot fault,youdefinitelydonotseeafootfaultthere,”says McEnroe. “That’soverofficiating for certain,”says another commentator.Even the ESPN tenniscommentator, who seemspredictableinherreadinesstofind fault with the Williamssisters, says, “Her foot faultcall was way off.” Yes, and

even if therehadbeena footfault, despite the rule, theyare rarely ever called atcritical moments in a GrandSlam match because “Youdon’t make a call,” tennisofficialCarolCoxsays,“thatcandecideamatchunlessit’sflagrant.”

As you look at the affableKim Clijsters, you try toentertainthethoughtthat this

scenario could have playeditself out the otherway.Andas Serena turns to thelineswoman and says, “Iswear to God I’m fuckinggoingtotakethisfuckingballand shove it down yourfuckingthroat,youhearthat?IsweartoGod!”Asoffensiveas her outburst is, it isdifficult not to applaud herfor reacting immediately tobeing thrown against a sharpwhite background. It is

difficult not to applaud herfor existing in the moment,for fighting crazily againstthe so-called wrongness ofher body’s positioning at theserviceline.

She says in 2009, belatedly,the words that should havebeen said to the umpire in2004, the words that mighthavesnappedAlvesbackintofocus, a focus that would

have acknowledged whatactually was happening onthe court. Now Serena’sreaction is read as insane.And her punishment for thismoment of manumission isthe threatened point penaltyresulting in the loss of thematch,an$82,500fine,plusatwo-year probationary periodby the Grand SlamCommittee.

Perhaps the committee’sdecision is only aboutcontext,thoughcontextisnotmeaning. It is a public eventbeing watched in homesacrosstheworld.Inanycase,it isdifficultnot to thinkthatif Serena lost context byabandoning all rules ofcivility, it could be becauseher body, trapped in a racialimaginary, trapped indisbelief—code for beingblack in America—is being

governed not by the tennismatch she is participating inbut by a collapsedrelationship that hadpromisedtoplaybytherules.Perhaps this is how racismfeelsnomatter thecontext—randomly the rules everyoneelsegetstoplaybynolongerapply toyou, and to call thisoutbycallingout“IsweartoGod!” is to be called insane,crass, crazy. Badsportsmanship.

Two years later, September11, 2011, Serena is playingtheAustralian Sam Stosur inthe US Open final. She isexpected to win, having justbeaten the number-oneplayer, the Dane CarolineWozniacki, in the semifinalthe night before. Somespeculate Serena especiallywantstowinthisGrandSlambecause it is the tenthanniversary of the attack onthe Twin Towers. It’s

believed that bywinning shewill prove her red-bloodedAmericanpatriotismandwillonce and for all becomebeloved by the tennis world(think Arthur Ashe after hisdeath). All the bad calls, theboos, the criticisms that shehas made ugly the game oftennis—through her looks aswell as her behavior—thatentireclusterofbetrayalswillbewipedcleanwiththiswin.

One imagines herwanting tosaywhathersisterwouldsaya year later after beingdiagnosed with Sjögren’ssyndrome and losing hermatchtoshoutsof“Let’sgo,Venus!” in Arthur AsheStadium: “I know this is notproper tennis etiquette, butthis is thefirst timeI’veeverplayed here that the crowdhasbeenbehindmelikethat.Today I felt American, youknow,forthefirsttimeatthe

USOpen.So I’vewaitedmywhole career to have thismomentandhereitis.”

It is all too exhausting andSerena’sexhaustionshows inher playing; she is losing, aset and a game down. Yes,and finally she hits a greatshot, a big forehand, andbefore the ball is safely pastSam Stosur’s hitting zone,Serena yells, “Come on!”

thinking she has hit anirretrievable winner. Theumpire, Eva Asderaki, rulescorrectly that Serena, byshouting, interfered withStosur’s concentration.Subsequently, a ball thatStosur seemingly would nothave been able to returnbecomes Stosur’s point.Serena’s reply is to ask theumpire if she is trying toscrew her again. Sheremembers the umpire doing

this to her before. As aviewer, you too, along withJohn McEnroe, begin towonder if this is the sameumpirefrom2004or2009.Itisn’t—in2004itwasMarianaAlves and in 2009 it wasSharonWright; however, theuse of the word “again” bySerenareturnsherviewers toother times calling her bodyout.

Again Serena’s frustrations,her disappointments, existwithin a system youunderstand not to try tounderstandinanyfair-mindedway because to do so is tounderstand the erasure of theself as systemic, as ordinary.For Serena, the dailydiminishment is a low flame,a constant drip. Every look,every comment, every badcall blossoms out of history,through her, onto you. To

understandistoseeSerenaashemmedinasanyotherblackbody thrown against ourAmerican background.“Aren’t you the one thatscrewed me over last timehere?” she asks umpireAsderaki. “Yeah, you are.Don’t look at me. Really,don’teven lookatme.Don’tlookmyway.Don’t lookmyway,” she repeats, because itisthatsimple.

Yes,andwhocanturnaway?Serena is not running out ofbreath. Despite all herunderstanding, she continuesto serve up aces whilesmashing rackets and frayinghems. In the 2012 Olympicsshe brought home the onlytwo gold medals theAmericans would win intennis.Afterherthree-secondcelebratory dance on centercourtattheAllEnglandClub,theAmericanmediareported,

“And there was Serena …Crip-Walking all over themost lily-white place in theworld…. You couldn’t helpbutshakeyourhead….WhatSerena did was akin tocracking a tasteless, X-ratedjoke insideachurch….Whatshe did was immature andclassless.”

BeforemakingthevideoHowto Be a Successful BlackArtist, Hennessy YoungmanuploadedtoYouTubeHowtoBeaSuccessfulArtist.Whileputting forward theargumentthatoneneeds tobewhite tobe truly successful, he adds,inanaside,thatthismightnotworkforblacksbecauseif“anigger paints a flower itbecomes a slavery flower,

flower de Amistad,” therebyintimating that anyrelationship between thewhite viewer and the blackartist immediately becomesone between white personsand black property, whichwas the legal state of thingsonceupona time, asPatriciaWilliams has pointed out inThe Alchemy of Race andRights: “The cold game ofequality staring makes mefeel like a thin sheet of

glass…. I could force mypresence, the real mecontainedinthoseeyes,uponthem,butIwouldbesmashedintheprocess.”

Interviewed by theBrit PiersMorgan after her 2012Olympic victory, Serena isinformed by Morgan that hewas planning on calling hervictory dance “the SerenaShuffle”; however, he has

learned from the AmericanpressthatitisaCripWalk,agangster dance. Serenaresponds incredulously byasking if she looks like agangster to him. Yes, heanswers. All in a day’s fun,perhaps, and in spite anddespiteitall,SerenaWilliamsblossoms again into SerenaWilliams.When asked if sheis confident she can win herupcoming matches, heranswer remains, “At the end

of the day, I am very happywithme and I’m very happywithmyresults.”

Serena would go on to winevery match she playedbetweentheUSOpenandtheyear-end 2012 championshiptournament, and becausetennis is a game ofadjustments, she would dothiswithoutanyreactiontoanumberofquestionablecalls.

More than one commentatorwould remark on her abilityto hold it together duringthese matches. She is awomaninlove,onesuggests.She has grown up, anotherdecides, as if responding tothe injustice of racism ischildish and her previousdemonstration of emotionwas free-floating anddetached from any externalactions by others. Someothers theorize she is

developing the admirable“calmandmeasuredlogic”ofan Arthur Ashe, who thesportswriter Bruce Jenkinsfelt was “dignified” and“courageous”inhisabilitytoconfront injustice withoutmaking a scene. Jenkins,perhaps inspired by Serena’snewcomportment,feltmovedto argue that her continuedboycott of Indian Wells in2013, where she felttraumatizedbytheaggression

ofracistslurshurledatherin2001, was lacking in“dignity” and “integrity” anddemonstrated “onlystubbornnessandagrudge.”

Watching this newlycontained Serena, you beginto wonder if she finally hasgivenupwantingbetter fromher peers or if she too hascome across Hennessy’s ArtThoughtz and is channeling

hisassertionthatthelessthatis communicated the better.Be ambiguous. This type ofambiguity could also bediagnosedasdissociationandwouldsupportSerena’sclaimthat she has had to splitherself off from herself andcreatedifferentpersonae.

Now that there is no callingoutofinjustice,noyelling,nocursing,nofingerwaggingor

head shaking, the mediadecidestotakeupthemantlewhenonDecember12,2012,two weeks after Serena isnamed WTA Player of theYear, the Dane CarolineWozniacki,aformernumber-oneplayer,imitatesSerenabystuffingtowelsinhertopandshorts, all in good fun, at anexhibition match. Racist?CNN wants to know ifoutrage is the properresponse.

It’s then that Hennessy’ssuggestionsabout“howtobea successful artist” return toyou:beambiguous,bewhite.Wozniacki, it becomes clear,has finally enactedwhatwasdesired by many of Serena’sdetractors, consciously orunconsciously, the momenttheComptongirlfirststeppedon court. Wozniacki (thoughthereareanumberofwaystointerpret her actions—playfulmocking of a peer, imitation

ofthemimickinganticsofthetennis player known as thejoker, Novak Djokovic)finally gives the peoplewhattheyhavewantedallalongbyembodying Serena’sattributes while leavingSerena’s “angry niggerexterior” behind. At last, inthisreal,andunreal,moment,we have Wozniacki’s imageof smiling blond goodnessposing as the best femaletennisplayerofalltime.

You are rushing to meet afriend in a distantneighborhood of SantaMonica. This friend says, asyouwalktowardher,Youarelate, you nappy-headed ho.What did you say? you ask,thoughyouhaveheardeveryword. This person has neverbefore referred to you likethis in your presence, neverbefore code-switched in this

manner. What did you say?She doesn’t, perhapsphysically cannot, repeatwhatshehasjustsaid.

Maybe the content of her

statement is irrelevant andshe onlymeans to signal thestereotype of “black peopletime”byemployingwhatsheperceivestobe“blackpeoplelanguage.” Maybe she isjealous of whoever kept youandwants to suggestyouarenothing or everything to her.Maybe she wants to have abelated conversation aboutDon Imus and the women’sbasketball team he insultedwiththislanguage.Youdon’t

know.You don’t knowwhatshe means. You don’t knowwhat response she expectsfromyounordoyoucare.Forall your previousunderstandings, suddenlyincoherence feels violent.Youbothexperiencethiscut,whichshekeepsinsistingisajoke, a joke stuck in herthroat, and like any otherinjury, you watch it rupturealong its suddenly exposedsuture.

When a woman you workwithcallsyoubythenameofanother woman you workwith, it is too much of acliché not to laugh out loudwith the friend beside youwho says, oh no she didn’t.Still,intheend,sowhat,whocares? She had a fifty-fiftychanceofgettingitright.

Yes, and in your mail theapology note appearsreferring to “our mistake.”Apparently your owninvisibilityistherealproblemcausingherconfusion.Thisishowtheapparatusshepropelsyouintobeginstomultiplyitsmeaning.

Whatdidyousay?

At the end of a brief phoneconversation, you tell themanager you are speakingwith that you will come byhis office to sign the form.When you arrive andannounce yourself, he blurtsout, I didn’t know you wereblack!

I didn’tmean to say that, he

thensays.

Aloud,yousay.

What?heasks.

You didn’t mean to say thataloud.

Your transactiongoesswiftlyafterthat.

And when the woman withthe multiple degrees says, Ididn’t know black womencouldgetcancer,instinctivelyyou take two steps backthoughallurgencyleavesthepossibility of any kind ofrelationship as you realizenowhereiswhereyouwillgetfromhere.

Afriendtellsyouhehasseena photograph of you on theInternetandhewantstoknowwhy you look so angry.Youand the photographer chosethe photograph he refers tobecause you both decided itlooked the most relaxed. Doyou look angry? Youwouldn’t have said so.Obviously this unsmilingimage of you makes him

uncomfortable, and he needsyoutoaccountforthat.

If you were smiling, whatwould that tell him aboutyour composure in hisimagination?

Despitethefactthatyouhavethe same sabbatical scheduleaseveryoneelse,hesays,youarealwaysonsabbatical.Youare friends so you respond,easy.

Whatdoyoumean?

Exactly,whatdoyoumean?

Someoneintheaudienceasksthe man promoting his newbook on humor what makessomething funny.His answeriswhat you expect—context.After a pause he adds that ifsomeonesaidsomething,likeaboutsomeone,andyouwerewith your friends you wouldprobably laugh, but if theysaid it out in public whereblackpeoplecouldhearwhat

was said, you might not,probably would not. Onlythen do you realize you areamong “the others out inpublic” and not among“friends.”

Not long ago you are in aroomwheresomeoneasksthephilosopher Judith Butlerwhatmakeslanguagehurtful.You can feel everyone leanin.Ourverybeingexposesustotheaddressofanother,sheanswers.We suffer from thecondition of beingaddressable. Our emotionalopenness,sheadds,iscarriedby our addressability.

Languagenavigatesthis.

For so long you thought theambition of racist languagewas to denigrate and eraseyou as a person. AfterconsideringButler’s remarks,you begin to understandyourself as renderedhypervisible in the face ofsuchlanguageacts.Languagethat feels hurtful is intendedto exploit all the ways that

you are present. Youralertness, your openness, andyourdesiretoengageactuallydemand your presence, yourlookingup,yourtalkingback,and,as insaneas it is, sayingplease.

Standing outside theconference room, unseen bythe two men waiting for theotherstoarrive,youhearonesay to the other that beingaround black people is likewatching a foreign filmwithout translation. Becauseyou will spend the next twohours around the round tablethatmakesconversingeasier,you consider waiting a few

minutes before entering theroom.

The real estate woman, whodidn’t fathomshecouldhavemadeanappointmenttoshowher house to you, spendsmuch of the walk-throughtelling your friend,repeatedly, how comfortableshe feels around her.Neitheryounoryourfriendbotherstoask who is making her feeluncomfortable.

Theman at the cash registerwants to know if you thinkyourcardwillwork.Ifthisishisroutine,hedidn’tuseitonthe friend who went beforeyou.Asshepicksupherbag,shelookstoseewhatyouwillsay. She says nothing. Youwant her to say something—both as witness and as afriend. She is not you; hersilence says so. Because you

are watching all this takeplace even as you participateinit,yousaynothingaswell.Come over here with me,your eyes say.Why on earthwould she? The man behindthe register returns your cardand places the sandwich andPellegrino in a bag, whichyou take from the counter.What is wrong with you?This question gets stuck inyourdreams.

Another friend tells you youhave to learn not to absorbthe world. She sayssometimes she can hear herown voice saying silently towhomever—you are sayingthisthingandIamnotgoingto accept it. Your friendrefuses to carrywhat doesn’tbelongtoher.

You take in thingsyoudon’twantallthetime.Thesecondyouhearorseesomeordinarymoment, all its intendedtargets, all the meaningsbehindtheretreatingseconds,as far asyouare able to see,comeintofocus.Holdup,didyou just hear, did you justsay,didyoujustsee,didyoujust do that? Then the voiceinyourheadsilentlytellsyouto take your foot off yourthroat because just getting

along shouldn’t be anambition.

To live through the dayssometimes you moan likedeer. Sometimes you sigh.The world says stop that.Another sigh. Another stopthat.Moaningelicitslaughter,sighing upsets. Perhaps eachsigh is drawn into existenceto pull in, pull under, whoknows; truth be told, youcould no more control thosesighs than that which brings

thesighsabout.

The sigh is the pathway tobreath; it allows breathing.That’s just self-preservation.No one fabricates that. Yousitdown,yousigh.Youstandup,yousigh.Thesighingisaworrying exhale of an ache.You wouldn’t call it anillness; still it is not theiterationofafreebeing.Whatelse to liken yourself to butananimal,theruminantkind?

You like to think memorygoes far back thoughremembering was neverrecommended.Forgetallthat,the world says. The world’shada lotofpractice.Nooneshouldadheretothefactsthatcontribute to narrative, thefacts that create lives. Toyourmind, feelings arewhatcreate a person, somethingunwilling, something wild

vandalizing whatever theskull holds.Those sensationsform a someone. Theheadaches begin then. Don’twearsunglassesinthehouse,the world says, though theysoothe, soothe sight, sootheyou.

The head’s ache evaporatesinto a state of numbness, acaveof sighs.Over theyearsyou lose the melodrama ofseeing yourself as a patient.The sighing ceases; theheadaches remain. You holdyourheadinyourhands.Yousit still. Rarely do you liedown.Youaskyourself,howcan I help you? A glass ofwater? Sunglasses? The

enteric-coated tablets live inyour purse next to yourlicense. The sole action is toturn on tennis matcheswithout the sound. Yes, andthoughwatchingtennisisn’tacure for feeling, it is a cleandisplacement of effort, will,anddisappointment.

The world is wrong. Youcan’tputthepastbehindyou.It’sburied inyou; it’s turnedyour flesh into its owncupboard. Not everythingremembered is useful but itall comes from the world tobe stored in you. Who didwhattowhomonwhichday?Who said that? She saidwhat? What did he just do?Did she really just say that?

He said what?What did shedo?DidIhearwhatI thinkIheard?Didthatjustcomeoutofmymouth,hismouth,yourmouth? Do you rememberwhenyousighed?

Memory is a tough place.Youwere there. If this isnotthe truth, it is also not a lie.There are benefits to beingwithout nostalgia. Certainlynostalgia and being withoutnostalgia relieve the past.Sitting here, there are nomemories to remember, justtheballgoingbackandforth.Shored up by this externalnet,theproblemisnotoneof

a lack of memories; theproblem is simply a lack, alackbefore,during,andafter.The chin and your cheek fitinto the palm of your hand.Feeling better?The ball isn’tbeing returned. Someone isapproaching the umpire.Someoneisupsetnow.

You fumble around for theremote to cancel mute. Theplayersayssomethingandtheformerly professional umpirelooks down from her highchair as if regarding anunreasonable child, a smallanimal. The commentatorwonders if theplayerwill beabletoputthisincidentaside.No one can get behind thefeelingthatcausedapausein

thematch,noteventheplayertrying to put her feelingsbehind her, dumping ballafterballintothenet.Thoughyoucanretirewithaninjury,youcan’twalkawaybecauseyoufeelbad.

Feel good. Feel better.Moveforward.Let it go.Comeon.Come on. Come on. In duetime the ball is going backand forth over the net. Nowthesoundcanbeturnedbackdown. Your fingers coveryour eyes, press them deepinto their sockets—toomuchcommotion, too much for ahead remembering to ache.Moveon.Letitgo.Comeon.

Words work as release—well-oiled doors opening andclosing between intention,gesture.Apulseinaneck,theshiftiness of the hands, anunconscious blink, theconversations you have withyoureyestranslateeverythingand nothing. What will beneeded, what goes unfelt,unsaid—what has beenduplicated, redacted here,

redactedthere,alteredtohideor disguise—words encodingthe bodies they cover. Anddespite everything the bodyremains.

Occasionally it is interestingto think about the outburst ifyouwouldjustcryout—

To know what you’ll soundlikeisworthnoting—

In the darkened moment abody given blue light, aflashlight, enters with levity,with orwithout assumptions,doubts, with desire, thebeating heart,disappointment, with desires—

Standwhereyouare.

Youbegintomovearoundinsearchofthestepsitwilltakebefore you are thrown backintoyourownbody,backintoyourownneedtobefound.

The destination is illusory.You raise your lids. No oneelseisseeking.

Youexhaustyourselflookinginto the blue light. All day

blueburrowstheatmosphere.What doesn’t belong withyouwon’tbeseen.

You could build aworld outof need or you could holdeverything black and see.Yougivebackthelack.

You hold everything black.You give yourself back untilnothing’s left but the

dissolvingbluesofmetaphor.

Sometimes“I”issupposedtoholdwhat isnot thereuntil itis.Thenwhat is comes apartthecloseryouaretoit.

Thismakes the firstpersonasymbolforsomething.

The pronoun barely holdingthepersontogether.

Someone claimed we shoulduse our skin as wallpaperknowingwecouldn’twin.

You said “I” has so muchpower;it’sinsane.

Andyouwouldlookpastme,all gloved up, in a big coat,with fancy fur around thecollar, and record a selfsaying,youshouldbescared,

thefirstpersoncan’tpullyoutogether.

Shit, you are reading minds,butdidyoutry?

Triedrhyme,triedtruth,triedepistolary untruth, tried andtried.

You really did. Everyone

understood you to besuffering and still everyonethoughtyouthoughtyouwerethe sun—never mind ourunlikeness, you too haveheardthenoiseinyourvoice.

Anyway, sit down. Sit herealongside.

Exactly why we survive andcan look backwith furrowedbrowisbeyondme.

Itisnotsomethingtoknow.

Yourill-spirited,cooked,hellon Main Street, nobody’shere, broken-down, firstpersoncouldbeoneofmany

definitions of being to passon.

The past is a life sentence, ablunt instrument aimed attomorrow.

Drag that first person out ofthe social death of history,thenwe’rekin.

Kincallingoutthepastlikeaforeigner with a newlyminted“fuckyou.”

Maybeyoudon’tagree.

Maybeyoudon’tthinkso.

Maybe you are right, youdon’t really have anything toconfess.

Whyareyoustanding?

Listen, you, I was creating alife study of a monumentalfirst person, a Brahmin firstperson.

Ifyouneedtofeelthatway—still youare inhere andhereisnowhere.

Join me down here in

nowhere.

Don’t lean against thewallpaper; sit down and pulltogether.

Yours is a strange dream, astrangereverie.

No,it’sastrangebeach;eachbody is a strange beach, and

if you let in the excessemotion you will recall theAtlantic Ocean breaking onourheads.

Yesterday called to say wewere together and you werebloodshot and again the daycarried you across a field ofhours, deep into dawn, backto now, where you arethankfulfor

what faces you, the storm,this day’s sigh as the dayshifts its leaves, the wind, a

prompt against the calm youcan’tdigest.

Blue ceiling calling a bodyinto the midst of azure,oceanic,asoceanblushes theblues it can’t absorb,reflectingbackaday

thedayfrays,night,notnight,this fright passes through theeye crashing into you, is this

Yes, it’s me, clear the way,thenholdmeclearofthisthatfaces, the storm carrying methroughdawn

notknowingwhethertoclimbdownorupintoitseye—day,hearing a breath shiver,whoseareyou?

Guard rail, spotlight, safetylock, airbag, fire lane, slipguard, night watch, far intothisdayare thedaysthisdaywas meant to take out of itsway.Anobstacle

to surrender, dusk in dawn,held open, then closing, thenopening, a red-tailed hawk,dusk at dawn, taking overblue, surveying movement,against the calm, red sky at

morning,

whoseareyou?

In line at the drugstore it’sfinallyyourturn,andthenit’snot as he walks in front ofyouandputshisthingsonthecounter.Thecashiersays,Sir,shewas next.Whenhe turnstoyouheistrulysurprised.

OhmyGod,Ididn’tseeyou.

Youmust be in a hurry, youoffer.

No,no,no,Ireallydidn’tseeyou.

You wait at the bar of therestaurant for a friend, and aman, wanting to makeconversation, nursingsomething, takes out hisphone to show you a pictureof his wife. You say, bridgethat she is, that she isbeautiful. She is, he says,beautifulandblack,likeyou.

Leavingthedaytoitself,youclosethedoorbehindyouandpour a bowl of cereal, thenanother, andwould a third ifyou didn’t interrupt yourselfwith the statement—youaren’thungry.

Appetite won’t attach you toanything no matter howdepletedyoufeel.

It’strue.

You lean against the sink, aglass of red wine in yourhand and then another,thinking in the morning youwill go to the gym havingslept and slept beyond theresidualsofallyesterdays.

Yes, and you do go to thegym and run in place, an

entire hour running, just youand

your body running off eachundesireddesiredencounter.

August 29, 2005 / HurricaneKatrina

Script for Situation videocomprisedofquotescollectedfrom CNN, created incollaborationwithJohnLucas

Hours later, still in thedifficulty ofwhat it is to be,just like that, inside it,standing there, maybewading, maybe waving,standing where the deepwaters of everything backedup, one said, climbing overbodies, one said, strandedona roof, one said, trapped inthe building, and in thedifficulty, nobody coming

andstillsomeonesaying,whocould see it coming, thedifficultyofthat.

The fiction of the factsassumes innocence,ignorance, lack of intention,misdirection; the necessaryconditions of a certain timeandplace.

Haveyouseentheirfaces?

Faith, not fear, she said.She’d heard that once andwas trying to stamp thephrase on her mind. At thetime, she couldn’t speak italoud.Hewouldn’ttolerateit.He was angry. Where werethey? Where was anyone?This is a goddamnemergency,hesaid.

Then someone else said itwas the classic binary

between the rich and thepoor, between the haves andthe have-nots, between thewhites and the blacks, in thedifficultyofallthat.

Then each house was amumbling structure, all thatwater, buildings peelingapart, the yellow foam, thecontaminated drawl ofmildew,mold.

The missing limbs, he said,the bodies lodged in piles ofrubble,danglingfromrafters,lying facedown, arms

outstretchedonparlorfloors.

And someone said, wherewere the buses? Andsimultaneously someone elsesaid, FEMA said it wasn’tsafetobethere.

What I’m hearing, she said,whichissortofscary,istheyallwanttostayinTexas.

He gave me the flashlight,shesaid,Ididn’twanttoturniton.Itwasallblack.Ididn’twanttoshinealightonthat.

We never reached out toanyone to tell our story,because there’s no ending toour story, he said. Beinghonest with you, in myopinion,theyforgotaboutus.

It’s awful, she said, to goback home to find your owndeadchild.It’sreallysad.

Andsomanyofthepeopleinthearenahere,youknow,shesaid, were underprivilegedanyway, so this is workingverywellforthem.

You simply get chills everytime you see these poorindividuals,somanyof thesepeoplealmostallofthemthatwesee,aresopoor,someone

else said, and they are soblack.

Haveyouseentheirfaces?

Then this aestheticizeddistancing fromOhmyGod,from unbelievable, fromdehydration, fromoverheating, from noelectricity,nopower,nowaytocommunicate

wearedrowninghere

stillinthedifficulty

as if the faces in the imagesholdalltheconsequences

and the fiction of the factsassumes randomness andindeterminacy.

He said, I don’t know whatthe water wanted. It wantedto show you no one wouldcome.

He said, I don’t know whatthe water wanted. As if thenand now were not the samemoment.

He said, I don’t know whatthewaterwanted.

Callouttothem.Idon’tseethem.

Calloutanyway.

Didyouseetheirfaces?

February 26, 2012 / InMemoryofTrayvonMartin

Script for Situation videocreated in collaboration withJohnLucas

My brothers are notorious.Theyhavenotbeentoprison.They have been imprisoned.Theprisonisnotaplaceyouenter. It is no place. Mybrothers are notorious. Theydo regular things, like wait.Onmybirthday they saymyname.Theywillnever forgetthat we are named. What isthatmemory?

The days of our childhoodtogetherweresteepstepsintoa collapsing mind. It lookedlike we rescued ourselves,were rescued.Then there arethese days, each day of ouradult lives. They will neverforgetourwaythrough,thesebrothers, each brother, mybrother, dear brother, mydearestbrothers,dearheart—

Your hearts are broken. This

is not a secret though thereare secrets. And as yet I donot understand howmy ownsorrow has turned into mybrothers’hearts.Theheartsofmy brothers are broken. If Iknew another way to be, Iwould call up a brother, Iwouldhearmyselfsaying,mybrother, dear brother, mydearestbrothers,dearheart—

On the tip of a tongue one

note following another isanother path, another dawnwhere the pink sky is thebloodshot of struck, ofsleepless, of sorry, ofsenseless, shush.Thoseyearsof and before me and mybrothers,theyearsofpassage,plantation, migration, of JimCrowsegregation,ofpoverty,inner cities, profiling, of onein three, two jobs, boy, heyboy, each a felony,accumulate into the hours

insideourliveswhereweareall caught hanging, the ropeinside us, the tree inside us,its roots our limbs, a throatsliced through and when weopen our mouth to speak,blossoms, o blossoms, noplace coming out, brother,dear brother, that kind ofblue.Theskyisthesilenceofbrothers all the days leadinguptomycall.

If I called I’d say good-byebeforeIbrokethegood-bye.Isay good-bye before anyonecan hang up.Don’t hang up.My brother hangs up thoughhe is there. I keep talking.Thetalkkeepshimthere.Theskyisblue,kindofblue.Thedayishot.Isitcold?Areyoucold? It does get cool. Is itcool?Areyoucool?

My brother is completed by

sky. The sky is his silence.Eventually, he says, it israining. It is rainingdown. Itwas raining. It stoppedraining.Itisrainingdown.Hewon’t hang up. He’s there,he’s there but he’s hung upthoughheisthere.Good-bye,Isay.Ibreakthegood-bye.Isay good-bye before anyonecan hang up, don’t hang up.Waitwithme.Waitwithmethough the waiting might bethecallofgood-byes.

June26,2011/InMemoryofJamesCraigAnderson

In the next frame the pickuptruckisinmotion.Itsmotionactivates its darkness. Thepickuptruckisaconditionofdarkness inmotion. Itmakesa dark subject. You mean ablack subject. No, a blackobject.

Thenthepickupisbeatingtheblack object to the groundandthetiremarksthecrushedorgans.Then theaudio, I ranthat nigger over, is itself arecord-breaking hot June dayinthetwenty-firstcentury.

Thepickup returnsus to livecruelty, like sunrise, redstreaks falling from dawn to

asphalt—then again thispickup is not about beauty.It’sapureproduct.

Theannouncerpatronizes thepickup truck, no hoodlums,“just teens,” no gang, “just ateen,” “with straggly blondhair,” “a slight blond man.”The pickup is human in thispredictable way. Do yourecognizeyourself,Dedmon?

In the circulating photo youare looking down.Were youdreaming of this day all thedays of your youth? In thedaydreamdidthepickuptakeyou home? Was it a pickupfueling the road to I ran thatniggerover?

Baldwin says skin colorcannot be more importantthan the human being. Andwas the pickup constructing

orexplodingwhitenessoutofyou? You are so sorry. Youareangry,anexplosiveanger,an effective one: I ran thatniggerover.

James Craig Anderson isdead. The pickup truck is afigure of speech. It is as thecrown standing in for thekingdom. Who told you itwasacrown?Didwetellyouthe pickup was as good ashome? You are so young,Dedmon.Youweresoyoung.

James Craig Anderson is

dead. What ails you,Dedmon? What up? What’sup is James Craig Andersonis dead. So sorry. So angry,an imploding anger. It mustletyougo.Itletyougo.

December4,2006/JenaSix

As he walked across grassstill green from summerwalkingoutoftherainastepbeyond into a piece of skydry all day for him in thismoment a shelter as he satbeneath the overhangingbranches of the “white tree”surprising himself at thecenter of the school yardthinking of the slight give inthe cushions of the counter

seats he had read about intextbooksdidthehardnessofthegroundcrossthehardnessof the seats in buses as hewaitedtobenoticedlisteningto the lift and fall of theleavesabovehim?

As the boys walked acrossgrass a darkening wave asdusk folded into nightwalking toward a dawn sun

punching through theblackness as they noosed therope looped around theoverhangingbranchesoftheirtree surprising themselves atthe center of the school yardthinkingthisishowtheywilllearn the ropes did thehardness in thehistorybookscross the hardness in theireyes all the eyes with thatlook without give did theygive that look to the lift andfalloftheleavesabovethem?

At the high school party theboy turned to the boys asboys do walking into a fistpunching through theblackness as glass shatteredlightknockedconsciousbluntbreathing bruising therefusing boy surrounded byblows taking custody of hisbody bodying forth against aboyhood defining it byfighting through this body

propelled forward and backbearing until the beer bottleshattered hardness bruisingthe refusal leveled withoutgive.

When the boys turned thecorner was inflammation inthe air already formingknuckles as they pummeledthe body being kicked andbeaten until knocked

unconscious his right eyeclosed shut blood refusing toclot flowing from both earswere they hearing their ownbreathing their own earsallowing their blows to takecustody of this body fallenagainst the hardness of theconcretefloorleveledwithoutgive?

Boyswillbeboysbeingboysfeelingtheircapacityheavingbutting heads righting theirwrongs in the violence ofaggravated adolescencechargingforwardintheirwayexperiencing the position ofpositioning which is aposition foronlyonekindofboy face it know it for theother boy for the other boysthe fists the feet criminalized

already are weapons alreadyexploding the landscape andthenthelitigioushittingbackislifeimprisoned.

Stop-and-Frisk

Iknewwhateverwasinfrontof me was happening andthen the police vehicle cametoascreechinghaltinfrontofmeliketheyweresettingupablockade. Everywhere wereflashes, a siren sounding anda stretched-out roar. Get ontheground.Getonthegroundnow.ThenIjustknew.

Andyouarenot theguyandstill you fit the descriptionbecausethereisonlyoneguywho isalways theguyfittingthedescription.

I left my client’s houseknowing I would be pulledover. I knew. I just knew. Iopened my briefcase on thepassenger seat, just so theycould see. Yes officer rolled

around onmy tongue,whichgrewout of a bell that couldnever ring because itsemergency was a tolling Iwasmeanttoswallow.

Inalandscapedrawnfromanocean bed, you can’t driveyourself sane—so angry youare crying. You can’t driveyourself sane. This motionwears a guy out.Ourmotionis wearing you out and still

youarenotthatguy.

Then flashes, a siren, astretched-out roar—and youare not the guy and still youfit the description becausethere is only one guywho isalways the guy fitting thedescription.

Getontheground.Getontheground now. I must havebeen speeding. No, you

weren’t speeding. I wasn’tspeeding? You didn’t doanything wrong. Then whyare you pulling me over?Why am I pulled over? Putyourhandswheretheycanbeseen. Put your hands in theair.Putyourhandsup.

Thenyouarestretchedoutonthehood.Thencuffed.Getonthegroundnow.

Each time it begins in thesame way, it doesn’t beginthe same way, each time itbegins it’s thesame.Flashes,asiren, thestretched-out roar—

Maybe because home was ahood the officer could notafford, not that a reasonwasneeded, I was pulled out of

my vehicle a block frommydoor, handcuffed and pushedinto the police vehicle’sbackseat, the officer’s kneepressing into my collarbone,the officer’s warm breathvacating a face creased intothe smile of its own privatejoke.

Each time it begins in thesame way, it doesn’t beginthe same way, each time it

beginsit’sthesame.

Go ahead hit memotherfucker fled my lipsandtheofficerdidnotneedtohit me, the officer did notneed anything from meexceptthelookonmyfaceonthe drive across town. Youcan’tdriveyourselfsane.Youarenot insane.Ourmotioniswearingyouout.Youarenottheguy.

Thisiswhatitlookslike.Youknow this is wrong. This isnot what it looks like. Youneed to be quiet. This iswrong. You need to closeyourmouthnow.Thisiswhatit looks like. Why are youtalking if you haven’t doneanythingwrong?

Andyouarenot theguyand

still you fit the descriptionbecausethereisonlyoneguywho isalways theguyfittingthedescription.

Inalandscapedrawnfromanocean bed, you can’t driveyourself sane—so angry youcan’tdriveyourselfsane.

The charge the officerdecided onwas exhibition ofspeed. I was told, after thefingerprinting,tostandnaked.I stood naked. It was onlythenIwasinstructedtodress,

to leave, to walk all thosemilesbackhome.

Andstillyouarenot theguyand still you fit thedescription because there isonly one guy who is alwaystheguyfittingthedescription.

LONGFORMBIRTHCERTIFICATE

And yes, the inaudiblespreadsacrossstatelines.

Its call backing away fromthefaceofAmerica.

Bloodshot eyes calling on

America

that can’t look forward forbeingcalledback.

America turned loose onAmerica—

All living is listening for athroattoopen—

The length of its silenceshapinglives.

Whenheopenedhismouthtospeak, his speech was whatwaswritteninthesilence,

the length of the silencebecomingaliving.

Andwhathadbeen

“I do solemnly swear that Iwillfaithfully

execute the office ofPresidentoftheUnitedStates…”

becomes

“I do solemnly swear that Iwillexecute

the office of President to theUnitedStatesfaithfully…”

August 4, 2011 / InMemoryofMarkDuggan

ThoughthishouseinLondonhas been remodeled, thestairs,despitebeingcarpeted,creak.Whatwas imaginedasasilentretreatfromthepartyseems to sound through thehouse. By the fifth step youdecidetositdownandonthewall next to you is a tornpassport photo of half awoman’s face blown up andframedasart.Wheredidyou

imagineyouweregoing?yousayaloudtoher.

“The purpose of art,” JamesBaldwinwrote,“istolaybarethe questions hidden by theanswers.” He might havebeen channelingDostoyevsky’s statement that“wehavealltheanswers.Itisthe questions we do notknow.”

Where can I imagine youhavebeen?

A man, a novelist with theface of theEnglish sky—fullof weather, always inresponse, constantly shifting,clouding over only to clearbriefly—stands before you,his head leaning against thesamewallasthetorn-upgirl.You begin discussing therecent riots in Hackney.

Despite what is being saidyou get lost in his face, hisresponsiveness bringingwhatreadsasintimacytohiseyes.HesaystheriotsweresimilartotheRodneyKing–LAriots;however, he feels the UKmedia handled them verydifferently from the USmedia.

The Hackney riots began atthe end of the summer of

2011 when Mark Duggan, ablack man, a husband, afather, and a suspected drugdealer, was shot dead byofficersfromScotlandYard’sOperation Trident (a specialoperations unit addressinggun crime in blackcommunities). As the riotingand looting continued,government officials labeledthe violent outbreak“opportunism” and “sheercriminality,” and the media

picked up this language.Whatever the reason for theriots, images of the looters’continuedrampageeventuallydisplaced the fact that anunarmed man was shot todeath.

In theUnited States,RodneyKing’s beating, caught onvideo, trumped all otherimages. If there had been avideo of Duggan being

executed, theremight be lessambiguity around whatstarted the riots, you hazardtosay.

Will you write aboutDuggan? the man wants toknow. Why don’t you? youask. Me? he asks, lookingslightlyirritated.

How difficult is it for one

body to feel the injusticewheeled at another? Are thetensions,therecognitions,thedisappointments, and thefailures that exploded in theriotstooforeign?

A similar accumulation andrelease drove manyAmericans to respond to theRodneyKingbeating.Beforeit happened, it had happenedand happened. As a black

body in the States, yourresponsewasnecessaryifyouweretoholdontothefictionthat this was an event“wrongfully ordinary,”therefore a snafu within theordinary.

Though the moment hadoccurred and occurred againwiththedeaths,beatings,andimprisonment of otherrandom, unarmed blackmen,

Rodney King’s beatingsomehow cut off the airsupplyintheUSbodypoliticby virtue of the excessive,blatantbarrageof racismandcompromised justice thatfollowed on the heels of hisbeating. And though in thisman’sbody,themanmadeofEnglish sky, grief exists forDuggan as a black mangunneddown,thereisnottheurgency brought on by anoverflow of compromises,

deaths, and tempers specifictoaprofilewoketoandgonetosleeptoeachday.

Arguably, there is nosimultaneity between theEnglish sky and the bodybeingorderedtorestinpeace.Thisdifference,whichhas todo with “the war (the blackbody’s) presence hasoccasioned,” to quoteBaldwin, makes all the

difference.Onecouldbecomeacquainted with theinflammation that existedaroundDuggan’sbodyand itwould be uncomfortable.Grief comes out ofrelationships to subjects overtimeandnottoanysubjectintheory, you tell the Englishsky, to give him an out. Thedistance between you andhim is thrown into relief:bodies moving through thesame life differently. With

your eyes wide open youconsider what this man andyou, twomiddle-aged artists,inahouseworthmorethanamillion pounds, share withDuggan. Mark Duggan, youare part of the misery.Apparently your new friendwon’t write about MarkDuggan or the London riots;still you continue searchinghis face because there issomething to find, an answertoquestion.

BLACK-BLANC-BEUR

October 10, 2006 / WorldCup

BLACK-BLANC-BEUR

Something is there before usthat is neither the livingpersonhimselfnoranysortofreality, neither the same asthe one who is alive, noranother.

What is there is the absolutecalm of what has found its

place.(MauriceBlanchot)

Every day I think aboutwhereIcamefromandIamstillproudtobewhoIam…(ZinedineZidane)

Big Algerian shit, dirtyterrorist,nigger.(Accountsoflip readers responding to thetranscriptoftheWorldCup.)

Perhaps the most insidiousand least understood form ofsegregation is that of theword.(RalphEllison)

The Algerian men, for theirpart, are a target of criticismfortheirEuropeancomrades.

Arise directly to the level oftragedy.

Notice too, illustrations ofthis kind of racial prejudicecanbemultipliedindefinitely.

Clearly,theAlgerianswho,inview of the intensity of therepression and the frenziedcharacter of the oppression,thoughttheycouldanswertheblows received without anyserious problem ofconscience.(FrantzFanon)

BLACK-BLANC-BEUR

And there is no (Black)whohas not felt, briefly or forlong periods, with anguishsharp or dull, in varyingdegreesandtovaryingeffect,simple, naked, andunanswerablehatred;whohasnot wanted to smash anywhite face hemay encounter

in a day, to violate, out ofmotives of the cruelestvengeance … to break thebodiesofallwhitepeopleandbringthemlow,aslowasthedust into which he himselfhas been and is beingtrampled; no black who hasnot had to make his ownprecarious adjustment… yettheadjustmentmustbemade—ratheritmustbeattempted.(JamesBaldwin)

Do you think two minutesfromtheendofaWorldCupfinal, two minutes from theendofmycareer,Iwantedtodothat?(ZinedineZidane)

Eachdecisiongaverisetothesame hesitations, producedthesamedespair.

Nooneisfree.

Forall thathe is,peoplewillsay he remains for us anArab. “You can’t get awayfromnature.”(FrantzFanon)

BLACK-BLANC-BEUR

Big Algerian shit, dirtyterrorist. (Accounts of lipreaders responding to the

transcriptoftheWorldCup.)

Let him do his spite: MyserviceswhichIhavedone…Shall out-tongue hiscomplaints. (WilliamShakespeare)

Whensuchthingshappen,hemustgrithisteeth,walkawaya few steps, elude the

passerbywhodrawsattentionto him, who gives otherpassersby the desire either tofollow the example or tocome to his defense. (FranzFanon)

Big Algerian shit, dirtyterrorist,nigger.(Accountsoflip readers responding to thetranscriptoftheWorldCup.)

Thatmanwho is forcedeachday to snatch his manhood,his identity,outof thefireofhuman cruelty that rages todestroy it, knows …something about himself andhuman life that no school onearth—andindeed,nochurch—can teach.He achieves hisown authority, and that isunshakable.

This is because, in order to

save his life, he is forced tolook beneath appearances, totake nothing for granted, tohear the meaning behind thewords.

We hear, thenwe remember.(JamesBaldwin)

The state of emergency isalso always a state ofemergence.(HomiBhabha)

BLACK-BLANC-BEUR

But at this moment—fromwhence came the spirit Idon’t know—I resolved tofight; and, suiting my actionto the resolution …(FrederickDouglass)

Whatwehavehereisnotthebringing to light of acharacter known andfrequented a thousand timesin the imagination or instories.

It is the White Man whocreates the blackman.But itistheblackmanwhocreates.

This thing was there, we

grasped it in the livingmotion.(MauriceBlanchot)

What he said “touched thedeepest part of me.”(ZinedineZidane)

The rebuttal assumes anoriginalform.

This endless struggle toachieve and reveal andconfirm a human identity,humanauthority,contains,forall itshorror, somethingverybeautiful.(JamesBaldwin)

July 29–August 18, 2014 /MakingRoom

Script for Public Fiction atHammerMuseum

On the train the womanstanding makes youunderstand there are no seatsavailable. And, in fact, thereis one. Is the woman gettingoff at the next stop?No, shewouldratherstandallthewaytoUnionStation.

The spacenext to theman isthe pause in a conversation

you are suddenly rushing tofill.Youstepquicklyoverthewoman’s fear, a fear sheshares.Youletherhaveit.

The man doesn’tacknowledge you as you sitdownbecausethemanknowsmore about the unoccupiedseat than you do. For him,you imagine, it is more likebreath than wonder; he hashadtothinkaboutitsomuch

youwouldn’tcallitthought.

When another passengerleaves his seat and thestanding woman sits, youglanceoverattheman.Heisgazing out the window intowhatlookslikedarkness.

Yousitnexttothemanonthetrain, bus, in the plane,waiting room, anywhere he

could be forsaken. You putyour body there in proximityto, adjacent to, alongside,within.

You don’t speak unless youare spoken to and your bodyspeaks to the space you filland you keep trying to fill itexcept the space belongs tothe body of the man next toyou,nottoyou.

Where he goes the spacefollows him. If the man lefthis seatbeforeUnionStationyouwouldsimplybeapersonin a seat on the train. Youwould cease to struggleagainst the unoccupied seatwhen where why the spacewon’tloseitsmeaning.

Youimagineifthemanspoketo you he would say, it’sokay, I’m okay, you don’t

need to sit here. You don’tneed to sit and you sit andlook past him into thedarkness the train is movingthrough.Atunnel.

All the while the darknessallows you to look at him.Does he feel you looking athim? You suspect so. Whatdoes suspicion mean? Whatdoessuspiciondo?

The soft gray-green of yourcottoncoattouchesthesleeveof him. You are shoulder toshoulderthoughstandingyoucould feel shadowed.Yousitto repair whom who? Youerase that thought. And itmightbetoolateforthat.

Itmightforeverbetoolateortooearly.Thetrainmovestoofastforyoureyestoadjusttoanythingbeyondtheman,the

window, the tiled tunnel, itsslick darkness. Occasionally,awhitelightflickersbylikeadisplacedsound.

From across the aisle tracksroom harbor world a womanasksamanintherowsaheadif he would mind switchingseats. She wishes to sit withherdaughterorson.Youhearbutyoudon’thear.Youcan’tsee.

It’s then themannext toyouturns to you. And as if frominside your own head youagreethat ifanyoneasksyoutomove, you’ll tell themwearetravelingasafamily.

November 23, 2012 / InMemory of Jordan RussellDavis

February 15, 2014 / TheJusticeSystem

Some years there exists awantingtoescape—

you, floating above yourcertainache—

stilltheachecoexists.

Callthattheimmanentyou—

Youareyouevenbeforeyou

growintounderstandingyou

arenotanyone,worthless,

notworthyou.

Even as your own weightinsistsyouarehere,fightingoff

theweightofnonexistence.

And still this life parts yourlids,youseeyou seeing your extendinghand

asafallingwave—

Itheyhesheweyouturnonlytodiscovertheencounter

tobealientothisplace.

The patience is in the living.

Timeopensouttoyou.

The opening, between youandyou,occupied,zonedforanencounter,

giventhehistoriesofyouandyou—

Andalways,whoisthisyou?

Thestartofyou,eachday,apresencealready—

Heyyou—

Slipping down burying theyou buried within. You areeverywhere and you arenowhereintheday.

Theoutsidecomesin—

Thenyou,heyyou—

Overheardinthemoonlight.

Overcomeinthemoonlight.

Soon you are sitting around,publicly listening, when youhear this—what happens toyou doesn’t belong to you,onlyhalfconcernsyou.Heisspeaking of the legionnairesin Claire Denis’s film Beau

Travail and you are pulledback into the body of youreceivingthenothinggaze—

Theworld out there insistingon this only half concernsyou. What happens to youdoesn’t belong to you, onlyhalf concerns you. It’s notyours.Notyoursonly.

And still a world begins itsfuriouserasure—

Who do you think you are,sayingItome?

Younothing.

Younobody.

A body in the world drownsinit—

Heyyou—

Allourfeveredhistorywon’tinstillinsight,won’tturnabodyconscious,

won’tmakethatlookin the eyes say yes, thoughthereisnothing

tosolve

even as each moment is ananswer.

Don’t say I if it means solittle,holds the little forming noone.

You are not sick, you areinjured—

youachefortherestoflife.

How to care for the injuredbody,

the kind of body that can’tholdthecontentitisliving?

Andwhereisthesafestplacewhenthatplacemustbesomeplaceotherthaninthebody?

Even now your voiceentanglesthismouthwhose words are here aspulse,strummingshutout,shutin,shutup—

Youcannotsay—

Abodytranslatesitsyou—

youthere,heyyou

evenasitlosesthelocationofitsmouth.

When you lay your body inthebodyentered as if skin and bonewerepublicplaces,

when you lay your body inthebodyentered as if you’re the

groundyouwalkon,

youknownomemoryshouldliveinthesememories

becomingthebodyofyou.

You slow all existence downwithyourcall

detectable only as sky. Thenight’syawnabsorbs you as you lie downatthewrongangle

tothesunreadyalreadytoletgoofyourhand.

Waitwithmethoughthewaiting,waitup,might take until nothing

whatsoeverwasdone.

Tobeleft,notalone,theonlywish—

to call you out, to call outyou.

Whoshouted,you?You

shoutedyou,youthemurmur

in the air, you sometimessounding like you, yousometimessayingyou,

gonowhere,

benoonebutyoufirst—

Nobody notices, only you’veknown,

you’renotsick,notcrazy,notangry,notsad—

It’sjustthis,you’reinjured.

Everythingshadedeverythingdarkened everythingshadowed

isthestrippedisthestruck—

isthetraceistheaftertaste.

Itheyhesheweyouweretooconcluded yesterday to knowwhateverwasdonecouldalsobe done,was also done,wasneverdone—

The worst injury is feelingyoudon’tbelongsomuch

toyou—

Whenthewaitresshandsyourfriendthecardshetookfromyou, you laugh and askwhatelse her privilege gets her?Oh, my perfect life, sheanswers. Then you both arelaughingsohard,everyoneintherestaurantsmiles.

Closed to traffic, thepreviously unexpressivestreet fillswith small bodies.One father, having let go ofhischild’shand,standsonthesteps of a building andwatches.Youcan’ttellwhichchild is his, though youfollow his gaze. It seems tobelongtoallthechildrenasitenvelopstheirplay.Youwereabout to enter your building,

but do not want to leave thescopeofhisvigilance.

July13,2013

A friend writes of thenumbing effects of hummingand it returns you to yourown sigh. It’s no longeraudible. You’ve grown intoit. Some call it aging—aninternalized liquid smokeblurringordinaryache.

Just this morning another,Whatdidhesay?

Comeon,getbackinthecar.Yourpartnerwantstofaceoffwithamouthandwhoknowswhat handheld objects theothervehiclecarries.

Trayvon Martin’s namesounds from the car radio adozen times each half hour.Youpullyour loveback intothe seat because though nooneseemstobechasingyou,the justice system has other

plans.

Yes,andthisishowyouareacitizen: Come on. Let it go.Moveon.

Despite the air-conditioningyoupull the button back andthewindow slides down intoits door-sleeve. A breezetouches your cheek. Assomethingshould.

Whatfeelsmorethanfeeling?You are afraid there issomething you are missing,somethingobvious.Afeelingthat feelings might beirrelevant if they point toone’sirrelevancepullsatyou.

Do feelings lose their feelingif they speak to a lack offeeling? Can feelings be a

hazard, a warning sign, adisturbance, distaste, thedisgrace?Don’t feel likeyouaremistaken. It’snot that (Isit not that?) you areoversensitive ormisunderstanding.

You know feelingsdestabilize since everyoneyouask is laughing thatkindof close-the-gap laughter: allthe ha-ha’s wanting

uninterruptedviews.Don’tberidiculous.None of the otherblack friends feel that wayandhowyoufeelishowyoufeelevenifwhatyouperceiveisn’ttiedtowhatis…

Whatis?

Andso itgoesuntil thevistaincludesonlydisplacementoffeeling back into the body,which gave birth to thefeelings that don’t sitcomfortably inside thecommunal.

You smile dumbly at theworld because you are stillfeeling if only the feeling

could be known and thisbrings on the moment yourecognizeasdesire.

Everydayyourmouthopensand receives the kiss theworldoffers,whichsealsyoushut though you are feelingsick to your stomach aboutthe beginning of the feelingthat was born fromunderstanding and nowstumbles around in you—thego-along-to-get-along tonguepushing your tongue aside.Yes, and your mouth is full

up and the feeling is stilltottering—

“Thesubjectofsomanyfilmsistheprotectionofthevictim,and I think, I don’t give adamnabout those things. It’snot the job of films to nursepeople. With what’shappeninginthechemistryoflove, I don’t want to be anurseoradoctor, I justwanttobeanobserver.”

As a child, Claire Deniswished to be a nurse; she isnolongerachild.Yearshavepassed and so soon we lovethis world, so soon we arewillingtocoexistwithdustinoureyes.

And,ofcourse,youwant thedays to add up to somethingmorethanyoucameinoutofthesunanddrankthepotablewater of your developedworld—

yes, andbecausewordshangin the air like pollen, thethroatcloses.Youhackaway.

That time and that time andthattimetheoutsideblisteredthe inside of you, wordsoutmaneuvered years, hadyou in a chokehold, everypart roughed up, the eyesdripping.

That’s the bruise the ice intheheartwasmeanttoice.

To arrive like this every day

forittobelikethistohavesomanymemoriesandnoothermemory than these for aslong as they can beremembered to rememberthis.

Though a share of allremembering, a measure ofall memory, is breath and tobreathe you have to create atruce—

atrucewith thepatienceofastethoscope.

Icanhear theevenbreathingthat creates passages todreams. And yes, I want tointerrupt to tell him her usyoume Idon’tknowhow toend what doesn’t have anending.

Tell me a story, he says,wrapping his arms aroundme.

Yesterday, I begin, I waswaiting in thecar for time topass.Awomanpulledinandstarted toparkher car facingmine.Oureyesmetandwhatpassed passed as quickly asthelookaway.Shebackedupand parked on the other sideof the lot. I could havefollowed her to worry myquestion but I had to go, Iwas expected on court, Igrabbedmyracket.

The sunrise is slow andcloudy,dragging the light in,butbarely.

Didyouwin?heasks.

It wasn’t a match, I say. Itwasalesson.

Images

MichaelDavidMurphyTitle:JimCrowRd.Date:2008Credit: Michael DavidMurphy

KateClarkTitle:LittleGirl,2008infant caribou hide, foam,clay,pins,thread,rubbereyes15×28×19inches

HennessyYoungmanScreen grab from ARTTHOUGHTZ: How to Be aSuccessfulBlackArtistCourtesyofJaysonMusson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3L_NnX8oj-g

NickCaveTitle:SoundsuitsPhotobyJamesPrinzCourtesy Jack ShainmanGallery,NewYork

Title: Tennis-Brazil-

Wozniacki-ExhibitionDate:December7,2012Collection:AFPCredit:AFP/GettyImages

Title: Untitled (Rutgerswomen’sbasketballteam)Datephotographed:April10,2007Credit: MIKESEGAR/Reuters/Corbis

Pages52–53GlennLigonTitle: Untitled (I Feel MostColored When I Am ThrownAgainst a Sharp WhiteBackground),1990–91oilstickandgessoonpanel80×30inches

MelChinTitle: VOLUME X No. 5BlackAngel

TheFunkandWagfromAtoZ, 2012, excised printedpages from The UniversalStandard Encyclopedia,1953–56, by Wilfred Funk,Inc., archival water-basedglue,paper524collages,eachvaries from 8 × 11 inches to17×23inches.ImagecourtesyofMelChinDescription: A popular,vintage encyclopedia isprocessed to representcontradictorylayersandlogic

of personal and publicinformation.Theimageshavebeen extracted from alltwenty-five volumes of a1953–56 Funk & WagnallEncyclopedia andreconfigured as collages,unleashing the potentiality ofimages trapped by historicalcontext. New political andpsychological associationsemerge in the black-and-whitepresentationthatcoversthewalls.

Pages86–87ToyinOdutolaTitle: Uncertain, yetReserved. (Adeola. AbujaAirport,Nigeria.),2012pen ink and acrylic ink onboard20×30inches29½ × 39½ × 1½ inchesframed

HultonArchives

Title:PublicLynchingDate:August30,1930Credit:GettyImages(Image alteration withpermission:JohnLucas)

Pages96–97JohnLucasTitle:MaleII&I,1996gelatinsilverprintsandfoundobjects72×60inches

Pages102–103CarrieMaeWeemsTitle:BlueBlackBoy,1997From the series “ColoredPeople”silverprintwithtextonmat30×30inches

Pages110–111GlennLigonTitle:Untitled(speech/crowd)#2,2000silkscreen,coaldust,oilstick,

glueonpaper40×54inches(101.6×137.2cm)

RadcliffeBaileyTitle: Cerebral Caverns,2011wood, glass, and 30 plasterheads97×100×60inches

Pages122–128JohnLucasABCNEWSIMAGE

WangechiMutuTitle:SleepingHeads,2006mixed media, collage onMylar; “wounded wall”:puncturedlatexSet of 8: Approx. 17 × 22inches(43.2×55.9cm)each.

Wallinstallationdoneonsite.Courtesy of the artist andSusanneVielmetterLosAngelesProjectsThePinnellCollection

Collection/CORBIS

WorksReferenced

Baldwin,James.TheFireNextTime.NewYork:Laurel-Dell,1962.

——.NotesofaNativeSon.NewYork:DialPress,1963.

Berlant,Lauren.CruelOptimism.Durham,NC:DukeUniversityPress,2011.

Bhabha,HomiK.TheLocationofCulture.LondonandNewYork:Routledge,1994.

Blanchot,Maurice.TheSpaceofLiterature.Trans.AnnSmock.Lincoln:University

ofNebraskaPress,1982.

Douglass,Frederick.NarrativeoftheLifeofFrederickDouglass,anAmericanSlave.1845.Reprint,NewYork:PenguinBooks,1986.

Ellison,Ralph.InvisibleMan.NewYork:RandomHouse,1992.

Fanon,Frantz.TheWretchedoftheEarth.NewYork:GrovePress,1963.

——.ADyingColonialism.NewYork:GrovePress,1965.

Hammons,David.ConcertoinBlackandBlue(mixedmedia),2002.

Lee,Kevin.http://mubi.com/notebook/posts/spectacularly-intimate-an-interview-with-claire-denis.PublishedonApril2,2009.

Lowell,Robert.LifeStudies.NewYork:Farrar,StrausandGiroux,1959.

——.FortheUnionDead.NewYork:Farrar,Strausand

Giroux,1964.

Shakespeare,William.TheTragedyofOthello,theMoorofVenice.NewYork:WashingtonSquarePress,1993.

Williams,Patricia.TheAlchemyofRaceandRights:TheDiaryofaLawProfessor.Cambridge,MA:

HarvardUniversityPress,1991.

Youngman,Hennessy/Musson,Jaysonhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3L_NnX8oj-g&list=UU1kdURWGVjuksaqGK3oGoxAhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNXL0SYJ2eU&list=UU1kdURWGVjuksaqGK3oGoxA

Zidane,Zinedine:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2004/apr/04/sport.features

Grateful acknowledgment ismade to the editors of thepublications in which poemsand essays from this bookfirst appeared: Blackbird,BostonReview,LanaTurner,Ploughshares, Poetry, PoetsWriting Across Borders: TheStrangest of Theatres, andPushcartPrizeXXXVIII:BestoftheSmallPresses.

Immeasurable gratitude toElizabeth Alexander,Catherine Barnett, CalvinBedient,LaurenBerlant,Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, SarahBlake, Jericho Brown,Prudence Carter, Jeff Clark,AllisonCoudert,NickFlynn,Louise Glück, HillaryGravendyk,KateGreenstreet,AnnieGuthrie,RupertGrant,Karen Green, MarilynHacker, Christine Hume,Melanie Joseph, Nancy

Jugan, Alex Juhasz, BhanuKapil, Sally Keith, AaronKunin, Robin Coste Lewis,Diana Linden, CaseyLlewellyn, Beth Loffreda,MaggieNelson,LisaPearson,Maitreyi Pesques, NicolasPesques, Adam Plunkett,Patricia Powell, RomarilynRalston, Ira Sadoff, SarahJuliette Sasson, SarahSchulman, Lisa Sewell,Connie Rogers Tilton, JenTilton, Susan Wheeler, and

RonaldoWilson.

To everyonewho generouslyshared their strories, thankyou.

Thank you also to PomonaCollege, UCross Foundation,and Graywolf Press. Thankyou,KatieDublinskiandJeffShotts.

And finally, jaw-droppinggratitude toUlaandJohn foreverything.

ClaudiaRankineistheauthorof four previous books,including Don’t Let Me BeLonely: An American Lyric.She is a chancellor of theAcademy of American Poetsand the winner of the 2014Jackson Poetry Prize. SheteachesatPomonaCollege.

This book is made possiblethroughapartnershipwiththeCollege of Saint Benedict,and honors the legacy of S.Mariella Gable, adistinguished teacher at theCollege.

Previous titles in this seriesinclude:

LoverboybyVictoriaRedelTheHouseonEcclesRoadbyJudithKitchenOne Vacant Chair by JoeCoomerThe Weatherman by ClintMcCownCollected Poems by JaneKenyonVariations on the Theme ofanAfricanDictatorshipby

NuruddinFarah:Sweet andSourMilk

SardinesCloseSesame

DuendebyTracyK.SmithAll of It Singing: New andSelected Poems by LindaGreggTheArtofSyntax:RhythmofThought,RhythmofSong

byEllenBryantVoigtHow toEscape fromaLeperColonybyTiphanieYaniqueOne Day I Will Write AboutThis Place by BinyavangaWainaina

TheConvert:ATaleofExileand Extremism by DeborahBakerOn Sal Mal Lane by RuFreeman

Support for this series hasbeenprovidedbytheManitouFund as part of the WarnerReadingProgram.

BookdesignandcompositionbyJohnLucas.Manufacturedby Versa Press on acid-free,80#mattecoatedpaper.

TableofContents

HalfTitlePageTitlePageCopyrightDedicationIIIIIIIVVVI

VIIImagesWorksReferencedAbouttheAuthor

Citizen: An American Lyric

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