My conflict with Daddy came to a head when I was sixteen, the same age Mike is now. He had ordered me to do something, what I can’t remember. I do remember feeling the familiar threat of physical punishment behind his words if I didn’t immediately obey. I had had enough. We were at the house, upstairs on the second floor. He barked his orders, but I wasn’t moving fast enough.
“Move, goddammit, when I speak to you,” he bellowed.
The resentment weighed me down, and slowed my legs. I knew instantly that we were heading for a showdown. Daddy jumped up from the bed in his room and moved toward me. Even that gesture failed to speed my pace. This wasn’t worker slowdown, a domestic uprising against an unjust guardian. This was sheer frustration, anger, and weariness.
“Move, I said,” Daddy repeated. I didn’t.
Then he grabbed me by the arm and pushed me against the wall. Something in me exploded. Or did it snap? Either metaphor, or perhaps both of them, captured my state of mind, my state of soul.
“Fuck it, man,” I heaved. “You just gonna have to kill me, ‘cause I refuse to be scared any more.”
I guess he took me seriously. He literally lifted me off the ground with his left arm, his massive chocolate hand sunk deep into my yellow neck as he pinned me against a hallway wall. They didn’t call him “Muscles” for nothing. I thought for sure that he might really kill me. I didn’t care anymore. I was tired of running. Mama saved me.
“Everett,” she hollered. It was all she said. But it was enough to bring Daddy to his senses, to make him drop me to the ground before he completely choked me. Never mind my gasping. I felt free, delivered of some awful demon of fear that no longer had power over me. It was my emancipation proclamation and declaration of independence all rolled into one moment. It was a milestone in my relationship to Daddy.
For the next seven years, his last on earth, Daddy and I got along much better. After I got Terrie pregnant at eighteen and married her, and after Mike was born, Daddy and I grew much closer. In fact, he’d often cook for me and Terrie because we were so poor at times that we didn’t eat every day. In fact, at times, we didn’t eat for two or three days in a row. But then we’d go by the house, and Daddy would always give us a good meal. I even sent Daddy a Father’s Day card in 1981 when I was in Knoxville attending college. I told him how much I loved him, and how much I appreciated the fact that we had overcome our differences now that I was a man with major responsibilities. A few weeks later, he was dead from a heart attack at sixty-six. So young when you really think about it.
But I must confess, even now as a thirty-five-year-old man I have dreams of Daddy doing violent deeds to me, whipping me in vicious ways. The lingering effects of the whippings Daddy administered are illustrated in a story I heard about a boy and his father, who sought to rid his son of his habit of lying. The boy’s father hammered nails into a piece of wood for each lie his son told. Finally, when the board was nearly full, the boy pledged to stop lying. And his father promised to pull a nail out each time his son told the truth. When the board was completely empty, the boy began to cry.
“What’s wrong, son?” the boy’s father asked. “You should be happy. You’ve stopped lying, and the nails are all gone.”
“Yes,” the boy replied. “The nails are gone, but the holes are still there.”
Well, the holes are still there for me as well. My psyche bears the marks of spiritual and psychological violence. But I am not bitter toward Daddy. I honestly believe he was a good man trying to do his best in a world that was often difficult for him. The older I get, the more clearly I understand the forces he faced.
I guess I’m sharing all of this with you now because we never enjoyed this kind of intimacy before your imprisonment. A shame, but it’s true. And even though we grew up in a household where we knew we were loved, we rarely, if ever, heard the words, “I love you.” Daddy taught us to be macho men, strong enough to take care of ourselves on the mean streets of Detroit. And though Mama protested, thinking Daddy was trying to make us too rough at times, I’m sure we both appreciate many of his efforts to prepare us for an often cold-hearted, violent world.
I yearned for a home where we could be both strong and vulnerable, tough but loving. Daddy’s reading of the world led him to believe it was either one or the other. He chose to teach us how to survive in a city that was known then, in the seventies, as the “Murder Capital of the World.” And because I loved books, and not the cars that you and Daddy and Brian loved to work on, he sometimes thought I was “too soft.” Daddy was really proud of me later when I excelled at school. He wanted me to be better than he was.
I remember once when I was about eight years old, I was mimicking his pronunciation of the number 4. He pronounced it “foe.” I followed suit. But he stopped me.
“Don’t you go to school, boy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Don’t you know how to say that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then do that from now on. Okay?”
I’ve never forgotten that exchange. He didn’t have a great education, but he sure wanted me to be learned. Indeed, he wanted the best for all his boys. I imagine if he was alive he’d be heartbroken that you’re in prison. Daddy was the complete opposite of so much of what prison stands for. He rose every day before dawn, even after he retired from the factory, and worked until evening, cutting grass, laying sod, painting, or working as a maintenance man. I learned my work ethic from him. I can still hear him saying, “Boy, if you gonna do a job, do it right or don’t do it at all.” I’ve repeated that to Mike at least a million times. And of course, his other famous saying was “If you start a job, finish it.” That is, other than his maxim: “Laziness will kill yo’ ass.”
And even when he worked those thirty-three years at Kelsey-Hayes Wheelbrake, and Drum Factory, he often put in sixty or seventy hours. I swear I once saw a stub where he had worked nearly eighty hours, pulling a double shift for an entire week. It was Daddy’s example that led me to work two full-time jobs after Terrie got pregnant with Mike. (He warned me then, “The more money you make, the more you spend.” He was right, of course.) I’d go to a maintenance job from 1:00 A.M. to 7:30 the next morning, and then work a menial “construction job” (a misnomer, to be sure) from 7:30 to 4:30 in the evening. And I still had to get food stamps while Terrie was enrolled in WIC (Women, Infants, and Children). That stuff saved our lives.
I’m glad that you and I have learned to talk. To communicate. To express our love for one another. It hasn’t been easy seeing you cooped up like an animal when I visit you. But the one good thing to come out of all of this is that at least we’re getting to know each other better. That’s why I feel good about telling the world about you.
Even as I talk about you on television and radio, though, I always try to impress on the audiences and interviewers in the short time I have that ours is no “one son makes good and the other makes bad: what a tragedy” scenario. I’m not trying to pimp your pain or commercialize your misery to make a name for myself. That’s because, I believe in my heart, and hope you do too, that it could just as easily be me in your cell. I don’t want people using our story as a justification for rewarding black men like me who are able to do well while punishing brothers like you who’ve fallen on harder times.
No matter how much education I’ve got, this Ph.D. is no guarantee that I won’t be treated cruelly and unjustly, that I won’t be seen as a threat because I refuse to point the finger at “dem ghetto niggers” (a statement made by black and white alike) who aren’t like me. I’m not trying to erase class differences, to pretend there’s no difference in a black man with a Ph.D. and a black man who’s a prisoner. I’m simply saying I can’t be seduced into believing that because I’ve got this degree I’m better.
How could I be? I was one of “dem ghetto niggers” myself. Even now I think of myself as a ghetto boy, though I don’t live there anymore, and I refuse to romanticize its role in its inha
bitants’ lives. Not even survivor’s guilt can make me that blind. But being from the ghetto certainly leaves its marks on one’s identity. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for serious, redemptive criticism of black life at every level, including the inner city. There’s a difference between criticism that really helps and castigation that only hurts.
I should close this letter for now. I fear I’ve touched on many sensitive spots, and you may sharply disagree with some of the things I’ve written. But that’s all right. The important thing is that as black men, as black brothers, we learn to embrace each other despite the differences that divide us. I hope you write me back. I’d really like to know what you think about what I’ve said. In the meantime, stay strong, and stay determined to renew your spirit and mind at the altar of devotion to God and our people. In the final analysis, it’s the only thing that can save us all.
Peace and Love,
Mike
Three
THIS I BELIEVE
This speech was written for an oratorical contest sponsored by the Detroit Optimist Club when I was an eleven-year-old student at Webber Junior High School. I delivered the oration as a twelve-year-old neophyte who saw his award-winning speech published later that year in a Detroit educational magazine. I was also featured in the local newspaper. I can still recall the photo of me gesturing underneath the Detroit News headlines: “12 Year Old Boy’s Plea Against Racism Wins Award.” I suppose my fight for social justice and racial equality began quite early. The speech recalls the influence of Martin Luther King’s dream for racial harmony. It bears as well the imprint of the social unrest and urban rebellion that seized the nation in the late ’60s and early ’70s. Given that I spend more than 150 days annually delivering lectures, sermons, addresses, and speeches across the nation, it is ironic to note that my vocation as a public speaker began in trepidation. On Webber Junior High School’s loudspeaker, the announcement went forth about an “oratorical contest.” After school, I made my way to English teacher Mr. Otis Burdette’s room as directed to discover what oratorical meant. When I was told that it had to do with public speaking, I immediately demurred, but Mr. Burdette convinced me to give it a try. I went on to win several contests over the next two years. Last year, I reconnected with Mr. Burdette after not seeing him for nearly thirty years. He told me then what he didn’t have the heart to say to me as a twelve-year-old boy: that I had not won a regional oratorical contest because of racist judges. Thus, there was a strange, even poetic, symmetry between my speech, my life, and my subsequent vocation combating injustice as an intellectual insurgent and rhetorical guerrilla.
NOT OFTEN IS THE SUBJECT OF BROTHERHOOD brought up. War, crime, and other various things are often talked about, but not brotherhood. I believe that one day we won’t have discrimination or anything relating to it in the world. There shall be, someday, a faith in all people that will make them see, if they have faith in their country and its peace, that they are taking a step toward having a better world.
Our leaders of yesteryear, and our leaders of today all have tried to make a profitable world for us. If we want peace and justice for ourselves, we must also sacrifice to become profitable.
We must look ahead, never back. When I say this I mean we shouldn’t think of the time when a man was beaten, or had to go to jail because of the color of his skin. Instead, we should look for a brighter future.
Our motive shall be to seek the day when all men, disregarding the color of their skins, shall be able to stand up and say that they have overcome the act of devaluating other people and that they can live together in continuing harmony, a harmony that will accomplish what leaders before us have tried.
All people, at times, have dreams about how they can improve our world, but some of us can’t quite express ourselves because we are young and don’t know how to bring these dreams out. If this is your problem, you should get your ideas across to someone who will act upon them, in a way that will make them sensible and conspicuous.
We should construct an enduring faith within ourselves, a faith that can withstand the problems caused by man, a faith that can someday help man solve the problems he has committed, and that faith should be entrenched in understanding!
We can’t judge a person because of the way he looks or because he handles situations differently than us. I believe you should judge a person on what he attempts to do, rather than on how he accomplishes it. I believe that he is putting effort into what he is trying to accomplish. Leaders from many nations would agree that it’s not how you do it, but what you try to do. That’s what counts.
The late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., provided many benefits for people, but the night before he was assassinated he asked, when someone delivers the eulogy at his funeral, not to mention the many awards he won, but to mention that he had tried to clothe, feed, and get equal rights for all people. Sometimes when someone does something little, he looks for a lot of praise, but this brilliant man only wanted people to remember him in a way knowing that he helped humanity. This sets an example for all people. Dr. King struggled for what he thought was right.
If we have dreams that will benefit our world, we must bring them out, or get them across to someone, because if you think they’re worth hearing, they must be heard!
All people, young and old, can at least be listened to, to see if they have anything of meaning that will make our world a better place to live. An old saying composed by Benjamin Franklin, “A penny earned is a penny saved,” relates to this, because “A dream gained is a dream made into reality.”
I believe that true leadership in bringing people together in a way that is understandable and acceptable to them is the first step in having people respecting and sharing their thoughts and beliefs with humanity. When people have reached the time in their lives when they can accept others as they are, then we might have a world fulfilled with tranquillity! This will be the day when all men will be able to transform their oasis of belief into a quality of success.
PART TWO
THEORIES OF RACE
Racism remains the central problem in our culture; its brutal persistence brings out the ugliest features of the national character. I have spent quite a bit of time reading, writing, and thinking about race, and no small effort opposing racism’s malevolent expression. We must clearly grasp the difference between race—the culturally determined base of identity upon which social benefit and stigma rests—and racism—the sordid expression of prejudice and hatred against a racial group with the sanction of law and social custom. Otherwise, we won’t make much headway in understanding why it is sometimes helpful to take race into account, even as we continue to fight against white supremacy, one of the most destructive forms of racism in history.
Four
THE LIBERAL THEORY OF RACE
In 1985, Edmund Perry, a Harlem youth who graduated with honors from Phillips Exeter Academy, won a full scholarship to attend Stanford University. Ten days later, he was killed on New York’s Upper West Side by a white undercover detective, Lee Van Houten. The plainclothes policeman claimed that Perry and his brother, Jonah, then a nineteen-year-old engineering student at Cornell, had viciously beaten him during a robbery attempt. The story caused an immediate uproar. It also provoked a great deal of handwringing about the difficulties of urban youth straddling two cultures—one black and poor, the other rich and white. In fact, it is the Edmund Perry story that inspired Michael Jackson’s long-form video “Bad.” Robert Sam Anson, a noted journalist, penned a book on Perry that also addressed the racial and personal factors that may have driven him to selfdestructive behavior. I knew one of Perry’s former teachers, the respected religious historian David Daniels, who is interviewed in Anson’s book. Daniels was uncomfortable with the limiting racial lens through which Anson viewed the case. I wrote this review of Anson’s book to explore the intricacies and contradictions of the Perry case. I sought to engage the liberal racial paradigm that may have ultimately prevented Anson from successfu
lly explaining a youth like Perry and the cultural and racial predicaments he confronted.
THE ABYSMAL STATE OF RACE RELATIONS in American culture is a continuing source of bewilderment and frustration. The reappearance of overt racist activity, especially on college and secondary school campuses, forces us to reevaluate our understanding of race as we approach the last decade of the twentieth century. In particular, the liberal theory of race, which has dominated the American understanding of race relations, has exhibited a crisis of explanation, manifested in its exponents’ inability to elucidate persistent forms of Afro-American oppression.
Robert Anson’s book Best Intentions: The Education and Killing of Edmund Perry (New York: Random House, 1988), which recently appeared in paperback, reflects the crisis in liberal race theory. Anson’s perspective is rooted in a theory of race that prevents him from understanding the complex ways in which racism continues to exert profound influence over the lives of millions of black people. In particular, his explanation of the social and personal forces that besieged Edmund Perry’s life, and caused his death, is severely limited by Anson’s approach. By examining issues raised in Anson’s treatment of Perry’s life and death, I want to comment upon the limits of the liberal theory of race and show how Anson’s use of it distorts crucial issues that need to be addressed.
In 1981, Edmund Perry, a black teenager “of exceptional promise,” left Harlem for Exeter, New Hampshire, in order to attend one of the nation’s most prestigious prep schools. On June 2, 1985, he graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy with honors, having been awarded a full scholarship to Stanford University. Ten days later, a short distance from Harlem on New York City’s Upper West Side, Perry was killed by Lee Van Houten, a young white plainclothes police officer. Van Houten reported that Perry and an accomplice had beaten him viciously during a robbery attempt on the night of June 12.
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