Who We Be : The Colorization of America (9781466854659)

by Chang, Jeff; Herc, D. j. Kool

  The painting is smaller than the visitor imagined it. The idea of it had swelled in his mind. Yet he is still mesmerized by its movements and codes. He thinks of Lewis’s 1965 masterpiece, Processional, with its stormy hope, unveiled not long after the marchers moved from Selma to Montgomery. He thinks of Phase 2’s graffitied subway cars of Bronx-liberated hieroglyphs.

  “Do you know what you are looking at?” a voice says behind him.

  The visitor finds himself stammering, “Um well, yes, I…”

  He had been waiting to see a real Norman Lewis painting up close for years. He knows this painting is from 1967, two years after Spiral’s Black and White show, a year after Spiral’s demise, a year before Norman Lewis donned a protest placard before the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The visitor turns to answer, “I mean, I’ve been studying Norman Lewis.”

  The security guard smiles. He is bald with a high forehead, his skin an ocher tone. “So you know this painting is about the artist’s experiences with the night riders.” He points—and the visitor gestures along with him—at Lewis’s two black downstrokes against the white background forming a triangle, two more dabs for the eyes, almost a cartoon: the hood. The guard says, approvingly, “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  He explains, “When I was a young boy, when I was twelve, I used to go in the woods with my friend. Sometimes we’d watch these night riders doing their meetings.”

  “I saw my boss there once. I used to work at a grocery store,” he continues. “He’d drive up in his truck, get out and put his hood on, go and light a cross with all the rest of them, then he’d get back in his truck and go home.”

  Now the visitor gawks at the guard. “How did you feel? I mean, were you scared?”

  W (Alabama) by Norman W. Lewis. 1967. Oil on canvas. Courtesy of the Estate of Norman W. Lewis and landor Fine Arts, New Jersey.

  “We didn’t know what it was back then,” he says, then pauses in thought. “You know, nothing ever happened to me in my town. It was more like they were carrying on the traditions of their forefathers.”

  The visitor considers this. “Um, where did you grow up?”

  “Small town in Virginia, about twelve miles from the North Carolina state line,” the guard says. He holds up his hands. “I’m saying this was just me. I was a young boy. Up to the early sixties they were doing stuff like this. But now? Now they’re a joke.”

  The guard looks to his right, alerted by some noises. Two girls are posing by the Roy Lichtenstein painting of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck. In front of Donald’s word balloon—“Look Mickey, I’ve Hooked a Big One!!”—a wiry blond boy in a green beanie and a black Pittsburgh Steelers hoodie looks as if he is preparing to bomb the photo, a coiled spring of potential disaster.

  “I’m sorry,” the guard says, “let me get back to my babysitting here.”

  The visitor nods. He tilts his head and takes in another look at the painting. It appears different, deeper, more real. Then he turns back around the corner.

  There a red-haired, middle-aged schoolteacher and her five students stare up at a high wall. On it, 429 chipboards of wood are arranged closely, each eight inches by ten inches. Up close the chips reveal subtle textures: some show their grain, others their brushstrokes, a few disclose the scratches from before they had been painted. Most are evenly colored, but some are shiny, some are flat; others have hotspots of gloss, variations like shadows on the barks of old trees. Each chip is colored within the spectrum from pink to bister.

  The group stands before the wall with furrowed brows, puzzling it all out. They’re magnetized but they can’t say why. The teacher walks to the wall labels. There is a stenciled diagram of boxes and within each box is a person’s name. Their first names are arranged alphabetically from left to right. She looks back at the wall. “Oh!” she says. “These are skin colors!”

  “Oooooooooh,” coo the four girls and the boy in the hoodie, who has joined them. They stare with fresh eyes at Byron Kim’s Synecdoche. Then they each begin to move toward the wall.

  “I’m that,” says the first girl, holding her fist up toward a cocoa-colored chip.

  “That’s me,” says another, glasses high over her soft cheekbones, pulling along a friend as she points her fist toward a russet chip.

  Her friend—brown hair pulled back in thick pigtails, long thin brown eyes framing a fair face—skips toward a dark brown chip, declaring as she raises her own fist to it, “I’m so black!” The two giggle with delight.

  “Help me find my color!” shouts a blond girl in Ugg boots, grabbing the hand of the boy in the hoodie. They draw close to the wall, waving their hands, eyes darting across the grid.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” says a bronze-skinned guard in tinted glasses, gold tassel hanging off the right shoulder of his uniform, a grin lingering in his baritone voice. He strides back to a spot distant from the center of the wall and declares, “Let me show you all how.”

  The group gathers around him. “Here,” he says. They watch as he brings his hand up to his eye line, his fingers spread casually, his palm facing away. He says, “First you hold your hand out.”

  And each of the six raise their open hands, seeing the colors of their fingers and the colors of the painting through them, searching for themselves and for each other, seeing together anew, as if they are reaching out to touch the future.

  Synecdoche by Byron Kim. 1991–present. Oil and wax on panel. 429 10 × 8 in. panels (as of 2009). In the collection of the National Art Gallery. Photo by Dennis Crowley. Courtesy James Cohan Gallery.

  Acknowledgments

  The tragedy of life is that you never know all the things you’re supposed to know when you’re supposed to know them. The best part is that you will have the chance to catch up and make some things right, or at least to recognize how much less certain about everything you really ought to be, like Dylan in “My Back Pages.”

  This book offers a closure of sorts to the long burst of energy and inquiry that began with Can’t Stop Won’t Stop and continued in Total Chaos. In the odd way that all history writing is autobiographical, this book took me back through my own process of finding and forming my own identity. It’s been an opportunity to figure out what I got right and what I still need to get right.

  The title came of course from the DMX song—a suitably middle-finger response to the anti-multiculturalists, I once thought, before growing younger. But I think these three words—and the four that follow—still fit. The language is still forming for the world we need to be in, and crazy as dog is, he wasn’t wrong.

  Who We Be was really sparked by three events that blew my mind after I finished Can’t Stop Won’t Stop. So here’s where my acknowledgments must begin.

  On May 18, 2005, I was privileged to curate a panel at the Ford Foundation called “Got Next: Identity and Aesthetics After Multiculturalism.” The discussion, commissioned by Roberta Uno at Ford, led by Greg Tate, and featuring Vijay Prashad, Mark Anthony Neal, and Brian Cross, meant to focus on hip-hop. But it quickly spun into a wide-ranging conversation on the legacies of multiculturalism. It was a head-spinning session that reframed so much recent history many of us had so quickly forgotten.

  Later that evening, we went to the Bronx Museum of the Arts for another panel, this time on hip-hop in the visual arts, curated and moderated by Lydia Yee. She framed the talk by first acknowledging the impact that the mid-1990s backlash against identity had on the contemporary art world and young artists of color of the Post Generation. This discussion panel, featuring the artists Nadine Robinson, Sanford Biggers, Jackie Salloum, and Luis Gispert, helped me to think harder about the role that the arts and artists played as targets of reaction and agents of change.

  Both of these panels happened at a point when few were talking about the culture wars of the 1990s. 9/11 had created a patriotic kind of multiculturalism, and pop culture itself was still in the thrall of hip-hop’s millennial takeover. No one knew that the return of the cult
ure wars was right around the corner.

  In 2009, Hua Hsu’s cover story in the inauguration-month issue of the Atlantic, “The End of White America?”, captured the paradox of the post-racial moment and pointed suggestively at the return of the culture wars. Hua’s essay endures. It has helped frame media discussions around race in the Obama era. Hua and his essay made me feel that writing about the colorization of America wasn’t actually that insane.

  So in addition to all those generously brilliant people I mentioned above, my thanks also go to those who helped manifest these moments—San San Wong, Christine Balancé, Margaret Wilkerson, Dr. Allison Bernstein, Tricia Rose, and the 2005–2006 staffs at the Ford Foundation, the Bronx Museum of the Arts, and La Peña Cultural Center.

  OK. Y’all ready? This book took forever, so the list is gonna be mad long. Adjust your reading glasses.

  In no particular order, I would like to share my gratitude with all those who helped me on this long journey.

  Thank you to Joy Yoon, Trevor Schoonmaker, Isolde Brielmaier, Jennifer Fallago Monahan, Kinshasha Holman Conwill, John Jay, Laura Kina, Kai Ma, Sin Yen Ling, Jane Kim, David Leonard, Judilee Reed, the late inspirational Karin Higa, Martin Perna, Connie Wolf, Elisabeth Sussman, Kori Newkirk, Daniel Joseph Martinez, Nizan Shaked, Helene Winer, and Ala Ebtekar.

  Thank you to the late great Morrie Turner, Karol Trachtenberg, Aaron McGruder, Andrea Fraser, Ali Wong, Keri Smith Esguia, W. Kamau Bell, Hari Kondabolu, Marlene Cancio Ramirez, Alan Wallach, Byron Kim, Carol Duncan, Charles Stone III, Claude Grunitzky, Cornell Belcher, David Ross, Gravity Goldberg, James Leventhal, Donald Newman, Faith Ringgold, Grace Matthews, Franklin Sirmans, Gaby Pacheco, Glenn Ligon, Thelma Golden, Hank Willis Thomas, and his entire studio staff.

  Thank you to Howardena Pindell, Ishmael Reed, Tennessee Reed, Al Young, Janine Antoni, Jamel Shabazz, Peter Holderness, Janet Henry, Angela Fullen, Jessica Hagedorn, John Hanhardt, John Lee and Jiae Kim, john a. powell, Jose Antonio Vargas, Tania Mitchell, Judy Baca, Chris Eisenberg, Miles Bennett-Smith, Jerome Reyes, Gina Hernandez Clarke, Chris Gonzalez Clarke, Elvira Prieto, Al Camarillo, Ramón Saldívar, José David Saldívar, Kathy Coll, and Steve Phillips.

  Thank you to Andrew Leland, Vendela Vida, Izabela Moi, Karrie Jacobs, Oliviero Toscani, Kay WalkingStick, Laura Trippi, Frances Phillips, Alexandra Chang, Linda Craighead, James Rucker, Gary Simmons, Lucy Lippard, Margo Machida, Coco Fusco, Billy Wimsatt, Davey D, Matt Revelli, Maya Soetoro, Harry Gamboa Jr., Juan Capistran, Melanie Cervantes & Jesus Barraza of Dignidad Rebelde, Mark Gonzales, Aaron Perry-Zucker, Ernesto Yerena, Melissa Chiu, Susette Min, James Bernard, Baye Adofo, Josh MacPhee, Aura Bogado, Arlene Goldbard, Brett Cook, Paul McMahon, Christine Kim, and Ragland Watkins.

  Thank you to Angela Davis, Reggie Hudlin, Touré, Neil Arthur, John Jay, Lorrie Boula, Richard Wayner, Rita Gonzalez, Susan Wyatt, Rosa Clemente, Bakari Kitwana, Tania Unzueta, Tony Whitfield, Tyrone Forman, Vijay Iyer, Jennifer Brody, Aleta Hayes, Amita Manghnani, DJ Rekha, Dounia Mikou, Arcade Fire, Erykah Badu, Savages (Gemma Thompson and Jehnny Beth), Big Dipper Management, Thomas Dillon, Dave Twombly, Tom Gagnon, Katie Thomson, Gord Mazur & the Lavin Agency staff, Julia Martyn, Holly Caracappa, Rachel Rosenfelt, Elizabeth Keating, and the planning committee of NCORE.

  Thank you to Rinku Sen & the ARC staff, Kai Wright, Jamilah King & the entire ColorLines staff, Tommer Peterson & Grantmakers In the Arts staff, Alan Jenkins & the Opportunity Agenda staff, Betsy Theobald Richards & the Creative Change staff, Malkia Cyril & the Center for Media Justice Staff, Vincent Pan & the CAA and AACRE staffs, Anne Pasternak, Laura Raicovich, Nato Thompson, and the Creative Time staff.

  Thank you to Eugene Kuo, Shinji Kuwayama, Kristina Rizga, Mike Stern, Maribel Alvarez, Sharon Zapata, Jose Antonio Vargas, Logan Phillips, Kat Rodriguez, Lindsay Marshall, Raul Alqaraz, Alfredo Gutierrez, Isabel Garcia, Carlos Garcia, Jeff Biggers, Roberto Bedoya, Leilani Clark, Deyden Tethong, Susan Davis, Elizabeth Kabler, Binta Brown, Fernando Garcia-Dory, Rick Lowe, Olga Garay, Maori Holmes, Tariq Trotter, Rich Nichols, Chinua Thelwell, and the Mochilla fam—Eric Coleman, Luke Lynch, and Mike Park. Thank you to Dustin Cable, Meredith Gunter, Amy Muldoon, and the Weldon Cooper Center for Public Service for allowing us to use their Racial Dot Map, which grabbed many hours of our curiosity and time.

  Thank you to Scott Kurashige, Tim Noakes, Daniel Hartwig, Alex Tom, jelani Cobb, Teju Cole, Daniel Alarcon, Anna Deavere Smith, and Rebecca Solnit.

  I am constantly inspired by my CultureStrike fam—Andy Hsiao, Ken Chen, Favianna Rodriguez, Yahaira Carrillo, Julio Salgado, Michelle Chen, Sharmila Venkatasubban, Kemi Bello, Marco Flores, Sonia Giunansaca, Oree Original, Cynthia Brothers, and all our past and present staff members, board members, participants, and supporters.

  To the Culture Group for the intellectual intensity and the not-so-intellectual stuff, too—Brian Komar, Erin Potts, Liz Manne, Ian Inaba, Alexis McGill Johnson, Yosi Sergant, Gan Golan, Emily Smith, Jessy Tolkan—thank you.

  For their invaluable research help, thanks to Jess Wilcox and the entire Artists Space staff, Camille Billops and James Hatch from the Camille Billops and James V. Hatch Archives, and Kristen Leipert at the Whitney Museum Archives.

  For their generous support, thanks to Cora Mirikitani and the Center for Cultural Innovation for their Investing in Artists grant, to the United States Artists program for their generous fellowship, and to the Gaea Foundation for the Sea Change Residency, during which I finished the first complete draft of this book. Thanks to Peggy, Chris & Carla, Durga, and Gaylord for letting me soak up the creative vibes in that amazing cottage and for making my time there exactly what I needed.

  To the Youth Speaks/Brave New Voices/Life Is Living fam, you give me hope.

  I could not have completed this book without having a special team to work with. To Carlo De La Cruz, Denise Beek, Freddy Anzures, Anna Alves, and especially the super-clutch Gabrielle Zucker and Stephen Serrato, my gratitude is bottomless.

  Robert Karimi gave me the right advice at the right moment. Adam Mansbach, Elizabeth Mendez Berry, Oliver Wang, Sharon Mizota, Harry Elam, David Leonard, Kiese Laymon, Charles Yao, Kristina Rizga, Mike Stern, Joan Morgan, and Jungwon Kim were brave enough to read the book when I was doubtful it would ever amount to anything. If this was all they did, I would be forever indebted. But theirs was also a well that was always full.

  B+ was the patron saint of this book.

  My IDA family has kept me in motion. I am grateful for their boundless energy and easy genius. A big thank you to the brilliant H. Samy Alim, Ellen Oh, Elizabeth Quinlan, and the entire IDA fam for always having my back. Samy, thanks for taking a chance.

  To the St. Martin’s Press, Picador, and Macmillan family, especially James Meader, Alexandra Sehulster, Stephen Morrison, David Rogers, James Iacobelli, and Josh Kendall, thank you for always making great things happen.

  To Surie Rudoff and Diana Frost, thanks for keeping me honest and correct. To Josh Karpf for expert copyediting.

  To all those I forgot, it was my head, not my heart. My head will be buying the food and drinks.

  To Victoria Sanders, for never giving up and always knowing what’s next. As the kids say, you Tha Bawse.

  To Benee Knauer, Chris Kepner, Bernadette Baker-Baughman, Gillian Barnard, and everyone who has worked in that office for the trust, honesty, and the open door.

  To Monique Patterson, for believing. It’s been an incredible ride. Here we go again!

  To the Changs, the Chais, the Pagaduans, and the Andayas, I will always represent.

  To Lourdes, Jonathan, Solomon, it’s always all for you.

  * * *

  Grace Lee Boggs says, “We are the children of Martin and Malcolm, and our duty is to shake the world a new dream.”

  She also says, “I don’t know what the American revolution will look like but you might be able to imagine it, if your imagination were rich enough.”

  I am one of the children of Grace, and I be dreaming togther with you.

&nbs
p; —J

  Notes

  Please note that some of the links referenced in this work are no longer active.

  Seeing America

  1. Jennifer N. Gutsell and Michael Inzlicht, “Empathy Constrained: Prejudice Predicts Reduced Mental Simulation of Actions During Observation of Outgroups,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 46 (2010): 841–45.

  2. Vijay Iyer, “Improvisation, Rhythm, Empathy, and Experience: A Perspective from Embodied Music Cognition,” unpublished paper, February 2013.

  3. Raymond Wiliams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (New York and London: Routledge, 1976), 76.

  4. Eduardo Galeano, Days and Nights of Love and War (London: Monthly Review Press, 2000), 138.

  5. I am indebted to Brian Komar for this idea. Abraham Lincoln once said, “Public sentiment is everything. With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it nothing can succeed.” He added, “Consequently he who moulds public sentiment goes deeper than he who enacts statutes or pronounces decisions. He [who moulds public sentiment] makes statutes and decisions possible or impossible to be executed.” See Jeff Chang and Brian Komar, “Culture before Politics,” American Prospect, December 6, 2010, http://prospect.org/article/culture-politics.

  6. Patrick J. Buchanan, Suicide of a Superpower: Will America Survive Until 2025? (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2011), 5.

  7. Andrew Malcolm, “Obama Joker Artist Unmasked: A Fellow Chicagoan,” Los Angeles Times, August 17, 2009.