There is an item of sorts sitting between us. It’s square contrasting the roundness of the table; its weight begins to press through the metal top it lays on and a half dozen eyes blaze toward it. I sense it calling me and the eyes daring me to embrace the spiritual gravity pulling against my resistance. I focus my mind enough to ask myself: What is it? This question echoes loudly in the silent scream of my soul. I quiet the sirens of silence raging on the inside of me and conjure words through the capacity of my mind. It’s a book!
I blink through the realization of what the figure is and burden my eyes with the responsibility of reading the title. I am weakened in the resistance of wanting to reach out and grab the book for a better view, but something whispers inside me: “That would be dangerous.” My attention is pulled back to the eyes across the table from me. The caution churning in my gut intensifies and paralyzes my body but enhances my senses so much I can feel the stiffness of the hair on the back of my neck. Disobeying the paralysis of fear, I squint hard and lean forward to read the title. I sound out each letter in my mind as I realize my vocal cords have been cut by the terror that surrounds me. Crrr … criii … critiii … critical…raaa… rac … race… th…theee … theoo … theory: Critical Race Theory!
The realization of the book's title causes the drumming of my heartbeat and the booming silence in my ears to come to a halt. As if the terror gripping my soul wasn’t already tight enough, I feel my internal organs beating the bounds of my skeletal system seeking escape from the horror that I have now come to understand is my surroundings. I set off the alarm of my amygdala, triggering the choice of fight, flight, or freeze. In the purgatory of my decision, I take note of my position in more detail than I had before. I am kneeling in front of the half-dozen eyes, and realize, they have faces.
The skin of the faces carrying these eyes is of a light pigmentation reflecting a noticeable difference in comparison to the melanin that soaks through my reflection. Exiting the purgatory of my thoughts I decide to fight through flight. I move to stand and am immediately restricted by the chains I have come to realize that I am bound by. The sound of metal slapping the floor in resistance to my movement reverberates the symphony of oppression exposed in detail by the book weighing on the table.
My hands share one metal clasp binding my wrists together and each of my feet is clamped by metal bracelets connected to short chains bolted into the floor. Adding to the terror wrecking my soul I begin to panic as the eyes have now shifted to me. I have unintentionally gained their attention. Now fixed on me, the white of their eyes turned to a red so dark I no longer can see the blue and green hues of their irises; just their black pupils narrowing in focus and beating against the red of their rage.
I started to fight against the chains; seeking to borrow the strength of my ancestors to rip them from the concrete floor. This resistance reflected power and tenacity, yet still proved futile as my body collapsed into the embrace of weariness and defeat. I shifted my attention away from escape and honor a defiance birthed through the sorrows of my ancestors; squaring my shoulders and lifting my head to stare into the eyes darkening with blood thirst I began to recite:
Racism is ordinary, not aberrational – “normal science,” the usual way society does business, the common, everyday experience of most people of color in this country. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
I pause as I come to notice the two average-built middle-aged white men I had not seen until now who are standing next to me. There is one on each side of my body facing the other. They are looking downward; toward the bolt that is keeping my hands in the restriction set by the metal clasp holding them to a position of prayer. They are gripping the wooden staffs holding large round blades. Both men slowly begin to lift their sticks into the air as if they were saluting a flag invisible to me. I continued to recite:
The first feature, ordinariness, means that racism is difficult to address or cure because it is not acknowledged. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
The blade to my right comes down towards my wrists in what feels like slow motion as the shine from its sharpness winks at me. I am too disconnected from my body to attempt to move out of its way; an effort that would not prevent the inevitable as my clasped hands are bolted to the ground by chains so short it hurts to keep my back straight. The arms of the man to my right bring the blade down swiftly to meet the knuckles of my wrists and I hear the sounds of metal fall to the short distance of the concrete floor. His blade released me from the chains that kept my hands from freedom but bound me to an existence of intersectional oppression I did not anticipate. As my eyes well up with the waters, my ancestors could not release I continue:
The second feature, sometimes called “interest convergence” or material determinism, adds a further dimension. Because racism advances the interests of both white elites and working-class whites, large segments of society have little incentive to eradicate it. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
My arms remain in a position that triangulates the center of my body as if my clasped hands are still connected to me. I look into the face of the man who swung the blade and I see emptiness. I turn my attention to the left of me; the man I suppose was back up in case the first attempt of severing didn’t go so smoothly and I see his blade lowered and his shoulders resting in a hunched relief. I straighten my back once more and continue through the excruciating pain that has begun to seep past the adrenaline of my fear and shock:
The third feature, the “social construction” thesis, holds that race and races are products of social thought and relations. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
The eyes get up and begin to walk past me. The men standing on either side of me follow them dragging their blades across the floor like heavy burlap sacks. I continue:
Not objective, inherent, or fixed, they correspond to no biological or genetic reality; rather, races are categories that society invents, manipulates, or retires when convenient. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
A door slams shut, and the book is still on the table; for different reasons now, I cannot reach for it or pick it up. So, I conclude:
People with common origins share certain physical traits, of course, such as skin, color physique, and hair texture. But these constitute only an extremely small portion of their genetic endowment, are dwarfed by what we have in common, and have little or nothing to do with distinctly human, higher-order traits, such as personality, intelligence, and moral behavior. (Delgado & Stefancic, 2001, p. 8)
Comments