Eventually the pastor of our community church sat down in front of me and said “What color were they?” Up until this point in my life I referenced the neighborhood kids as young, the same age, or older than I. There was no race distinction in my life. I said to him “they were black” and an explosion rang throughout utopia. It was though I had been deaf all my life and suddenly in an instance, my hearing was restored. For the first time I heard words like “nigger,” “lynch” “coon” used in the context of my life. The hate filled my home during the week and seeped into the pores of my soul. It would take decades to untangle the mess.
Several years later, we moved away Avondale. The family had fractured and it would never be repaired. My brother …show more content…
The emotions were heightened because I did not visually read the book, I listened to the audio tape. I had to figure out a way to analyze Bigger Thomas fictional plight without bringing my personal experience into the picture. I am older now and I knew I had the tools to dissociate myself enough to be able to experience the book for what it is, literature. I was able to gain a better understanding of the message Richard Wright was attempting to convey to his audience about life for an African American man and how Bigger was the direct consequence of the an oppressed, abused …show more content…
Everything happened to me, life experiences were my own, and everyone around me was a player in my own life narrative. The players in my life story were props to move along my life and they did not have their own life experiences or emotions. In 1989 I moved back to the scene of the crime with no emotion. I was working for a company in Atlanta and made friends with an African American woman who also worked at the company. I would visit with her and her child periodically in their home. I did not place any importance in getting to really know her and her life. She was a supporting player in my life who had no substance or form. The reason I know this is because almost thirty years later the only thing I remember is her name, Cynthia Ray and she was African American. I do not remember much about her but I do remember she was racially profiled in my car. We were traveling to Memphis, Tennessee through Alabama. I was dropping her and her daughter off at a relative’s house in Memphis before I headed to Kentucky for a family holiday. We were traveling through Alabama, I was driving she was riding in the passenger seat and her daughter was in the backseat. I must have been trying to break the land speed record for a Honda Civic because I blew through a speed trap. It was the middle of the night, the officer walked up to my window, and his partner walked up to the passenger
Several years later, we moved away Avondale. The family had fractured and it would never be repaired. My brother …show more content…
The emotions were heightened because I did not visually read the book, I listened to the audio tape. I had to figure out a way to analyze Bigger Thomas fictional plight without bringing my personal experience into the picture. I am older now and I knew I had the tools to dissociate myself enough to be able to experience the book for what it is, literature. I was able to gain a better understanding of the message Richard Wright was attempting to convey to his audience about life for an African American man and how Bigger was the direct consequence of the an oppressed, abused …show more content…
Everything happened to me, life experiences were my own, and everyone around me was a player in my own life narrative. The players in my life story were props to move along my life and they did not have their own life experiences or emotions. In 1989 I moved back to the scene of the crime with no emotion. I was working for a company in Atlanta and made friends with an African American woman who also worked at the company. I would visit with her and her child periodically in their home. I did not place any importance in getting to really know her and her life. She was a supporting player in my life who had no substance or form. The reason I know this is because almost thirty years later the only thing I remember is her name, Cynthia Ray and she was African American. I do not remember much about her but I do remember she was racially profiled in my car. We were traveling to Memphis, Tennessee through Alabama. I was dropping her and her daughter off at a relative’s house in Memphis before I headed to Kentucky for a family holiday. We were traveling through Alabama, I was driving she was riding in the passenger seat and her daughter was in the backseat. I must have been trying to break the land speed record for a Honda Civic because I blew through a speed trap. It was the middle of the night, the officer walked up to my window, and his partner walked up to the passenger