I got to read March: Book One.
Usually when atrocities happen, you kind of hope to yourself that the major violent movements are behind you, even if every single day proves you wrong, you keep hoping for the better day.
March, the book, is much closer, time and location wise, than Maus could ever be to me.
Being a raggedy white kid I could never understand the absolute gall it took to protest like John Lewis did, like many young kids did at the time. Not to mention the absolute determined resolution to be completely non-violent. I'm just left in awe.
Hell, just reading it riled me up.
I wanted to knock someone's teeth out at any death threat, slur, you name it, but that wouldn't have helped anyone.
To appeal to the white masses with love and compassion though, was smart.
Somewhere in my core I was always more of a Black Panther Party advocate, so it's a bit difficult to put aside my intrinsic desire to help as opposed to pleading in a peaceful political protest when so many of those are met by police brutality.
A notable difference is John Lewis lives. To educate, to tell the tale, to remind of what is already being swept under the rug. Many during this time had their chance at life ripped away from them.
With this, I started reading Book Two.
I had to know what happened.
The juxtaposition of the modern-day look into Obama's election right beside the bombing of the buses was... a bomb to my stomach.
Not to mention, in the middle of reading this, my step-father wanted to indulge in a 2 hour conversation on how racism in the United States is dead, legally, and how much I had to bring up movement after movement that stomped on black families.
We ended the night on talk of police brutality.
It wasn't easy to digest.
He, as an immigrant, has no concept of life here.
He doesn't consider himself racist because, and I quote, "I don't beat black people half to death or deny them employment."
The standards, the bar, is so damn low he doesn't even see it.
On top of that, he is very white, with what I consider to be very little empathy.
I finished the book.
I'm drained.
Family has made any discourse regarding real topics very difficult.
Usually when atrocities happen, you kind of hope to yourself that the major violent movements are behind you, even if every single day proves you wrong, you keep hoping for the better day.
March, the book, is much closer, time and location wise, than Maus could ever be to me.
Being a raggedy white kid I could never understand the absolute gall it took to protest like John Lewis did, like many young kids did at the time. Not to mention the absolute determined resolution to be completely non-violent. I'm just left in awe.
Hell, just reading it riled me up.
I wanted to knock someone's teeth out at any death threat, slur, you name it, but that wouldn't have helped anyone.
To appeal to the white masses with love and compassion though, was smart.
Somewhere in my core I was always more of a Black Panther Party advocate, so it's a bit difficult to put aside my intrinsic desire to help as opposed to pleading in a peaceful political protest when so many of those are met by police brutality.
A notable difference is John Lewis lives. To educate, to tell the tale, to remind of what is already being swept under the rug. Many during this time had their chance at life ripped away from them.
With this, I started reading Book Two.
I had to know what happened.
The juxtaposition of the modern-day look into Obama's election right beside the bombing of the buses was... a bomb to my stomach.
Not to mention, in the middle of reading this, my step-father wanted to indulge in a 2 hour conversation on how racism in the United States is dead, legally, and how much I had to bring up movement after movement that stomped on black families.
We ended the night on talk of police brutality.
It wasn't easy to digest.
He, as an immigrant, has no concept of life here.
He doesn't consider himself racist because, and I quote, "I don't beat black people half to death or deny them employment."
The standards, the bar, is so damn low he doesn't even see it.
On top of that, he is very white, with what I consider to be very little empathy.
I finished the book.
I'm drained.
Family has made any discourse regarding real topics very difficult.
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