“Snow” by Kermit Frazier

If the weather is too warm for you right now, remember that cooler weather will eventually  be here. In that spirit, we bring you Kermit Frazier’s “Snow.” The essay was a nonfiction runner-up in TMR’s 2018 Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize contest. It is a moving, behind-the-scenes look at the crumbling walls of segregation, and the evolving urban landscape of Washington DC–delivered through the lens of Frazier’s childhood. The essay first appeared in print in TMR 44:2. You can read our interview with the author here.

Editorial note: A revised version of “Snow” can be found in the second chapter of Frazier’s recently published memoir, First Acts: A Black Playwright Comes of Age. 


by Kermit Frazier

For all too short a time we were blissfully at one with a white world, one that wasn’t “other” when it fell upon us, for it was, in fact, a world of bright white snow that blanketed our neighborhood just as it did all others. A white world to claim, possess, revel in, yet something elusive still, temporary, melting, like the stuff of dreams. A world awash in contradictions. Cold yet comforting; soft and soothing yet slickly hard-packed over time; pristine and virginal yet driven by weather change toward slush and mush, gutter-clogging and dirty, dark and unworthy. So quick, quick, while there’s time, me and my brother and our friends, shouting down the rolling hill through the trees on wooden Radio Flyer sleds, the snow flying up all around us. Black kids in a white whirl of snow in a black world surrounded by a white one. Magical, exhilarating snow. One of the few white realities we could safely touch, feel, get next to back then.

It was a privileged sled ride because it was a special hill. Cedar Hill. Special and less dangerous for its being both enclosed and more expansive. Unlike the sidewalks of Chicago Street, down which we usually swooped early in the morning, before the neighbors cleared the ice and snow and shooed us away, belly-flopping on our sleds one after another from the corner of Shannon Place all the way down the block and off the sidewalk into the snow-covered dirt and grass at the end of the dead end street, where each of us had to roll off his sled, one after the other, to keep from being cut by the metal runners of the sled swooshing right behind. “Roll off, roll off, roll off,” we’d cry. Hearts pounding and laughing and out of breath yet eagerly pulling our sleds up the middle of the street to head back down, again and again.

No, Chicago Street was by no means Cedar Hill, which was a several block trek away. It was, instead, a street right in the middle of our black community in the Anacostia section of Southeast Washington, DC, across the Anacostia River from DC proper—a section that seemed at times to be an appendage, or even appendix, of the nation’s capital. A street that ran two short blocks from Nichols Avenue down across Shannon Place, which ran several blocks parallel to Nichols Avenue from Howard to Good Hope Roads. A community of row and detached houses for working- and middle-class black people, many of whom owned their own homes, many of which they’d either built themselves or had built, like my paternal grandfather, who’d had two homes built over the years, in fact, both on Shannon Place and a block away from each other, the newer of which he lived in with his wife, the older of which he rented to my parents. A thriving, striving black community in an Anacostia that was still, in the early 1950s, 80 percent white and essentially segregated, as was most of DC.

The white population generally stretched beyond Nichols Avenue up Good Hope Road to Alabama Avenue and up beyond Saint Elizabeths Hospital into Congress Heights, down into Oxon Run and into the Maryland suburbs. We lived closer to the Anacostia River, wedged between the hills to the south and the railroad tracks of the old Alexandria branch of the B & O line, across which lay Bolling Field at the river’s edge to the north. Other tentacles of the black community lay across Howard Road in an area initially called Barry’s Farm and across Nichols Avenue up the hill in an area that at one time was known as Stantontown.

Barry’s Farm was first developed right after the Civil War with the help of the Freedmen’s Bureau, which had bought up $25,000 worth of land from the Barry family and sold, rented, or leased it to black folks to raise money for higher education—especially for the newly created Howard University. Black families could purchase one-acre lots and enough lumber to build a house for between $125 and $300 and repay it in installments of $10 per month. Families relocated from run-down alley dwellings in the central city to renovated former military barracks near their new lots, where they could live while they built their homes. In the 1950s, though, the area was known primarily for its rows of flat garden apartments, much smaller than the houses of our community, public housing projects that were called, in a curious shift of the letter s, Barry Farms. An area where, in my view, some of the poorer, tougher black kids in our elementary school lived.

Those kids came up Sumner Road—from Stevens, Eaton, and Wade Roads—past the recreation center that anchored the huge playground that swept down behind it and Birney Elementary School. My brother, sister, and I would come with other kids up Nichols Avenue, across a bridge that passed over Suitland Parkway, which effectively separated Barry Farms from our more middle-class neighborhood, at one time known as Hillsdale. We didn’t talk about our differences much: we were simply Negro kids in an all-Negro school. But those differences were evident at times. For example, although I was friends with kids who lived in Barry Farms, I rarely hung out with them there. And my sister remembers a friend from there coming to visit her and marveling at the fact that she lived in a house surrounded by a yard.

Yet wealth and privilege were relative, for at that time I was jealous of a cousin of ours who went to Birney but rode with his teacher mother and was “rich” enough to be able to buy his lunch from the little store across the street every single day! And of course there were wealthier black parts of DC that we almost never saw—for example, way up in Northwest, on the black Gold Coast, where all the streets seemed to be named after trees. There resided Negroes from prominent families: more doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs, old families with Howard University pedigrees, families who sent their kids to Dunbar High School, the academic school for Negroes before integration drained it of its brains and cachet by giving such kids other options, just as it gave Negro kids in Anacostia the right to actually attend Anacostia High School, a mere mile away from Barry Farms and Stantontown.

And curiously, although Stantontown had a different history from Barry Farms, it had a similar economic arc. It developed over several decades in the early to mid-nineteenth century after Tobias Henson, a slave in the area, purchased his freedom, eventually bought twenty-four acres and the freedom of his wife, two daughters, and five grandchildren, and gradually added more and more land. By the 1870s, his family was the principal landholder in that community. By the 1950s, however, although Stanton Road still existed, Stantontown was gone, having been condemned a decade earlier by the federal government in order to build the Frederick Douglass Dwellings, a housing project designed by black architect Hilyard Robinson, future dean of Howard University’s School of Architecture.

But Fort Stanton still stood—as it does to this day—entrenched on a much higher hill than Cedar Hill. Built during the Civil War to protect the approach to the Washington Arsenal and the Navy Yard, it was one of sixty-eight enclosed forts that—along with ninety-three batteries and three blockhouses linked by more than thirty miles of trenches and roads—made DC the most heavily defended location in the Western Hemisphere by 1864. Of course, by the 1950s there was nothing much to defend against, no more Battles of Bull Run—or Manassas if you were from the South—that threatened the nation’s capital (or at least the capital of the North) with possible invasion by the Confederate Army (curiously the Army of Northern Virginia at Manassas/Bull Run). Hence, most of the forts and batteries no longer existed. But there was Fort Stanton in all its dusty glory—a fort that principally belonged to us black kids, kings of the hill, who wove in and out of its crumbling, half-barred tunnels and jumped off a huge earthwork mound behind it that we’d dubbed “Sandman’s Hill,” rolling and daring and testing each other still.

It’s easy to understand why Fort Stanton had been so important to DC’s defense, for from there one can see clear across the Anacostia River into the central city in all its whitewashed splendor: the Capitol, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the long, flat stretch of mall in between. In fact, as physically separate from downtown as we might have felt from that point on high, it was indeed a true vantage point, from which we could more easily seem to touch the sky on starry nights and view more clearly than from anywhere else in DC the spectacular fireworks show downtown on the Fourth of July. It was then that the rest of DC “deigned” to come to us, the streets around the park invariably invaded by motorized, integrated armies of the night.

But we never felt emotionally separated from that rest of DC because we had relatives who lived “across the river” in their own segregated communities. And the fact of segregation didn’t constantly weigh on our minds, either. For we did have our integrated moments—such as when my brother, sister, and I traveled daily one summer “all the way up” Alabama Avenue in Southeast to attend a music program in an elementary school in then white Fairfax Village, or when my brother and I took tennis lessons in Rock Creek Park, way up in Northwest. Other than those moments when we were young, we simply knew segregation. Knew, for example, that most movie theaters— even a couple we could reasonably walk to—were off limits to us, that although we could go to Carr’s and Sparrow’s Beaches, we couldn’t go to the more picturesque Sandy Point, that we could only dream about what fun it might be to spend the day at the popular Glen Echo amusement park, and that certain department stores downtown wouldn’t let us try on clothes or, if they did, made us use separate dressing rooms. Knowing, however, didn’t always keep us from not knowing. Like the time my family went on what we were sure would be a great new evening outing.

It had been a relatively short drive from our house across into Maryland along a two-lane highway. My dad had turned at the sign, slowed to the appropriate speed down the side road, and parked in a line of cars near the entrance. And there we sat, my father, mother, brother, sister, and I, early and waiting, ready to attend our very first drive-in movie. We had pillows and blankets, snacks and smiles, and the need to have a good time at this relatively new yet already quintessential American form of entertainment. I don’t remember what was playing, but it wouldn’t have mattered. With the big white screen looming ahead, we kids couldn’t wait for any old picture to start.

And when the ticket-taker’s booth came to life and cars began inching forward, our pulses raced even more with anticipation. A drive-in, a drive-in, a drive-in, as we bounced around in the backseat as though we were headed into a wondrous amusement park. Finally at the booth, we watched the young white ticket-taker lean out to greet us with a kind of automatic smile that froze into locked-jaw astonishment when he came face-to-face with my dad, wallet in hand and poised to pay. The white man—boy, really—stared at Dad, then looked away, then looked back again. He hesitated a moment more and then said, in an apologetic whisper, “Sorry, no coloreds.”

Suddenly we kids not only stopped bouncing but hardly breathed. No coloreds? But . . . what did that mean? That is, of course, we were coloreds, Negroes, but . . . huh? For an endless few seconds, Dad didn’t move, and I wondered what he was thinking and what he was going to say or do—eyeing as he was this fresh-faced white boy possessed of the knowledge and authority to bar him from a family activity he was quite willing to pay for. It was the strangest thing—not wanting our money, not wanting us to have a good time, not wanting, well . . . us. And yet it wasn’t him, per se, that white kid, for he did seem more sympathetic than angry. Nonetheless . . . What’s the holdup? What’s going on up there? I could feel white folks wondering in the cars behind us, as the heat in me, in our car, seemed to rise precipitously. Finally my father tucked his wallet back into his pocket and then maneuvered the car away from the window, out of the line, and back down the road.

It was like a retreat, like an utter defeat, and it was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. As we inched along past the growing number of cars, I kept my eyes to myself, not wanting to see how many other kids were bouncing in anticipation, how many white kids, that is, for I couldn’t imagine another Negro family having been as naïve as ours. And even if there was one joyously waiting, I didn’t want to warn them, vindictively wanting them instead to experience firsthand the rejection we’d just been subjected to.

Yet how could we have known? In many respects, desegregation had begun to come to DC toward the end of the 1950s. And a drive-in seemed so logically open yet private—that is, one could be outdoors yet still in one’s car, free from outright contact and “contamination,” together yet separate, an easeful sort of transition, an “all-deliberate-speed” kind of integration. But instead, the only speed we experienced was that of our green, squat-looking ’54 Chevrolet as my dad drove away, clearly angry but holding it in, the way he often did with an emotion he felt deeply.

We didn’t go home, however, for Dad was determined to find a drive-in theater that would admit us. I didn’t understand. Why waste time and suffer more possible humiliation? But he drove and drove, never losing his focus or his way, drove with a confidence that spoke of his experience as a part-time cab driver, drove in nearly complete silence, his desire and determination set, perhaps his sense of being a man and head of the household on some kind of line. And as he did, I began to wonder how long we would wander. All night? All year? For the rest of our lives? Wandering mile after mile all over the periphery of the “capital of democracy,” refugees in our own country, searching for a drive-in that would allow us to drive in, and perhaps recalling, each in our silent way, that until recently we couldn’t even walk into the Anacostia Theater, only a few blocks from our house and on a street called Good Hope Road no less.

But then finally, after nearly an hour, my father did find another drive-in. It was in a part of Maryland that was just outside Northeast DC.

As we spied the images on the huge picture screen and the cars in the nearly filled lot, our hearts raced once again, although more with anxiety now than anticipation. For there was no waiting, no inching up to the booth. Just straight ahead, then stop, then watch as the white female ticket-taker took Dad’s money with ne’er one crack in her proffered smile. And so in we went to enjoy our first drive-in experience, although I think each of us fell asleep from exhaustion at various times during the second feature.

Afterward, my dad drove home triumphantly. But it was a triumph tempered by the realization that metropolitan Washington, DC, like America as a whole, was still far from being integrated, far from being as open as the air to us “coloreds.”

Soon, however, integration was to come to DC with a speed that seemed more lightning than deliberate. For example, two decades later, an aunt and uncle of mine who had at one time lived in the Frederick Douglass Dwellings would buy a house on Brandywine Street in one of those previously all-white communities just above Oxon Run, that street being the same street where one of my best friends, a white boy I went through secondary school with, had lived with his family. When I’d walk home from school with him, walk in the opposite direction from where I lived, my pulse often quickened through some anxiety about moving deeper into a white community, a white world. And when I first drove along Brandywine to visit my aunt and uncle in their new home, I passed by my friend’s old apartment building knowing that not only did his family no longer live there but no white families lived anywhere on that street anywhere for blocks and blocks, palpably sensing how radically Anacostia had changed.

So radically that by the early 1970s, practically all whites were gone from Anacostia—as eventually were my family, many of my relatives, and much of the rest of the black middle class. That place “across the river” had transformed from an area that in the 1920s had the highest percentage of homeownership in the city and apartment structures as only one half of one percent of its total housing to an area that in 1970 saw 75 percent of itself zoned for apartments. That transformation came about for a myriad of reasons. But to my mind two are foremost: urban renewal and integration.

Congress had two increasingly interconnected problems on its hands between 1930 and 1970 with regard to Washington, DC: the need to accommodate families displaced by the demolition of substandard housing, particularly the alley dwellings in the central city, where many blacks had lived since just after the Civil War, and the need to expand facilities for the federal government, whose size began to balloon during and after World War II.

The National Capital Housing Authority, created by Congress originally as the Alley Dwelling Authority in 1934, was charged with the task of eradicating alley dwellings and constructing public housing in DC. Around the same time, the federal government decided it wanted to keep its agencies and workers as much as possible near the core of the city rather than push them out to the suburbs, as originally planned. That meant condemning housing and acquiring land by eminent domain, particularly southwest of the Capitol, an area that had once been too marshy and mosquito-ridden to be very desirable, an area where some of Washington’s notorious slave pens and auction sites had been situated before the Civil War, an area that had been allowed to deteriorate into a “slum” by the end of World War II. DC’s population was booming, expanding more than predicted after that war, and there were suddenly more low-income families—primarily blacks—being displaced than there was housing they could afford to rent. In addition, restrictive covenants in the suburbs prevented black families from leaving the city to find housing, even if it was affordable, which it often wasn’t. Meanwhile, height restrictions prevented the government from building true high-rises, either for government offices or for low-income families. Hence, urban renewal. Or “urban removal,” as certain critics cynically say.

Some of my mother’s family were “urbanly removed” from time to time over those years, especially from southwest to southeast of the Capitol. And although many of those old row house dwellings in Southwest were like “see-through” houses to me—that is, the back doors seemed to lie just behind the front doors—they were nonetheless home to family, and displacement is displacement. When my mom was young, shortly after her father died, she and her mother, sister, and two brothers stayed with relatives in that black Southwest. And when they had to move, their search for housing was traumatic for her: she was so afraid that they’d wind up homeless and on the streets. Fortunately, they managed to secure the last, demonstration model, garden apartment in a new public housing project near the Navy Yard in Southeast, projects other friends and relatives had moved to, projects that I considered my second home when we traveled across the Anacostia River, with kids constantly running in and out and family packing Grandma’s four-room, two-story corner place during holiday gatherings, she holding court like the queen of the domain that she was. Still, Mom’s early brush with possible homelessness was one “hit-home” example of the fact that DC proper wasn’t going to have enough public housing for everyone in need.

But across that river from the central city, from the “real” DC, across that river that met the Washington Channel at Fort McNair and converged with the larger Potomac River at Haines Point, across that river sat an area whose original residents were the Nacotchtank Native Americans (also known as the Nacostines); it was an area to which there was only the original little 11th Street Bridge for more than a century, an area that didn’t get a high school until 1935. Across that river lay Anacostia. All of that acreage, rolling and relatively expansive. Anacostia was suddenly the solution.

And so, slowly but surely, as zoning laws changed, public housing projects rose much faster and in greater density in Anacostia than in any other area of the city. And slowly but surely, the social and economic fabric of Anacostia began to change as well.

Such change was also effected—ironically for some, “tragically” for others—by integration. Gradually, from the late 1950s into the 1960s, with rigid segregation crumbling, middle-class black families began to leave Anacostia for better, larger homes in other parts of DC and in the suburbs, especially Maryland’s Prince George’s County, where the restrictive covenants fell more quickly and the housing was more affordable than in other counties surrounding the nation’s capital. Relatives and friends on my father’s side of the family began buying lots and having new homes built in Prince George’s County as early as the mid-50s. And that American-dream drive to move up and out began to break up the old neighborhood and a certain sense of family, almost literally for me, because for quite some time during segregation, at least half a dozen of my relatives lived in homes up and down Shannon Place.

Finally, in 1962, my own family moved as well, from my dad’s parents’ old house to one we bought in Northeast DC, right on the border between the city and Prince George’s County. We were moving to a community whose closest drive-in theater was, unwittingly, the one that had finally welcomed us that night in the 1950s.

Thus was Anacostia “stripped” of much of its black middle-class base just as more and more low-income black families were moving into housing projects there. What quickly followed were overcrowded schools, loss of amenities and services, and an increase in run-down housing stock and other kinds of neglect. And neglect can lead to frustration and despair, which can sometimes pave the way for drugs and crime. At a time when DC residents were finally getting the heretofore unconstitutional right to self-government, Anacostia was morphing into Ward Eight—the economically depressed voting district that the late, embattled yet savvy and tenacious Marion Barry (no kin, I’m quite sure, to the original owners of that vast farmland) consistently championed. Why, even the Metro subway system built in the 1980s threatened to bypass the area, to go straight from the federal city to the Maryland suburbs, until finally, under increased political pressure, “low-priority” stations were opened in Anacostia, one of them on Howard Road at Shannon Place, just two blocks from our old house.

In effect, a part of DC that in the first half of the twentieth century had been benignly neglected, left to its own middle-class, segregated devices, became in the second half of the twentieth century an area to which too much of the wrong kind of attention was paid at first, and then not nearly enough of the right kind.

Hence, in the 1950s, we Negro kids were riding the cusp of an era, blithely unaware of the changes that were in store, our world to a large extent proscribed and circumscribed. And that’s one reason we took our special privileges where we could, namely, up on Cedar Hill. For that house on nine acres of land was none other than the venerable Frederick Douglass Home. And because the caretaker just happened to be a member of our Bethlehem Baptist Church—a church Douglass himself had reportedly once visited in its earliest days—she tended to favor us more than other kids for prime sledding rights on snowy DC days.

In every season, the Douglass home was quite imposing, of course, and it seemed a little strange that to travel up to such a symbol of one of the greatest black abolitionists and champions of freedom and justice for black people, we had to walk from our all-black community into a part of Anacostia that was still basically white. But in retrospect, one might say that we boys were traveling the great Frederick Douglass’s own path, for it was he who in 1877 broke an all-white covenant by buying the house and property from John Van Hook and moving there from the central city.

Two decades earlier, Van Hook, along with his partners in the Union Land Company, had bought up land at the intersection of Nichols Avenue and Good Hope Road and laid out what they called Uniontown. It was to be the first DC “suburb,” a working-class, whites-only settlement (although apparently not for the Irish, who were the “black” white people of nineteenth-century America), and was intended primarily to serve Navy Yard workers with lots purchased for $3 monthly installments. “Negroes, mulattos, pigs, or soap boiling” were forbidden, rules that appealed to those whites fearing the increasing number of free blacks in their neighborhoods in DC proper. But land speculation, financial panic, and a slowdown in production at the Navy Yard—where my dad was working as a machinist nearly a century later—led to hard times for Van Hook and Co. and the sale of his prime, pristine headquarters property to, ironically, one of those hitherto barred “Negroes,” albeit a rather famous one.

Douglass died in 1895, but his second wife, Helen, organized the Frederick Douglass Memorial and Historical Association, which was chartered by Congress in 1900. That association and the National Association of Colored Women’s Clubs joined forces to open Cedar Hill to the public in 1916. And in 1962, the National Park Service was entrusted with the care of the house. But in the 1950s, we boys felt that the gently rolling hill on which the house stood belonged to us on those snowy winter days just as much as Fort Stanton did year-round. We were black boys dreamily sledding over white snow, pushing through to a time when segregation would give way to integration, and then, little more than a decade later, to one when the population of Anacostia would be just 37 percent white, when the DC school system would be 90 percent black, when Nichols Avenue would become Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue, and when the Carver Theater—the only one open to us in Anacostia during segregation—would fold and later reinvent itself as the home of the Smithsonian’s Anacostia African American History Museum and then fold again when that museum moved to a new, much larger building up the hill across from Fort Stanton Park.

Anacostia has been mostly black for decades now and thus “naturally” segregated once again, only this time more insidiously so, for such segregation has had a new factor churning within it: social and economic isolation. But much change is in the air—even solidly in the works—as it is everywhere now in DC, it seems. So much so that one current complaint from many black residents is that their “Chocolate City” is melting in the noonday sun of increased gentrification, with white families buying up property black families can no longer afford and “moving back in,” desiring to be closer to the action again, thoughts of where their young children will eventually attend school placed on the back burner or distinctly on the one marked “private.” And what with the Metro so gaily gliding “across the river,” property values steadily rising, and new development lining King Avenue and beyond, Anacostia is clearly increasingly “in their sights.”

Despite all this, however, despite the elaborate plans for all manner of Anacostia riverfront development; despite the creation of a neat though rather circumscribed community of mixed-income townhouses along Alabama Avenue that rests on the site of the demolished Frederick Douglass Dwellings, which had sat on the site of old Stantontown, which was land that had been bought by ex-slave Tobias Henson; despite the grounds of Saint Elizabeths Hospital, the old insane asylum, partially making way for the Department of Homeland Security; despite all of that and more—all those so-called manifestations of freedom and progress in this country—I suspect that black boys sledding down a snow encrusted Cedar Hill might well still be black boys reveling in one of the few white realities they feel they can safely touch, embrace, get next to, glimpsed and grasped in the dead of a DC winter. That temperate climate snow—like integration of any kind, it seems—forever illusive, impermanent, the stuff of dreams.


About the Author:

Kermit Frazier’s more than twenty-five plays have been produced at such theaters as the New Federal Theater, Detroit Repertory Theater, Milwaukee Repertory Theater, Seattle Children’s Theatre, and Baltimore Center Stage. Some have also been published by Broadway Play Publishing and Dramatic Publishing. In addition, he’s written for several television series, including head writer for the popular children’s mystery series, Ghostwriter. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in: Callaloo, Essence, Black World, Green Mountains Review, American Theatre, and The New York Times Book Review. His memoir, First Acts: A Black Playwright Comes of Age, was published in May 2022.

“Treading Water” by Dionne Irving

In “Treading Water,” novelist and essayist Dionne Irving recounts her experience of racial battle fatigue in the context of her lifelong relationship with water and the fraught history of race and swimming in America. The essay first appeared in TMR 39:2.


Treading Water

Dionne Irving

As long as I have been able to afford it in my adult life, I have found, whenever possible, a swimming pool. I learned to swim in Canada of all places, the only little black girl in my swimming class. I had been anxious to get in the water for as long as I could remember. My only delay was the tubes I’d had put in my ears at three years old. I come from island people, and my love of water happens on the pre-reflective level, joyfully, and with abandon. The smell of sea, of salt, of chlorine, of damp, slightly moldy bathing suits—all make me happy. My people come from Hong Kong, India, Africa, Scotland, and have ended up in Jamaica, Canada, and now the United States. I am the first who will have lived most of my life here. My family history is a collection of names and a handful of dates, most lost or faded. Like the way the ocean pounds away at the shore, our history, like the white sand of the island, slips through my fingers all the time.

Both heritage and joy bring me to the water. I swim laps, sometimes in community swimming pools or at fancy gyms with heated pools and bins thick with flutter boards; I will sometimes emerge from a stroke to see an older black person staring at me, the man or woman usually in his or her sixties or seventies. They might be a part of a water aerobics class or running in a physical therapy pool.

If I catch their eye they will say “Hello” or “Good morning” or “Good evening.” Our pleasantries break them from some kind of trance. I return to my laps, turning my head usually to the right, in order to take a breath. I love feeling my lungs expand and contract as I move through the water. I am aware of them for the first time all day. I marvel at my body’s capacity to stay buoyant, to take in air, to propel me forward. There are no sounds but the thrum of my heart and the cadence of my breath. In these moments, I understand the human body as a beautiful construct. When I stop, out of breath and panting, those eyes are on me again, watching.

As a symbol, water can be heavy handed. My writing students too often use it as a metaphor. They come back to it again and again to indicate cleansing or purification.

Bad students’ poems are usually where one finds water used as a metaphor to describe rebirth or the miraculous. But I find that I come back to it as often as my students do. Water captivates me. Water is refreshing but powerful, pleasurable, and dangerous. Figuratively, literally, symbolically, it has no equal for potency. Water is both backyard Slip ’N Slide and tsunami.

When we swim, when we plunge into oceans or lakes or backyard swimming pools, we feel some mastery over water, as though it could be ours to control. In these spaces we don’t wear much clothing and are in close contact with strangers. In and around these bodies of water, we reveal our public private parts. I think about this every time I pull on a bathing suit. I look at the way each of my “flaws” becomes visible and open for judgment. As we swim together, we experience intimacy regardless of age, race, or size. Each time we enter the water in a public space, we show ourselves.

It took me a few years of living in the United States before I understood the way water is loaded for African Americans. A horrible legacy surrounds water, and the story of who has access to it is a story dominated by a violence that is intricately tied to the ongoing battle for civil rights and against racism in the United States. In a hearing regarding public swimming spaces in Baltimore in 1954, just after the decision in Brown v. Board of Education, city solicitor Edwin Harlan said, “There must be segregation in fields of intimate contact or else there may be trouble.”

Trouble. What a wonderful word. Purposefully vague, it can suggest innumerable possibilities. Perhaps it was the kind of trouble that Harlan had in mind that resulted in a married couple’s arrest. Only two hours south of Baltimore and four years later, Mildred and Richard Loving would find themselves behind bars after breaking anti-miscegenation laws. Trouble begets intimacy, and intimacy is always trouble for those who believe fundamentally that skin color implies basic biologic difference.

Intimacy has certainly brought me my fair share of trouble because I have a very white life. To steal and alter a line from the old platitude: Some of my best friends are white. My white life happened in the way one usually does: I grew up middle class, attended mostly white schools, a mostly white college, worked in mostly white offices and went to mostly white graduate programs. English departments, for all their best efforts, are still primarily white spaces. I live in the Midwest, which is largely white, and where most of my coworkers and almost all of my students are white. I have compounded this racial isolation by marrying a white man, so much of my family is also white. In my life, so filled with whiteness, I avoid talking about Ferguson, about Eric Garner, about the movie Selma. I don’t remind people how easily I could have been that fourteen-year-old, bikinied black girl in McKinney, Texas, who was recently slammed to the ground by an overzealous police officer on the lawn outside a largely white pool.

Because I am often the only person of color in the room, these topics become loaded. I risk becoming the angry black woman in the eyes of those around me. I risk sounding like I am delivering a sermon, or instruction, or chastising. The angry black woman is a powerful archetype. The finger-waving, head-snapping sister-girl is an image I have to work hard to combat. Not because it represents any part of my character, but because it is the only lens through which many white people see a black women’s anger. It’s as though any time I am angry, I am liable to “go off.” My fear of this image often silences me in meetings where I might like to speak up. It makes me hesitate in moments where my temper flares; it alters my behavior in every single facet of my life; it is one of the things that contribute to my invisibility. So I have avoided conversations that could externalize the pain I’ve felt welling up inside me over these past few months in response to the sad state of the world.

The truth is that even intimacy cannot assure that people I love won’t disappoint me. The malaise and nausea I feel when I recognize the rhetoric of racism and privilege coming out of the mouths of people whom I have confided in, brought into my life, whom I work with and respect, keeps me off the Internet and away from the papers for days; it makes me send incoming calls to voicemail. It visits me with the symptoms of a depression so deep and so all-consuming that I have, more than once, closed my office door in the middle of the day to cry. I cannot eat, cannot sleep, cannot write, and cannot think.

A friend recently sent me an article about a condition called Racial Battle Fatigue. In a study published in the Journal of Anxiety Disorders, the authors focused on generalized anxiety disorder and found that people of color in the United States suffer from the condition at alarming rates. Defined as more than six months of general, free-floating anxiety and worry, the disorder was present not only in black people but also in soldiers of all races who live in theaters of war. It is a condition of living in a constant state of anxiety when the perceived threat can come from those who you are close to. I read the piece and thought, “Aha! So it isn’t just me.”

My friends, my extended family, are good, well-meaning people. They are loving, they are accepting, they are generous, but they are people who take their privilege for granted. They don’t have to live in fear of what may happen to them or to their children at an innocent pool party.


Who has access to water and who doesn’t, who is allowed to swim and when and where and how that swimming takes place connotes a privilege. When I read about how other forms of racial discrimination began to be dismantled after World War II, I kept coming back to swimming pools as battlegrounds. In his book Contested Waters: A Social History of Swimming Pools in America, Jeff Wiltse explores how, as public places starting in the North became increasingly more desegregated, whites simply abandoned municipal and public swimming pools for private pools and country clubs. A 2010 study by the USA Swimming Foundation conducted by the University of Memphis found that nearly 70 percent of African American children couldn’t swim. The reasons for this statistic are varied, but the result is a greater number of drowning deaths of African American children each year. Not everyone has the privilege of recreational water, something I’ve learned a little at a time throughout my life. Only now do I consider how I, a young black woman moving confidently through the water, might have warranted a closer look.

I was a teenager when my family moved to Florida from Canada. I didn’t understand then what water meant in America, and what it continues to mean. I didn’t know the way access to water could communicate the underlying issues of race, class, and privilege in the United States. Instead, what I imagined was the beach, the ocean lapping at my toes, and the soft sand. It was a scene that conjured everything that was good about the water. What a disappointment, then, when instead of being close to the beach, we were landlocked in northern Florida, nowhere near the water.

That fall I joined my high school swim team. I was the only person of color, my face little more than a smudge in the back of the yearbook photograph. We swam at the local university early in the morning. We got to practice at 5 am,and were in the water for an hour and a half and then off to high school on the other side of town. In the semi-darkness, the air was damp with the early morning and tinged with the chlorine I loved so much. I loved making my way down the lanes as the sun came up. It was the only time of day when I felt like me, the girl I’d been in Canada, the one who wasn’t always confused and heartbroken and alone. I didn’t understand Florida, and maybe I never would.

“Perfect form,” my high school swim coach would call out at each practice. “But you’re too slow!”

These words, I suspect, were meant to push me to try harder. But I was immune to coaching. I lost every race I competed in, finishing slowly, behind almost everyone in my heat. Half the time, I forgot I was competing. I lost myself in the dreamy state of being submerged in water still warm from the sun’s rays the previous day. I thought about the life in Canada I’d left behind and tried to forget that I was in this odd place, already stiflingly hot by 7 am.

In the locker room, my teammates, all white, wanted to know what I was using to shampoo my hair. They asked if I washed it every day. They told me I “talked funny,” and they would ask me to repeat those same distinctly Canadian words to hear the ways the vowels sounded in out and about and house. My teammates sounded funny to me, too, their words like a set of jangly keys coming together rhythmically in a song I didn’t know the words to. I would mimic their accents to entertain my mother and younger sister on days when we all felt down.

In the water, my teammates cheered me on, told me I would do better next time. They didn’t seem to understand that I wasn’t discouraged by my placement in the races or by my clear lack of athleticism. I couldn’t explain to them that all I really wanted was to be in the water. I didn’t want to be coached or cheered. I just wanted the connection to breath and body and self. Just as people do now, they watched me then, too, but perhaps for different reasons, staring at me from the sidelines as I made my way up and down the lanes.

During that first year in Florida, I swam mostly at home in our family swimming pool. It seemed to me the ultimate luxury as a Canadian girl, being able to swim outdoors into September and early October even. A dream, but not an altogether pleasant one. But then again, all of America was like a dream, familiar in some ways but the rest of it so unfamiliar, so confusing.

My understanding came in the form of a searing punch that connected with my jaw after I left math class on a scorching hot October afternoon. I turned when someone called my name, but didn’t react quickly enough to see the closed fist that connected with the right side of my jaw and sent vibrations shooting up through my face. She hadn’t drawn blood, but I clutched my cheek, thick with pain. The pain floored me and made me drop to the patch of grass between two portable classrooms. I had never been hit before. The girl towered above me, her message clear: You’re either with us or against us. What I wasn’t clear on until later that day was who that “us” was.

“You speak too proper,” a girl confided in me as she helped me press paper towels soaked in cool water onto my face. “You act too white. People don’t like it when they think you think you better than them.”

Too white or too black. It hadn’t occurred to me that there was a way to “act” black or white, that one was inherently better or worse. To be “too” something implied that you needed to find a balance, or, more to the point, that your pendulum should swing toward your own race in a way that made you easy to understand for other people. That way no one would question your grooming habits or the way you spoke. At my high school it meant you signed up for girls’ basketball or track and field. It meant that if you were smart, you joined the Black Brain Bowl Team (not its white counterpart, called simply the Brain Bowl) but it certainly did not mean you joined the swim team and signed up to be on the yearbook staff.

I managed to wash the mud from my shorts that afternoon before my mother noticed. But my face—black and blue, swollen and puffy where the girl’s fist had landed—was less easy to hide, and my mother certainly noticed.

I can’t recall the details of the lie I told. Something highly improbable, I’m sure. I relied on my ability to tell a good story. Mostly, I was ashamed. Most fourteen-year-olds think they know everything, and I was no different. I wanted to think I understood the world implicitly and that it had order and sense. I didn’t want my mother to know I had seemingly miscalculated who I was and my place in this new, bizarre world. I was ashamed that although I’d always made friends quickly and easily, I was so emotionally tone deaf that I could not pick up on the rhythms, the strokes, and the breath of this new place.

I can still feel the lingering effects of that punch, all these years later, the way it indoctrinated me into the subtleties of racial life in America, the way I continually find myself being indoctrinated. I’m grateful that there are no longer any overt punches. Instead, a thousand microaggressions land, as painful and as visceral as that closed fist against my jaw. And in my white world, I see those around me taking language for granted. Language—the words we use and the words we choose—is a privilege, and taking things for granted is at the very heart of privilege.


I dragged my feet on where to go to college, and through a combination of apathy and chiding from my parents, I ended up at Big Southern University. In the summer before my sophomore year, I signed up for Multi-Ethnic American Literature. I had taken an American lit class the previous fall with the same professor, who had managed to crack open Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man for me. When the book came into focus, I felt as though something made sense, as if the book announced something I had long felt but never been able to articulate. It seemed to explore the sense memory you have in the water when you know innately when to breathe and where your body is most buoyant. I had learned when, where, and how to be invisible in America. When to talk, when to stay silent, when to make sure it felt like I wasn’t there at all. In his novel, Ellison expressed the invisibility I cultivated and made sense of it, identified a purpose. As I began to understand that desire, I wanted to unpack it, to explore it.

But at Big Southern U, who was I to unpack it with? My professor’s summer syllabus looked exciting, full of authors I hadn’t read. They are now authors so dear to me that I hardly remember who I was before I encountered them: Octavia Butler, Sherman Alexie, Gayl Jones, and many others. That syllabus became a kind of personal canon for me in those interim years when I languished in corporate America before deciding to return to graduate school.

At a college known more for football and partying than academics, that six-week session was a popular way to squeeze in (or more frequently to make up) a class and not let it ruin one’s entire summer. In six weeks, most of us would receive three credits toward our major or toward satisfying another requirement in the English Department.

The classroom was in an older building that hadn’t been outfitted with the bone-chilling industrialized indoor winter in June that is Florida’s calling card. In the stuffy classroom, my T-shirt stuck to my back and my hair clung to my head, frizzing at the scalp. I would go swimming when the class was done. I could see the pool from the window of the classroom, cool and inviting. It was the same pool of my thwarted high school swim-team days; I seemed to keep coming back to it.

As I do now in my own college classes, the professor had us each introduce ourselves and talk about why we were taking the class. But first he discussed the class and pushed us to consider our own identities, to consider the ways in which race and privilege might define how we considered the texts we were going to read.

Most of the introductions were generic and similar, announcing a desire to learn whatever the student could from the semester. Some students told stories about their own backgrounds. Many were first-generation college students or students who wanted to learn more about a cultural heritage that had been whitewashed. With my professor’s ears, I know now that these are things students say to please the teacher. But then, I didn’t pay much attention. I was terrified of speaking in public, and I waited anxiously for my turn to come, trying to figure out what I was going to say about my interest in ethnic American literature. It would destroy my invisibility if I had to explain why I needed to be invisible.

Eventually I told a story about a racial heritage spanning four continents and owing mostly to the lasting effects of colonialism, ship travel, and—of course—slavery. When I got to the end I felt relieved, ready to return to a kind of invisibility and prepared to listen to the two or three rows of students sitting behind me.

“I’m excited to take this class because it’s amazing to hear about other people’s backgrounds, because I’m just white.”

The words caught my attention immediately. I craned my neck to see who had spoken, a girl in a long, paisley-print skirt, her crop top exposing the soft expanse of belly atop the skirt’s waistband, and her curly hair frizzing away from her head. She was one of the girls I had taken to avoiding in college, those who smelled of patchouli and decorated their dorm rooms with Bob Marley posters. That kind of girl tended only to be interested in the fact that my Jamaican parents might somehow be indicative of a secret stash of pot. In my Canadian upbringing, I had never heard anyone call himself or herself “just white.” Greek, Romanian, Czechoslovakian, Irish; elementary school seemed to capture a wide swath of eastern bloc countries and colonial outliers. Lunch was so inclusive that one could trade a bologna sandwich for some curry chicken or exchange a Jamaican meat patty for a piece of baklava. What did this mean, “just white”? It implied that somehow, in this class of diverse backgrounds and narratives, whiteness was somehow not as exciting, as interesting, as exotic. It was the opposite of being “too white.” “Just” implied a kind of blandness and homogeny in an American cultural paradigm that cultivated and elevated whiteness and simultaneously normalized it to make it less interesting or important. Whiteness, I had quickly learned in my American education, was the standard for beauty, intellect, and acceptability, but no one should admit this or discuss it, particularly not a white hippie girl in a multi-ethnic lit class. Was whiteness somehow not going to be valued in this class? To say “just white” seemed like treading water, not moving toward understanding the course’s purpose and not able to look back and understand what came before this point in time. “Just” implied stasis, a lack of growth regarding ideas of whiteness or anything other than whiteness. “Just” was a lie. The professor chuckled a bit. “None of us are ‘just white,’” he said. “Whiteness is a construct and a category like any other that we will unpack this semester.”

Later that day in the water, I swam my slow freestyle up and down the middle lane. Taking my time and measuring my breath, I made sure to remember the way the girl’s skirt had dragged on the floor, the ring in her nose, and the timbre of her voice: high pitched, girlish, and loud. I gathered these details for a story as my arms glided through the water, barely making a splash on its surface, the sun hitting my goggles as I came up for air again, and again, and again.

“Just white” stuck with me for an entire year. I told the story to a group of friends in a coffee shop, to my older siblings, to my new friend Keith, who like me had parents from the Caribbean and a passion for death metal. The combined naïveté and irony of the statement was typical of so many attempts at racial parity that came out so wrong-headed at Big Southern University. There were those people who tried to convince me that they did not see race, the boy who shied away from introducing me to his parents, the classmate so stunned that I had passed college Algebra on the first try. “You must be really smart!” he marveled, while flipping through his basic math text.

It was at about that time that I met her again, this time at a meeting for the staff of the school newspaper. The girl, this time looking decidedly less like a relic of the 1960s introduced herself as “Alice.”

“Oh, I know you,” I blurted out. “You were in my ethnic American lit class last summer. You were the ‘just white girl.’”

It came out without any thought. I hadn’t realized that this anecdote might be less funny to the person who was the butt of the joke.

“What?” she said, confused.

She furrowed her brow, and I recounted the story to her about her shame at being “just white.” She looked embarrassed, and I felt bad. This person whom I had used in an anecdote for a year had no clue what her language that day had implied. And at the time I didn’t fully understand what that privilege meant. It was a funny story to me, and I didn’t see the ways in which it indicated a naïveté about the world.

“Wow,” she said. “That was dumb. I don’t even know why I said that. My family’s Italian.”

She was chastened, and in that moment of shared embarrassment, we started building a friendship. In this moment of revelation, we seemed to be able to find a kind of honesty. This ability to speak freely to each other became the cornerstone of our friendship. We had agreed to be honest with each other in a way that meant we confessed too much, but it also meant that we held onto each other’s secrets.

My husband, who studies the politics, philosophies, and theories of race, tells me that authentic intimacy might be the thing that helps people move beyond issues of racial difference. He reminds me that if we truly know a person, race recedes into the background and becomes secondary to who they are. I am not his black wife, but his wife. I want that to be true. I don’t want to be anyone’s “black” anything. I only want people to see me, not black me.

As I look through pictures online of the history of the desegregation swimming pools, I click past images of children, black and white, still standing in groups segregated by race, not touching. The white children are in the minority. In the photos each group looks at the other warily. I want to believe they got to know each other, that the intimacy of the shared swimming space meant they learned each other’s names and lives. But the other images, the ones that show a hotel manager throwing muriatic acid into a swimming pool where whites and blacks swam together to protest the segregated space, make me believe otherwise. Intimacy, even when it is only the kind that comes from standing close to one another in bathing suits, is just as frightening when it arrives in a friendship.

After Alice and I graduated from college and moved on to other cities, we visited each other periodically. We slipped back into the roles we knew so well from college: the girl who was “just white,” who said directly, bluntly what was on her mind and in her heart regardless of whom it might offend; and me, caustic and mean, the one who collected small details and used them to make jokes at others’ expense. There are other things I could say about the ways in which our friendship morphed and changed over time that might round her out, things about her wicked sense of humor, her willingness for adventure, her openness to new things. There are times we laughed so hard we cried; we shared experiences that make for excellent cocktail party stories. There are times I cried on her shoulder or she on mine. These are all measures of our friendship, a relationship defined not by our differences but one that seemed to transcend them.

Even so, invariably over the years, we would have odd or awkward moments between us when all of a sudden the girl I’d called “the just white girl” would rear her head and I wasn’t sure what to do. She introduced me to new people as her gorgeous friend, always noting my tiny waist, my ample bosom, and my skin. Only later did I understand that this seemingly flattering list was actually reducing me to my physicality, a collection of pleasing and palatable parts. Again thinking she was being complementary, she would reduce me further, nudging me toward whiteness by telling me she was blacker than I was when she ridiculed me for a succession of white boyfriends, when she told me she thought about dating a black man but never could because of how her parents might react.

We both got master’s degrees in English; she focused on literature while I pursued creative writing. We exchanged professional materials, swapped dating stories, continued to travel together and were in each other’s weddings. Over the period that encompassed my twenties, she was one of my closest friends. As we closed out that decade of our lives, we both, suddenly and rather unexpectedly, found ourselves divorced.

I was excited at what seemed to be a fresh start for us both of us as we entered into new and promising relationships. Alice and I were living closer than we had throughout most of the previous decade, only a six-hour drive apart, and it seemed the opportune moment for a visit. I had met a wonderful new man, intelligent and kind. Less than a year later, he would become my husband in a ceremony that excluded most of the people we know. In that first blush of new love, what I wanted most of all was for him to meet the people who were important to me.

On the drive from Atlanta to Chapel Hill, the sky opened up no less than half a dozen times. Fat drops and steady waves of rain made it feel as though we were crawling along the freeway.

Alice lived in a former cotton and dye mill, recently converted to lofts, on the banks of a river just outside of Chapel Hill. The water in the river churned a muddy brown from the pounding of the constant rain. We held sweaters over our heads and ran into the building as quickly as we could in the late summer rain.

The floors, original to the space, had been heavily varnished, and the contractors had left the occasional textile button or staple to offer what real estate agents and home design shows will often call “character.” On their website, the management company advertised the space as “rural renaissance done right.” The idea of a Southern “rural renaissance” only made me think of the South’s rural history, so closely linked to slavery. I could still hear the overtones of cotton culture. The idea of renaissance “done right” was a juxtaposition that embodied the contemporary South completely. It wanted to revise its past, to focus on its glories, to ignore its fundamental truth.

In the stairwell up to her loft, I kissed my boyfriend. I was excited at the fun weekend ahead, the good time we were going to have. When we arrived on the top floor and knocked on her door, she pulled it open and said, “Oh, good, you got a little fat too!”

I was taken aback by her words. She was trying to make a joke—at least, I think she was. Was it a way to dissipate some tension she felt about the visit? About herself? I wasn’t sure. We drank some wine. Then some more. And then we shared a bottle of sparkling wine when we got to restaurant.

“You look happy,” she remarked when we went to the bathroom midway through the meal.

“I am happy,” I said.

It was true. It was the first happiness I could remember, after a protracted and grueling divorce, after several years of a bad marriage and a life I felt I had settled for.

“I am too,” she said quickly as we washed our hands in the big farm-style sink. In what I thought was a celebratory gesture, she ordered more sparkling wine when we got back to the table. Instead, the mood of the evening shifted startlingly and suddenly. Alice started in with stories of our college escapades and then shifted to a series of stories that seemed intended to lay bare for this new man in my life the worst parts of me, those that would make him cringe, feel insecure, and lead to conflict.

He got quieter and quieter. By the time the evening ended, he would barely look at me. We returned to her apartment, and my boyfriend and I barely spoke. Tossing and turning on her fold-out couch, I tried to figure out where things had gone so wrong. When I finally drifted off to sleep, he got up and walked down to the river. I awoke, startled, after he had been gone a little while. The rain from the previous evening had started coming down harder and faster. The river churned dark and fast. I had no idea where he was or when he was coming back.

After several hours, he did return, cold, wet, muddy, and shivering, I was angry, relieved, and overwhelmed. I was frustrated with him, with myself, and with her. We had a frenzied exchange in the dark, whispering hoarsely, resolving nothing. Somehow I felt I had done something wrong. There was some code of whiteness I had broken, had overstepped, or had failed to see. In that moment I was the outsider. And as Alice woke up and the day began, it seemed that I was the one whom everyone was angry with.


Treading water is hard work. You appear still from the water’s surface, as though you are levitating, yet below the surface, your lower body and arms work frantically, kicking and pounding against the water’s pressure. The energy you exert just to keep your head and neck aloft will tire you out quickly enough. It is one of the best illusions in swimming: the surface doesn’t indicate what is going on below.

I tried to make everything right with them both and to keep my head above water. The day went from drizzly to a downpour, the water less like droplets and more like buckets dropped from the sky. We got soaked going to lunch, and we agreed to stay in that evening. We planned to grill on the communal patio in her converted mills, a giant concrete slab with a roof. The space was lined with an array of gas and charcoal grills, one of those contemporary spaces that invite apartment dwellers to be neighborly. It was this community that had attracted Alice after her divorce, when she felt adrift in a city to which she had relocated for her ex-husband.

Still rain-drenched and cold, I felt exhausted but nevertheless relieved that as the day neared its end I had been successful on both fronts. My friend and my boyfriend both seemed more relaxed, more at ease.

We decided on kabobs and spent the early evening cutting up vegetables and meats. As Alice chattered on about the new place she was living and her fellow tenants, the phrase “porch monkey” hissed and slid out of her mouth like a water moccasin. I was stunned to silence for a moment, and then I said, “What?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, slicing up hunks of smooth, pink, raw chicken and running them through with skewers. “I mean hippie kids who come out to the porch and eat everyone’s food without asking. Porch monkeys.”

But I didn’t know.

“Start over,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t racist,” she said. Alice’s tone implied that I was being overly sensitive.

I hadn’t said much of anything at all, yet something in her understood how loaded her words were. How racist the phrase was. Did she think it was okay to say it because she didn’t think I was “really” black? She knew she was wrong but didn’t want to admit it. I wanted to give her an out, so I said, with the slightest hint of a joke in my voice, “I don’t think that expression means what you think it means.”

She shrugged. “That’s what they are.”

She was done with the subject. She had moved on to considering which vegetables to grill next, and I stood there, flummoxed.

The origins of the slur porch monkey are nebulous. However, the words have been used alongside jungle bunny, yard ape, coon, nigglet and a host of other racial slurs that emphasize the animalistic when it comes to black people. The history of assigning the phenotypic characteristics of a monkey or ape to black people goes back even further. It is meant to dehumanize, to make a black person a beast, to ascribe qualities of the feral, the frightening, the untamed, the uncivil and brutish to our people.

I exchanged a glance with my boyfriend across the room. He, too, was incredulous. He was white, I thought. He got it. How could this woman, one of my closest friends for over a decade, be so obtuse? Or worse, so cruel?

Language is tenuous and ever changing. There is nothing fixed about it. All three of us were English professors, and we understood this. Language was our livelihood, and as close examiners and interpreters of that language, to assume that words are without power? It seemed naïve; it seemed callous. This “porch monkey” thing, like a weeping wound in the middle of the meal preparations, compounding everything else that had happened that weekend. While she had been intent on first trying to use my past to subjugate me, when that hadn’t worked she seemed to have gone for the last thing left, the color of my skin. But she had done it covertly, quietly, sneakily. She made my race itself the problem. And what could I do but stand there stunned? I had two options: to reopen the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface or to let it go.

In hindsight, I made the coward’s choice, the passive-aggressive choice. I stayed hurt, and I said nothing. I helped her finish making the kabobs, and we went out to the impromptu party that had assembled on the common patio. But I didn’t stay long. I felt conspicuously black in this forced community setting. And when I heard her retelling the porch-monkey joke over and over again to the delighted young urban professionals, hipsters, and trust-funded hippies who had gathered to draw community from each other, I felt the beginnings of that soul-crushing sadness with which I had become so familiar.

In the days afterward, that’s all I felt. On the way back to Atlanta, I tried to discuss it with my boyfriend, not having the language in that moment to articulate why these two words had bothered me so much. Why I couldn’t just let it go as I had a million times before with her, with other people. A few days after our return she sent me an e-mail in which she wrote the following:

We swore to be honest, so I’m going to tell you what I see. I have to say these things to you because if I didn’t, I would feel like I failed you as one of the few people in your life who can say this. I love you very much, and I want you to be happy. Here’s the real problem: your boyfriend has eliminated YOUR ability to be honest.

The words stung, because there was truth in them. I hadn’t been honest, but the person I hadn’t been honest with was her. I couldn’t tell her the way the words she used resonated in my head. That I felt like she had tried to annihilate me with that phrase, over and over. How I’d thought about it for days after, trying to figure out why she hadn’t understood. But I kept coming back to myself again and again as the person who was at fault, because I hadn’t been honest, I hadn’t been intimate. I had closed the gates to her without giving her an opportunity to defend herself. But really, how many chances do we get? I don’t have an infinite number of chances, so why must I give them?

The truth is that no matter what I accomplish, no matter what I do, no matter what I don’t do, some people in the world will always see my dark skin, not me. In their eyes, I am a rare exception. Like a tap-dancing dog, I am dazzling but not indicative of what other dogs might do.

The term “racial microaggression” has been around since the 1970s and describes the overt and covert ways in which people of color receive messages about how race defines them. It is the most powerful catalyst of Racial Battle Fatigue. It is the casual use of a phrase like porch monkey. It is the student who said I had made her “a bit less racist” because she assumed most young black women were “pregnant, on welfare and ill spoken.” It is the professor who told me that no one wants to read stories about people of color and asked if I weren’t limiting myself by writing those stories. It is the yoga instructor who told me with a pat on my upturned ass during the middle of a class, “We need to get more of your people out here doing yoga. It’s good for them!” It is the friend who fingered my hair and asked if I had a weave. Any one of these things on its own dehumanizes me; the hundreds that I keep in a file on my computer exhaust me. It is enough to make someone not want to get out of bed in the morning. It is a society that devalues your personhood, a friend who makes you an object, and a stranger who turns you into a curiosity.

Like language, a soul is very tenuous. What does it mean to have one? In what way can it be hurt? Can language injure the soul? I cannot point to an injured spot on my body to show a doctor where I have been hurt by language, but the injury manifests itself in creases in my forehead, fluctuating weight loss and gain, in the defeated look in my eyes. I register it by counting the days I fail to leave my bed and eventually in the ways in which I brutalize myself emotionally. All of this. But it’s that drizzly North Carolina afternoon I can’t forget. A small choice of language from, as Alice put it, “one of the people who were supposed to love me,” hurts me most.

The pain echoes still, because no matter how much water I treaded, no matter how much I tried to make Alice (and so many others) feel comfortable with my blackness, I never seemed to get the same in return.

Years later and back in the water, I am eight months pregnant. My pregnancy has brought me back to my body in a way I thought only swimming could. I am acutely aware of each movement, each moment, and each breath. I feel another life, just beneath the surface of my skin, doing his own laps, making his way alongside me.

Swimming relieves the aches and pains of pregnancy, the weight of my yet-to-be-born son on my back, on my belly, in my hips. In the water I feel light. I glide through, effortlessly, forgetting the twenty-five extra pounds on me, feeling like myself in the way I only can in the water. It transforms now, as it always has, the rhythmic movements, the focus on my breath, the concentration it takes so that I slice through without much of a splash.

Swimming clears my mind, offers me a kind of meditation, a meaningful connection between my body and my mind. Between my body and my baby’s. In the water I hear my heartbeat and that of my son echoing though my ears above the din of the senior water aerobics class in the next lane.

I have already found a place for him to swim. By the time he is six months, I plan on bringing him into the water. This desire lives alongside a list of things that all parents want for their children: health, good schools, a passion for reading. I feel strongly about this. I want him to love the water the way I do. I want it to be calming. I want him not to be frightened but to be soothed by it.

He will be my first blood relative who is American. Much of the legacy and the baggage of his skin will be foisted on him before he takes his first breath. But he will also have roots in Kansas, like the President. In the middle of that state, there is a small Kansas town where he will be able to see his last name etched on the side of a building and to find his great-great-grandfather’s picture on the wall of the Main Street Deli. This is one of the things my husband can offer him, that stake in American life that is inaccessible to me. All I have for him is water. Water that is murky at times, and a fluid past absent of dates, names, photographs, or specificity.




Originally from Toronto, Ontario, Dionne Irving has published work in Boulevard Magazine, LitHub, Missouri Review, Story Magazine, and New Delta Review, among others. She has a novel, Quint, forthcoming from 7.13 Books and a short story collection, Islands, forthcoming from Catapult. An associate professor at the University of West Georgia, she lives outside of Atlanta with her husband and son.

Awakening to Jake

“Awakening to Jake” by Jillian Weiss is a nonfiction piece that portrays the relationship between a brother and sister, and how each of their lives is affected by societal issues of autism and race.  This piece was a runner-up in the essay category of our 2017 Jeffrey E. Smith Editor’s Prize competition, and it appears in issue 41:4 of The Missouri Review. You can read an interview with Jillian here.



Awakening to Jake

by Jillian Weiss


Jake has made a nest on the back porch. He scavenged a futon, sleeping bag, duvet, and many pillows. There’s a hammock in case he feels the need to be wrapped. The porch is screened in to block summer’s mosquitos, but Jake uses the nest mostly in the winter, and he keeps the two ceiling fans churning to create an arctic breeze. Beyond the porch is a large backyard the shape of a twin bed; tall trees surround its perimeter. Two of the thickest trees used to be connected by a zip line that Jake accidentally snapped midslide, the wire whipping his back as he fell, which left him with a large red stroke running parallel to his spine.

Jake’s nest is always askew and is covered in dog hair and dirt from his bare feet and the nights he forced the new puppy to sleep beside him. Jake picked out the black Lab and named him Buddy, but Buddy is skittish and passionately fears him. If Jake is on the porch with the family, Buddy will not go outside but will cower and whine from the double kitchen doors, unable to approach my tall, black, dreadlocked little brother.

My parents didn’t seriously wonder about Jake’s atypical behavior until he stopped sleeping in his childhood bed, preferring the floor of his closet. He seemed to like how the sleeves of his jackets stroked him and the closeness of the four walls. My parents also noticed how he enjoyed the sound of repetitive banging and couldn’t look strangers or acquaintances in the eye. Though unaccomplished in reading and writing, Jake could solve handheld spatial-related puzzles with expert speed. The sort of challenges that to me were evil trickery: two intertwined metal shapes that must be separated. His obsessiveness, too, was another common characteristic. Finally, what tipped the scale was the utter blankness on Jake’s face when he looked upon his brand-new pool table, a birthday present he’d been asking for all year. My mother compiled the evidence and took Jake to a specialist, who confirmed that he had autism spectrum disorder.

Now he is twenty-two years old and nests on my parents’ back porch in suburban North Carolina after a decade of moving from foster care to in-care to group homes to weeks in the psych ward to yearlong stays in behavioral correctional facilities. Their house echoes with bangs, threats, and fuck-yous. Their piano bench is speckled with the imprint of screwdriver heads. Walls have been punched through and resealed. My parents have called the police for protection from Jake many times. The flashing lights have parked in the rim of the wooded cul-de-sac, a patch of concrete as round as a large magnifying glass. They are that neighborhood family with the wayward child.

But the police have not been called for a while. Jake has a full-time job where he shapes and saws pieces of plastic. He has a few long-term friends. Now he soothes his mind by smoking copious amounts of marijuana and electronic cigarettes. He walks with heavy eyes and heavy feet that scare the dog. He no longer runs, climb trees, or laughs. While my parents hope the peak of his violent and aggressive behavior has passed, they still often treat him like a time bomb, treading carefully around him, counting down the days to an explosion. Every night that he’s home, their precious bomb lies in his nest, cocooned in many layers of fabric to protect him from the cold winds. He doesn’t care to listen to the whirring crickets but watches movies on his phone until he falls asleep.


At first, when black men being shot to death by police across North America started making headlines, I did not think of Jake. For me, this period started in 2014 with the death of Michael Brown because that’s when many of my white friends awakened and because I had a friend who lived near Ferguson, Missouri.

I did not think of Jake because I was away at graduate school. I also knew that my parents and Jake did not live in the sort of neighborhood where people got shot and that my brother was no longer unleashing daily tides of fury but daily scented marijuana trails. Most significant, however, was that the rest of my family is white. Jake is adopted.

I must have felt so intrinsically that Jake was protected by a white bullet-proof blanket that I did not fear for him. At least not when it came to his interactions with police. But then I started to wonder: How would the police officers know, when they pulled him over for speeding or found him smoking dope on the trail up a nearby mountain, that his family was white? That his family was not only white but former Christian missionaries? That Jake was covered in a bullet-proof white blanket but also a blanket of prayer? These are facts that should not matter, but I assumed that this information would make the police less fearful of my brother’s black body.

In general, the police do not have the time to see more than people’s bodies, which is unfortunate because Jake’s black body is visible, but his autism is not. When friends meet him, they notice his quietness and his lack of expression, but never has anyone wondered if he’s on the spectrum. My mother worries: “When you’re not smiley, when you don’t talk a lot, that could be looked at as I’m angry, I’m mad, yes, I’ve done something wrong.” About one in every four people killed in police shootings suffers from a mental illness.


One incident that I’ve had the misfortune of reimagining in many ways: Jake pointing a knife at my father. This was the first time the cops were called, which was a few years before black men being shot and killed by police started making headlines. I wasn’t there; I heard this story over the phone. My father and brother circled in the garage. It was the afternoon. Jake’s hand was on the dirty handle; his mouth was spitting fury.

My father knew Jake would win in a physical fight. My father is a tall man, but Jake is nearly as tall and a little wider. He has muscles without trying to have muscles. He wears baggy, stained pants and a silver chain. His fingernails are frayed and filled with dirt. Inside this body is a person who loves fireworks and bacon, watching movies and drawing. He sketches beautiful pictures of tigers and draws on the walls of his room. He used to love the movie Legally Blonde and listening to swing music. He has asthma and is obsessed with things that go Bang! When I was in graduate school, Jake would call me when he was bored:

“Jilly,” he said.

“Jake,” I replied.

“Willy,” he said.


“There’s a movie you’ll like,” he said. “Online. I’ll send you the link.”

“Okay,” I said. “What’s it called?”

“Can’t remember. Let me look.”

He breathed noisily.

“Got it yet?”


“It’s okay if you can’t remember.”

“Just wait,” he said.

“What are you going to get me for Christmas?” I asked.

“Nuffing. What’re you going to get me?”

“Why should I get you anything?”


“What do you want?”


“What’s that?”


He coughed out words like bits of food he’d been choking on.

I said, “Oh, the nice ones, really big ones. I think they’re too expensive.”

As I listened to him breathe, I googled Beats. Yes, too expensive.

“How I live now,” he said.


“That’s its name,” he said. “The movie.”

In the garage, Jake threw the knife at my father. It missed, and Jake ran away. While yelling for a neighbor to call the police, my father followed Jake into the front yard, and Jake fell onto the grass that surrounds the cul-de-sac. My father sat on top of him, his tense back leaned forward like a mousetrap’s metal hammer. A few neighborhood fathers rushed out of their houses to help my father pin Jake down, and Jake kept writhing.

By the time police arrived, Jake had tired. My father got off him. Jake lay still for five minutes, his cheek in the grass. Eventually he stood up and walked around without expression. My parents thought he might be experiencing repentance. Perhaps he should regret throwing the knife, but he should not desire forgiveness. He was full of feelings that he couldn’t explain. He was trying to show us. He needed money for cigarettes, perhaps. He didn’t have any, and he didn’t have the means to make money on his own, and my parents wouldn’t give any more to him. But he needed the cigarettes. He needed them because he wanted them, and he needed his parents to take his wants seriously. When he asked for a deer stand for hunting, his siblings rolled their eyes. When he asked for a BB gun or a motorcycle helmet. Everything he desired was expensive. He knew they would give money and gifts to his three white siblings. All of them were educated females, and their gift requests were more reasonable because they could reason. He knew how his parents sat together and discussed what to do with him, sometimes when he was in the house, in listening range: they sitting at the kitchen table, Jake walking up the stairs. They made behavior plans. They cried a lot.

My father and Jake sat in the back of our family Honda waiting for the police to propose a plan: the hospital’s psych ward, the police station, or home. My mother told me that inside the silent car, Jake said to my father, “I love you.” But I think my mother must have invented this dialogue in a fervent bout of wishful thinking. The sound of Jake speaking words of feeling does not exist in this world.


Of the 995 people shot dead by police in 2015, as reported by the Washington Post, 257 had shown signs of mental illness. In June of 2017, Joshua Barre, a twenty-nine-year old black man with bipolar schizoaffective disorder, was shot outside a convenience store in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was barefoot, shirtless, and armed with two butcher knives. He had not been taking his medication. His family called for help, and he walked a mile from home trailed by Tulsa’s trained mental crisis unit. This unit allowed him to walk the mile, and only after he approached the convenience store did officers made a failed stun-gun effort and then fatally shoot him before he could endanger any customers.

A year after black men being shot and killed by police started making headlines, I went to work for a psychiatric residential treatment facility for children aged five through twelve. These happenings were unrelated. In my training weeks, I learned how to restrain small to medium-sized bodies, how to assess a situation and help children feel calm, how to eliminate triggers, how to avoid escalation. I took the physical and written tests to pass a Therapeutic Crisis Intervention Course and proudly achieved a score of 100 percent.

I was good at staying calm in the face of crisis, at never getting angry at the children, but I was scared to touch them. I wasn’t physically weak; restraining them was more difficult for my mind than my body. I didn’t want to touch them, but I learned. I was pushed, kicked, and spat on. I put children’s arms behind their backs and slid them onto the floor, trapped them in an empty seclusion room, watched them stomp and growl from a small window in the door. I followed two children a mile down the road, the distance police had trailed Joshua Barre.

We were reminded over and over that we should use physical restraints only when a child was in imminent danger. Our trainers made me repeat the word “imminent.” I tried to abide by this policy, but the longer I worked there, the more the word “imminent” seemed to me to cover a longer span of time than I’d first thought. As I watched my coworkers perform restraints with practiced ease, I felt that “imminent” implied the foreseeable future, not the next few seconds. We were certainly stopping escalation and keeping things controlled and calm, but staff seemed to operate according to the idea that once something was imminent, it was too late. They must not let anything become imminent, lest they hurt themselves, the other children, or the other staff. We must defend. We must strike while we were able.


When black men being shot and killed by police began making headlines, I might not have been fearing for my brother, but my parents were. They recognized his mentally ill blackness. They went to a police-run seminar at the iCan house in Winston-Salem, a nonprofit that aims to support, educate, and enhance the lives of those with autism or other social disorders. There, the officers talked about what people with social disorders can do to quickly identify themselves to police. They can have a sticker on their vehicle window alerting officers to their diagnosis in case they get pulled over. They can carry a small card that could be handed to an officer if they would not like to or cannot speak. This is the official advice from the Autism Speaks organization on how to disclose your disorder to an officer. In Alabama, you can download such a card from the department of health for a $10 fee. The card reads: I have been medically diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. My medical condition impairs my ability to communicate with others. . . . I also may become physically agitated if you touch me. . . . Please do not interpret my behavior as refusal to cooperate. My parents created a card for my brother but doubt that he carries it.

Through a personal connection, my mother was able to speak with a policewoman who had an autistic child of her own. My mother sent the officer documents about Jake’s diagnosis so that this information would appear when police interacted with Jake. The officer assured her that the information would be made available to the police. At the next incident with the police, however, her assurances were proved incorrect.

The problem is that for officers to be alerted to a mental diagnosis, they would have to pause long enough to get Jake to tell them his name, first and last. Probably, he’d have to spell it. Also, they would have to not overreact when Jake’s black arm reached into his sweatshirt pocket to get the card from his wallet.

He could very well have a knife in one of his big pockets. Jake does not have a gun that we know of, but he’s had BB guns and an intimidating collection of knives. The first time he pointed a kitchen knife in my direction, when I was a teenager, my parents did not allow him to hold any knives for a month. That meant no knife for buttering bread or cutting chicken. In the years that followed, my parents made occasional sweeps of his room to get rid of the knives and then waited nervously for him to come home and detect the raid. Jake was obsessed with knives for a long time, and then with guns, and then with dirt bikes. Right now it’s weed.


“Remember I sent you a link for a movie,” he said. “Don’t use that site cuz it gave me a virus.”

Every word Jake speaks is dragged out like it’s being pulled from a deep hole.

“Too late,” I said.

“What’s up?” he said.

“I’m going on a trip in a yurt.”

“What’s a yurt?”

“Like a big sturdy tent.”

“Will there be boys?”

“There will be one boy.”

“Imma beat him up!”

“You always say that but never do anything.”

“You aren’t allowed to be with boys.”

“I’m a little older than I used to be,” I said.

Jake quieted. I wondered what questions I could ask that would interest him.

“I can make a bong,” he said.

“A bong?”

“A BAHng. I can also make a bomb. A phone bomb.”

These were topics I didn’t know about. His latest obsessions.

“Please don’t put a bomb in my phone,” I said.

“Someone calls it and it explodes.”


Police officers are often forced to act when they believe danger is imminent.

One afternoon, the Napa, Florida, police were called because a man—Philip Conley—was wielding a knife in front of a shopping center and threw a beer bottle at a car. Once on the scene, police noted that Conley also had a gun in his waistband. They asked him to put down his weapons, but instead he advanced upon the police, and they shot him. As they approached his injured body, they saw that the gun was a toy gun. They also claimed that Conley had written a note of apology to the police for having been forced to kill him, but the note has been kept in police custody. His brother does not believe Conley would want to die via police. If you choose to believe in the note’s existence, however, it seems that to commit suicide by cop all you need is a toy gun.

Of the 257 people with a mental illness shot dead by police in 2015, 100 were reported by friends, family, or police, to be suicidal. Four of them had suicide notes hidden on their persons or in their vehicles. One, supposedly addressed to police, read “You did nothing wrong.”


On a Sunday morning in 2012, the year that Trayvon Martin was shot and killed by police—an event of which I was unaware—I drove to church with Jake, my mother, and my younger sister. Church was the tradition that in our family would never die. This church was only a two-minute drive from our house on the cul-de-sac and was located inside a school gym. There were fewer than a dozen nonwhite people in attendance. Most of the men wore button-downs. Most of the women showed no skin above their knees. My father had driven over on his own to prepare for Sunday school, and he met us in the gym. He inquired about Jake; my mother replied that he’d decided to stay in the car and fluff up his Afro with a comb.

After the service began, my father slunk out of our row of plastic chairs. Fifteen minutes later, when my mother received a phone call, he had still not returned. My mother exited the building to hear the caller while my sister and I continued our under-our-breath singing. We both enjoyed the act of singing but no longer wanted to be heard. We were faithful, sometimes, but aware of our being a cliché: of our churchgoing, middle-class whiteness. While waiting for my mother to return, I suspected an incident with Jake had occurred and became distracted. But to worry while in a sanctuary made this usually fruitless use of my time feel like prayer.

My mother returned five minutes later looking serious but not flustered. We had moved on to a different worship song. She bent over and whispered to us that Jake had sat in the middle of the road outside of church, presumably waiting for a car to hit him. My little sister started shuddering, breathing out in shots—a bang! of breath that Jake would have liked. My mother rubbed circles into her back and whispered, “Do you want to leave?” She nodded yes into her chest, and I followed them quietly out of the church, back to where my worries were just worries.

Outside, my mother finished the story.

When my father left the sanctuary at the beginning of the service, he saw Jake banging on our car. Worried about an “imminent” danger, my father drove away in our family’s second car. He wanted to remove the vehicle from possible damage but also to take a moment to let his anger simmer down before approaching his son, whom he loved. It was during these minutes my father took to calm and restore himself that Jake walked into the road.

An old woman in a house across from the church pulled back lace curtains, looked out her window, saw a boy sitting in the road, and called the police. Though the street had a considerable amount of traffic on weekdays, this was Sunday morning. We don’t believe Jake was truly suicidal, but we still don’t know what happened exactly. Precisely how long was he in the road? What was he feeling? Did any cars swerve to miss him? Were his eyes closed? Did he immediately get up when the police arrived?


When black men being shot and killed by police began making headlines, I often compared America to England. For ten years, my parents worked as missionaries in West London. Jake lived there from age four to fourteen. His childhood was religious and English. He did not know what it was like to have a black body in North America. Because there were so many different races in West London, I was unaware of any one race being thought of as superior. There were also no constant reminders of slavery. There were other black-skinned people in our West London neighborhood, but they were not “black.” They were Ghanaian, Jamaican, Somalian, and Barbadian.

Jake’s hair was cropped short back then, in tiny spirals. He was thinner, and lithe. He climbed trees and was on trampolining and rugby teams. He was great at flipping in midair. He struggled to read, though. He went to a tutor while I went sheepishly to my piano lessons in a nice English row house with small rooms and lace curtains. At home, he played video games with his three sisters. He let us paint his fingernails and told everyone that his favorite color was pink. When he had opinions, he stood by them.

My father believes there is a major difference in the English and American police systems. The UK banned handguns in 1997. Citizens can own only rifles and shotguns, but with a license which must be acquired through interviews, a background check, and a visit to the applicant’s home. During my decade in London, I never saw a gun, and I very rarely heard conversations about them. Police did not respond to calls with so much fear because they did not expect a gun to be pointed at them.

In the year ending in March 2016, police in England and Wales only fired seven bullets. In 2015, cops in North America shot enough bullets to kill 995 people. In 2015, the population of the United States was only roughly five times the population of the United Kingdom.

I have never experienced such fear for my life and the lives of my family members as I have since black men being shot and killed by police started making headlines. I avoid walking near policemen in the street. I tread tentatively through houses that I know harbor guns. When I spy a gun wedged in someone’s belt, my heart beats faster. The police officers are scared for their lives because the public has guns, the people are scared for their lives because the police have guns, and I’m scared for Jake’s life because he or the police could have a gun, or Jake could have a fake gun, a BB gun, a water gun, a banana stuffed in his pocket, a knife, or just a handful of Skittles.


One of the last times I saw my brother was at my wedding in North Carolina. The week before the ceremony, my family, including uncles, cousins, and brothers and sisters-in-law, all stayed in a beach house that my grandfather rented. From the porch, you could see the ocean stroke the shore.

They spent their days at the beach and their evenings at nearby seafood restaurants. Jake was never a deep-sea swimmer, but he used to enjoy skimboarding over the shallowest waves: running with the board, slamming it down on the shore, and then jumping on top of it, body glittering with flecks of water. In his manhood, he has stopped running. That week, he would sometimes sit with my father and build a drip sandcastle, or spend an hour digging a hole, but nothing more. He preferred to spend the days with my grandfather, who was always on errands, shopping for dinner supplies or wedding decorations.

Jake had missed my older sister’s wedding three years before because we’d been too nervous to bring him back to London, his recent behavior having been particularly explosive. He could run away and we would never find him, or he would distract us from the wedding planning and my sister’s big day. In the days before our flight, my father drove him up north to spend a week with an old London friend so that Jake could have his own slice of English past.

The year of my wedding, because the beach house was so full, Jake did not talk very much. He was a mute but helpful presence. When I spoke to him, he hardly responded. Admittedly I was so overwhelmed with joy and planning that I did not attempt to speak to him much. On the day of the wedding, he helped set up, he put on a black suit, he did his groomsman duty of standing up front throughout the ceremony, and he smiled in family photos. Guests on my husband’s side assumed he was one of my husband’s friends because his color didn’t match mine. At the end of the night, I went home with my new husband, disposable foil trays tied to the back of our car, and he went home with Mom and Dad.

One day in mid-2017, five years after the death of Trayvon Martin and the beginning of Black Lives Matter, the white bulletproof blanket of my family lifted, and I became aware of Jake’s mentally ill blackness as if for the first time. I was on a hike near the Oregon coast, an hour and a half from where my husband and I lived in Portland. We were hiking the perimeter of a lake with another couple, tall trees and dragonflies everywhere. It was the perfect, slightly cool temperature for a hike. We walked over a small bridge, spied logs peeking out of the water to sunbathe, and as we followed the narrow trail, there was a bee that kept following my friend and a fly in my ear. My husband and our friends were talking about Michael Brown and Eric Gardner, Philando Castile and Alton Sterling. Though I’d been in many such conversations, I stayed quiet, and maybe because of our introspective, peaceful surroundings, I finally understood that my brother had a black body, that he was living in the American South with a black body.

Soon after, Jake called me. I had not spoken to him since the wedding and imagined him lying on his nest on the back porch.

“Jake!” I said.

“Jill,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“I have a question.”


“My friend’s mom is a flight attendant for American Airlines and says she could get me a job. I need a résumé.”

“You want to be a flight attendant?”


“You know your job would mean being nice to people all the time.”


“It would require a lot of smiling.”


I paused to imagine this alternate Jake: broad shoulders in a crisp attendant’s uniform, dreads pulled into a ponytail, unruly beard gone. Clean clothes, clean hands. Saying, “Excuse me,” as he reaches over a passenger to pass a drink.

“You want me to make you a résumé?”


“I can make you a template, but you have to add in the information. Ask Dad for help.”


“I’ll e-mail you.”


Maybe this was good, I thought. Maybe he would be safer in the air. I would like him to fly, to be carried across the sea. In my memory, I had only carried his body once, when I was twenty-three and Jake was eighteen. We were in my grandfather’s pool, and Jake swam up to me, his large body making waves behind him. He said, “Hold me, Jilly,” and I cradled him easily in my arms while he grinned, his eyes disappearing behind his lids, water pooling in his stomach, his knees like icebergs, each of his dreadlocks dripping like a leaky faucet.


After the white blanket of my family was lifted, I started researching incidents of mentally ill black men being shot and killed by the police. I came across Jeffrey Lanahan, a thirty-four-year-old white man with autism, who was killed by police in March 2016. Friends and acquaintances described him as a shy and quiet person. In the weeks leading up to his death, Lanahan’s father had passed away while the family was on vacation in Hawaii, and due to money woes, his stepmother was forced to sell their home. Lanahan lived with his father and stepmother, and on the afternoon of the incident, he exited their house wielding a twelve-inch knife and charged at the officer who had just arrived, and the officer shot him. He died in the hospital later that day. His obituary requested that donations in his name be made to the Autism Society of America.


I fear many things: earthquakes, illness, guns, spiders, and, recently, Jake’s untimely death by police. I need to be better at living within frightening possibilities. But how to stop being scared for my life? To begin, I must be scared for someone else’s.

Perhaps my fear for Jake’s life is fueled by presumption and pessimism, but he’s been fighting for his life since before he was born. His birth mother put him up for adoption, fighting for his life. As a child, he bit his siblings, fighting for his life. As a teenager, he pined for guns and pulled a knife on my father, fighting for his life. He sat on the curb and told me that he wanted to die, but he’s alive. He has sat in the middle of a two-lane road. He has wrecked many different types of vehicles, and yet he lives. He’s had a nail through his foot, stitches in his groin, a metal disc stuck around his finger, pseudo-Parkinsonism from too much medication, and yet he lives. He runs away, but always comes back to his family, who live in a world that whispers that Jake’s body is dangerous. Even in his own house, in his small physical territory, the idea solidifies: the dog cowers in his presence and will not sleep in his nest. Though my parents have been frightened of him too, their biggest fears come from knowing that my brother’s home country—his place of birth and culture—is not fighting for his life.

I fear that I too am not fighting for his life. I have certainly been slow to acknowledge that some people find his life less valuable. Perhaps this is an unforgiveable failure.


While black men are getting shot and killed by police, Jake is at his friend’s house, chilling. Or he is waking up, getting dressed, and smoking a joint. He is taking long baths. He is pulling back his dreadlocks with an elastic band. He is going to work. He is walking to get Chinese takeout or frying bacon in my parents’ kitchen, flipping the individual pieces and laying them on a paper towel. While wearing the shirts his grandparents bought him for his birthday, he goes to Harry and Mary’s house at the mouth of the cul-de-sac to wrestle with their dogs.

This time, I call him. It’s August 2017. Jake is twenty-two years old.

“Hey, Jake. What are you doing?”


“Have you applied to be a flight attendant?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t done my résumé.”

“Did you just wake up?”


“You sound sleepy.”

“I dunno.”

“Hey, Jake, have you heard of Black Lives Matter?”


“You haven’t?”


“Have you heard about black men getting shot by police?”


“Anyone in particular?”


“Do you ever think about that when you talk to police officers?”


“I know Mom and Dad worry about you. They’ve talked to some officers. But do you ever feel scared?”


It seems obvious now that Jake may never be fully aware of the extra danger his body could attract, but maybe this unawareness is good for his peace of mind. And I see that I, with my white body, can also never be fully aware, but that my ignorance is potentially harmful.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to see you this Christmas. Actually, after Christmas. The twenty-eighth.”

“When you going to bring me some bud?”

“Some bud?”

“Some weed.”

“I think that’s illegal.”

“So? Pack some weed brownies with some regular brownies.”

“I don’t think Mom and Dad would like that very much.”


“Is there anything you want for Christmas that’s not smoking related?”



“Get me some lollipops.”

“Some regular lollipops?”

“No!” he says, and then I think there’s a premonition of a laugh, like a chuckle is calling out from the depths of his throat. “Weed lollipops!”

“Yeah, I’m going to get you a big bag of lollipops for Christmas.”


I tell him that I’m hungry and need to make lunch. He says okay.

“I’ll see you in December, yeah?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says.



After an adolescence in London, England, Jillian Weiss received her MFA from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. She won the North Carolina Writers’ Network Rose Post Creative Nonfiction Contest, and her essays can be found in Reed Magazine, the Pinch, Sycamore Review, and elsewhere. She is currently at work on a memoir about her missionary upbringing and lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and cat.





How Assumedly White Characters are a Disservice to, well, Everyone

photo via natello-universe.tumblr.com

By Hannah Cuthbertson

I’ve convinced myself that if Buzzfeed was a real, living person, that person would be me.  Their posts are funny, they put these sticker like things on their best articles that just say “YASS”, and there’s a plethora of cat memes.  I am Buzzfeed.  Buzzfeed is me.

But, all humor aside, I came across a post a few weeks ago called, “What a ‘racebent’ Hermione Granger Really Represents”.  Quick disclaimer: I’ve never actually read the series (I know I know, shame on me.  I’m getting around to it, don’t worry).  But I am a fan of the movies, and of writing in general, and of Buzzfeed.  In the article, biracial Buzzfeed community member Alanna Bennet pulls from Tumblr artistry in an effort to imagine Hermione as African American, and even goes on to say: “As I grew up I stopped comparing myself as much to Hollywood actors and tried to train myself out of seeing white as the default for fictional characters.”

At the time, I thought it was just an interesting take on a topic I hadn’t known much about.  This was, afterall, my first exposure to “racebent” characterization, and it led me down a winding internet path of all sorts of things- Disney princesses as races other than what had been originally depicted, book characters, movie characters.  It was fascinating, interesting, and just kind of neat to think about because, to be honest, I hadn’t thought of it at all before.

It should be known that I spent my childhood in a southern Alaskan suburb where racism and discrimination seemed virtually nonexistent.  I was lucky enough to be raised in a safety net of equality, and those values will be with me for the entirety of my life.  Of course, I noticed that the African American girl that lived across the street from me, whom I rode bikes with frequently, looked different than me.  But do you know who else looked different than me?  My tall friend.  And my blonde friend.  And my friend with blue eyes and my friend with brown eyes and basically every other friend that I’ve ever had because (shocker!) I don’t have a twin.  My neighbors’ skin color, while yes, different than mine, was not a trait that differentiated them from me any more than any other physical trait, be it eye color or hair color, would differentiate me from anybody else.  People are people.  It really is that simple.

So imagine my surprise when we moved to a small(ish) town in Virginia which might as well have been the state’s very own Mason-Dixon line.  Go to ten minutes south of my old house and there are cowboy hats and confederate flags.  Go ten minutes north and everyone has an Obama-Biden bumper sticker on their car.   Calling my experience in the lower-forty-eight a culture shock would be quite the understatement.

Then, at the ripe age of eighteen, I packed my bags and came out to Missouri.  For the most part, I went my entire freshman year without discrimination ever really coming up.  I was (falsely) under the impression that my generation was smarter, better, and kinder than that of our grandparents and great-grandparents; that the confederate flags waving from the truck beds of high-schoolers in my county had been an abnormality.  The rest of the world couldn’t really be that bad, right?

Then, Ferguson happened.  And, more recently, the infamous SAE video hit the internet.  As a human being, I was appalled.  As a member of the Greek community, I was ashamed.

Not long after, two officers were shot in Ferguson.  Then, an African American student was arrested and beat outside a bar near UVA.

Suddenly, the Buzzfeed post about a “racebent” Hermione seemed less like a fun display of Tumblr art and more like a call to action.  I re-read it again, and, as someone who wants to be a writer, I was empowered.

In her Buzzfeed post, Bennet, multiple times, includes quotes from Dominican American writer Junot Diaz.  The most powerful, taken from a lengthy passage in her post, is this: “You guys know about vampires? … You know, vampires have no reflections in a mirror? There’s this idea that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. And what I’ve always thought isn’t that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. It’s that if you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves.”

So I did some digging, and I found out just how much that reflection is denied thanks to a phenomenon called whitewashing.  Turns out, there are a plethora of Caucasian models on the covers of books that actually have racially ambiguous characters.  Now, maybe there is a theoretical advantage to writing racially ambiguous characters- if the author never identifies a race, then, in theory, everyone should be able to see themselves as that character, right?  But thanks to the cover art, media, film adaptations, and unfortunately, society, racially ambiguous characters are often assumedly white.  Which is a problem for so many reasons.

More disturbingly, much of this whitewashing occurs in children’s and young-adult literature.  Just last year, The New York Times published an article about this very issue, and cited research done by the Cooperative Children’s Book Center that found only 93 children’s books to be about African American characters out of the 3,200 children’s books published in 2013.

This got me thinking about my own characters.  More often than not, the characters I write about are young and female.  Is it because I am young and female?  Probably.  But I am also white.  And while I can’t think of an instance where I’ve explicitly stated the race of one of my characters, it’s fair to say than anyone reading my work could make the assumption that they are Caucasian as well.

So then I asked myself- why don’t I state the race of my characters?  And am I doing something wrong by not explicitly including a diverse cast of characters?  Could I be doing something better?

The short answer is yes.

The longer answer is this: African Americans, along with every other race and demographic, shouldn’t have to turn to the internet to find “racebent” characters in order to identify with literature.  The creators of such literature should be creating characters that are vivid not only in their emotional grit but in their representation of the world and of people.  People, who are vivid and beautiful and inspiring no matter the color of the skin or their cultural identity.

So, moving forward, I am making it my mission to diversify my writing.  I am saying goodbye to assumedly white and racially ambiguous characters.  There will be characters who are vivid and real and who have stories that are vivid and real.  Because I do want to be published.  I do want to be an author, and it pains me to picture a little girl like Bennet once was, reading my book and not being able to see herself in a character that I created.

And, I hope, I’m not the only one.

Alanna Bennet’s original post can be found here and the New York Times article here.