There’s a look that Black men of a certain age have. It is somewhat akin to the “thousand mile stare” of war veterans. It may be tinged with anything from sorrow to determination. It is usually accompanied by a silence that is usually best left uninterrupted, except by those who know what it holds back, know when the dam is about to burst, and know how to stop it from bursting in that particular man. Right then.
Anyone who knows that look, knows that stare, and knows that silence, knows that it holds back—and sometimes just barely—a tidal wave of anger and frustration. It is a look that says not only “I’m sick of this shit,” but “I’m sick of fighting this shit.” And it it most often worn by one who is—and has long been— waist deep in “this shit,” and fighting to get to the other side.
Joseph Beam captured the essence of it, and put his own spin on it, when he wrote:
I, too, know anger. My body contains as much anger as water. It is the material from which I have built my house; blood red bricks that cry in the rain. It is what pulls my tie and gold chains taut around my neck; fills my penny loafers and my Nikes; molds my Cavlins and gray flannels to my torso. It is the face and posture I show the world. It is the way, sometimes the only way, I am granted an audience.
My father had that look sometimes. I’ve seen it on the faces of other men in my family, as well as teacher, preachers, deacons, and just about anybody old enough to “remember when.” James Booker remembers when, and james Booker has that look.
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