I didn't want to write a series of posts about how great Austin is or the freedom of being on the road and away from work. You already know these things. Austin is just as great as everyone says it is. I'd love to go back. At the same time, it's not quite correct to say this was a vacation. I had too much on my mind to call it a vacation. The trip was thought-provoking in ways I did and did not expect.
At nearly 17 hours of driving, it'd be damn near impossible, and unnecessarily exhausting to reach Austin from Chicago in a day. We decided to rent a room in Memphis, TN for a night; folks in Memphis seemed used to the fact that many visitors were "just passing through." Along the way we stopped in Springfield, IL for gas, coffee, and to take a selfie in front of the Capitol building; we stopped in St. Louis, MO, for a more important reason.
We stopped in St. Louis, MO because I wanted to go to a bookstore.
About a month before our trip, I read a blog post by an employee of Left Bank Books. The post was a response to losing a customer because of the “Black Lives Matter” posters they have in the window. You can read the post here. I was so moved by the post that I wanted to order something from their website; lose a customer, gain a customer I thought. But then I decided, hell, it'd be so much better to actually go to the store itself, support the business directly, talk to the employees there. I generally consider myself a progressive person, but I'm soft/non-spoken about my political ideas. This was a small action, but it was at least some action. I ended up buying a book I've wanted to read since it came out earlier this year, Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. His narrative about experiences existing as a black man in the USA seemed like the most appropriate thing to buy. So that's why we went an hour out of our way "just" to visit a bookstore in St. Louis, but goddamn if that's not one of the most important reasons to visit a city that I can think of.
After passing a surprising amount of dead armadillos on the highway in Southern Missouri, we finally made it to Memphis. A record store, a vegan restaurant, a BBQ joint, Beale Street, a dive bar, and finally some sleep. On Beale, my girlfriend and I went to the Withers Collection Museum and Gallery. Ernest Withers was a photographer during the height of the Civil Rights Movement in the 50s and 60s. He took over a million photographs (!) and the collection had a bunch on display. Everything from Martin Luther King Jr. and the Little Rock Nine, to the Negro League baseball games and blues musicians (aside: are we still calling it the Negro Leagues? I know it hasn't existed since the 50s but still...we never came up with a better name?)
I talked with an employee at the museum for some time. He was a young black man, coincidentally also from Chicago, and had been working at the museum for only two weeks. We talked about African-American history and the short term memory of our country (an idea that Aleksandar Hemon has instilled in my head and I haven't let go). We talked about how the Civil Rights movement was still so recent. About how far black people in this country have come and how still (sadly) so far they have to go. About the yin and yang of Malcolm X and MLK; how Withers expertly shot both the beauty and ugliness of humanity. About how African American culture and history *is* American culture and history.
This was an important conversation for me, a conversation I won't soon forget. This topic doesn't come up a lot in my life. Yes, there should be more conversations about race in society, but it's hard to find the right time and place. At Starbucks? At work? At a punk show? To arbitrarily start this conversation with a random black person (friend, acquaintance, coworker) would perpetuate the idea of race as a monolith without any personality of each individual component. I'm glad I went to the Withers Collection, a space dedicated to starting these types of conversations. I want to make more of an effort to find these spaces in my own city. But easier said than done, isn't it? Why does society make it so difficult for strangers to interact in such a profound way?
Beale Street itself was a whole other creature. People out drinking, partying, loud music from blues (expected) to Lady Gaga (?). It makes for great people watching, but I couldn't help but feel guilty being hit up for change (which I didn't give the man) and then going to a bar called the Poor and Hungry afterwards. It was too literary of a juxtaposition to have been real life. I'm not the most well-off person, but I could have skipped going to a bar to give this man a few dollars. The look of dejection in the man's face as he looked at the plastic cup of honey-wheat ale in my hand as I told him I couldn't spare change hasn't left me yet either.
It's easy for me to blame capitalism for acting the way I did. It's a conversation I got into recently (briefly) with my roommates. I don't mind paying higher taxes to go to the right places, to pay the people doing the hardest work. I would love to pay more taxes to makes sure firefighters are paid well and the streets are paved and the schools stay open. I wouldn't mind sacrificing my Spotify account or keeping the AC off and going out to bars and restaurants less. But that's the complacent, pass the buck blaming attitude that too many of us have. I could already give up these things and donate to the places I think are worthwhile. And yet I don't. And I bitch when teachers and social workers are underpaid and too much money goes to the military and blah blah blah pass me another beer. It's shameful and wasteful and I want to be better and I think I'm getting better. Please call me out more on this shit. We should all call each other out on this shit. What are we doing to make this world better? What could we be doing instead of being selfish?
(related: let Philosophy Bro lay the smack down by frat-splaining some Peter Singer for ya)
The setting: a gas station in North Little Rock, Arkansas. The scene: A black man was walking toward the bathroom when the woman behind the counter said that he couldn't use it. "It's OK, I'm a big boy, I can hold it," he replied and walked back outside. She turned back to me with my change in her hand, shaking her head. "They mess up my bathroom," she said. She stared at me waiting for a response. I froze. I should have thrown the change in her face. I should have called her out for her racism. But I didn't. I said I'm sorry. I'm not sure if to her or to myself or to the stranger that represented all that I expected to experience in the South. Further, the woman behind the counter herself was of South Asian descent. Yet she was bold enough to not only deny this man the right to use a bathroom (of which she had no problem letting my white girlfriend use), but to also remark to me and expect agreement. This was not the kind of interactions relating to race relations I was hoping to have more of.
I'm not naive. I know racism exists all over the place and not just north or south of invisible latitudinal lines. There is no difference between overt racism and institutional racism (many say that the latter is worse). It's really hard to act sometimes, especially when so unexpected. It's easy to be a passenger. A lot of us choose to be passengers along the ships that navigate the sea of race relations. "Oh, I know he's not really a racist." "It was just a joke." "She would never actually hurt anyone, it's just a word." Rarely does one dare to brave the tides that come when rocking the boat with expressions of dissent.
When you're younger, and come from a place of privilege, it's easy to believe that all you have to do to be a good person is don't run the water when brushing your teeth and turning the lights out when you leave a room. No one tells you how much more complicated and complex the world is and what you are going to have to do about it. You get distracted by things like going to school, getting jobs, becoming an “adult.” But the part that's left out is knowing not just how to be mature and responsible, but to be noble.
And I write these words knowing full well that I will most likely not change my habits. Even the city I choose to live in makes me feel implicit in some sort of racist historical time line. Many that live here want to believe that we are one city and shouldn't be divided by neighborhoods, that what happens in Englewood and Austin should affect those who live in Wicker Park and Lincoln Square. But yet we still are as divided as ever, not a city of neighborhoods but a geographically convenient collection of neighborhoods, and lamentably, it appears doubtful that that will ever change.
Being self conscious isn't enough anymore. Having a patch on my backpack that says “Fight Racism” like I did in high school isn't good enough anymore. I would hope my experiences have shed even more light on my actions, and will influence me to act smarter, more compassionately, more honorably in the future.
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