Before writing this blog post I listened to an especially unpleasant audiobook for a different class. Like any normal grad student, I was cramming that day’s reading in the day before class, so I listened to this 6-hour audiobook all at once (I do not recommend). To say I disliked the book would be an understatement. In 2020, after George Floyd and Breonna Taylor were murdered by the police, I decided to avoid watching, reading, and listening to things that centered Black trauma. To date I’ve not seen the video of George Floyd begging for his life and calling out to his mother with his last breath. Nor have I seen the video of police storming Breonna Taylor’s apartment in the middle of the night. I learned that year that consuming that type of media negatively impacts me, emotionally and mentally. I was reminded of this while reading this book for class. Yet, I was unable to avoid it like I typically would because it was an assigned text.
I will not name the book here as I have no interest in seemingly tearing down the literary work of another Black woman. I want to be clear that this is not my intention. Someone…somewhere in this in country needs to read this book. Actually…several someones.
That someone was not me.
I suppose I should explain what the assigned reading for another class has to do with this blog entry.
I’m getting there.
I promise.
Just hang on a little longer.
Just stay with me.
Portrait of a toddler seated on a carpet.
This book was filled with stories, statistics, and art of Black trauma. The author wrote about:
- Black boys being killed by the police….
- Black enslaved mothers killing their children to ensure they never known enslavement….
- Homeless Black children…..
- Black life lost to gun violence…..
- A portrait of a Black child with tape on her forehead that had “Ship” written on it….
- The failures of the first Black president…..
- The taking of Black bodies…..
- Black bodies’ abuse within racist healthcare systems….
- The adultification of Black girls….
- Enslavement…..
- The middle passage….
I could go on, but I assume that by now you’ve gotten the point.
After listening to this book for 6 consecutive hours I felt so drained emotionally. I felt angry. I felt reminded that at any moment a Black life can be taken. I felt reminded that one day Black boys are adorable and the next they’re a threat that must be dealt with. I felt reminded that
Trayvon Martin….
Tamir Rice….
Michael Brown….
Were just children and they were not safe in their childhood. I felt angry that as a country we are so willing to consume Black trauma as a medium that we read countless books about it. We watch endless news reports of it. We watch fictional movies about it….
We do everything but put an end to it.
Dear reader,
It is here – now that you have an understanding of how I was feeling – that I turn to the photograph that I am studying from the Black Portrait Photograph Collection.
The photograph that I am studying is of a chubby little toddler sitting on what appears to be a throw rug. He is about 1 year old and dressed in nothing but white shorts. He sits alone with an unnaturally stoic or sad expression. It is this expression (I believe) that forces some connection between the book that I listened to and this photo.
This photo that I have looked at dozens of times prior to writing this post. This photo that has never caused me to react this way prior to today. Today, this photo forces me to tears.
Today this photo seems to haunt me. The way the toddler’s little eyes seem to look directly back at me reminds me (like the book does) that today he’s a tender child but tomorrow someone could (and likely would) feel threatened by him. This photograph haunted me today as it reminded me of DuBious’ theory of double consciousness. When this photo was taken this child was young enough to have no use of the theory. Yet, like most Black people in America, one day like a light bulb he will suddenly become aware that he is Black in America. Once he becomes aware he will never again have the same level of innocence that is reflected in this photo.
After considering these feelings I realized that I was projecting them on to this child. I realized that I was perpetuating the same level of violence on to him that I have become overly concerned about during this class. It was a reminder that as viewers and as scholars we hold great power when we tell stories with photographs and collections. It is because of this power that we must be responsible storytellers. Typically, I’ve been careful to use my voice and power to tell stories of Black love, prosperity, and joy.
Yet, I find myself…here…using this entry as a therapy of sorts…but moreover as a reminder that Black Trauma is marketable and if we are not careful, we can perpetuate that while simply trying to educate others of the Black experience in America.
The child in this photo is beautiful. He grew up to live a happy life. He had a wonderful childhood and excelled in school. He married young and had a fulfilling career. He was able to begin the accumulation of wealth for his family that led to future generations realizing financial freedom. He became a father and eventually a grandfather. He loved to dance and his family photographed hundreds of photos of him over the years where he smiled brightly and danced his heart out. Every Christmas his wife and him took their children and eventually their grandchild out to buy the biggest Christmas tree they could find. They played music and sang and danced while they decorated the tree. He was healthy all of his life. He lived well into old age and eventually passed away in his sleep from natural causes at the age of 103.
….or so the story goes
Tina M. Campt, Listening to Images (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 23-24.
