On Suicide // On Care: because life is hard, part 2.

The opposite of suicide is care. If suicide is defined by the act of intentionally killing oneself, then care is the act of intentionally preventing one from killing oneself. But, as I have mentioned in other essays, death is never singular nor is care. When one commits suicide one does not simply kill oneself, one kills parts of oneself that were in relation to others. My suicide attempt would not have simply suicided me. It would have suicided the mother-son relationship my mother has with me; it would have suicided the girlfriend-boyfriend relationship my partner has with me; it would have suicided the brother-brother relationship my brother has with me. This makes suicide a multiplicity. My suicide suicides others. Additionally, however, my suicide is always something that occurs not as a response to, but in a relationship to others/an Other.

It is for this reason that “13 Reasons Why” makes absolute sense. What “13 Reasons Why” does is it makes clear the relationships that fostered (not forced, but fostered) the cause of death, whereas prototypical suicide leaves the material world with questions. It is not that “13 Reasons Why” is an over-exaggeration. It is that “13 Reasons Why” is an exemplification, a drawing out of the lines that assisted in facilitating the suicide. Whereas the world is typically left to theoretically construct the social and relational causes of death, “13 Reasons Why” portrays a suicide that leaves no one in the dark. For example, Kalief Browder could have very easily made more than 13 reasons why he committed suicide in relationship to the social context that he was forced to endure. But, the fact that he did not does not mean that what he was suffering from was something internal. What he was suffering from destroys the external/internal binary. Suicide/Suicidal ideation/suicide attempts are both internal, as a procession of thoughts, thinking and behaving that is dealt with inside of oneself, and external, as a procession of behaviors, relationships, structural and institutional networks that operate outside of oneself. Suicide occurs in a context of sociality.

The same can be said of care. When one commits oneself to care, one commits oneself invariably to us-care. For example, for most of her life, my mother has worked as a support counselor for the mentally disabled. She has wielded her body, utilized her muscles, bones, energy and brains in dedication to the care of the mentally disabled. But even outside the kinds of care that have allowed my mother to support herself financially, my mother has taken seriously us-care as a way of living in all aspects of her life. Caring for my cousins as if they were immediate family – offering housing, tutelage, and wisdom. Caring for my friends as if they were her children – offering advice, guidance, and food. Caring for the homeless and the formerly imprisoned through opening our home to them and inviting them in to our place to stay. My mother is the embodiment of the practice of us-care. My mother is committed to a politics of care that recognizes the link between care and livability. The possibility of many to make it to the end of the day has relied on the emotional, physical and intellectual care of my mother. And then, when those around us are cared for, when their body-mind-and-spirit is attended to and well, it makes us feel more at ease. It creates cycles of care that reproduce the prospect of life. One does not have to worry about the specter of suicide. The caretaker themselves feel cared for and then, those who have benefitted from access to the caretaker can learn from the pedagogy that accompanies their care and recycle the techniques. One day every caretaker needs to be taken care of, and those who have received the care of the caretaker must appropriate the methods of the caretaker in order to recreate the cycle. Caretaking isn’t trickle-down; caretaking is spread-across.

One commits suicide when one feels devoid of care, when one feels care is absent and cannot be retrieved, when one feels the weight of a careless world. One commits to care when one attempts to alleviate the tremors and troubles of suicide, when one attempts to destroy the affective apparatus that attempts to concretize the absence of care, when one attempts to invade the careless world with weapons of reconstruction. We have taken suicide to be an act of killing oneself without an investigation to the relational aspects of the act of suicide. We only see the relational aspects of suicide in two brief moments: 1) At the funeral of the suicided person, or 2) At the hospital when the attempted suicide fails. For example, in the aftermath of attempting suicide, I had received tons of notifications from people whose relationality was importance in fostering my suicide attempt, friends I hadn’t spoken to in years,  and persons I barely knew informing me how much they loved me and cared for me and hoped that I stuck around and survived. My attempted suicide revealed the relational aspects of the act of killing myself. But, it also energized people to participate in a practice/politics of care. By not looking at suicide, we fail to see the necessary relationality that has to structure of practice of care.

We have overlooked and underestimated the importance of care because we have not looked closer at suicide and have often taken the words of the suicidal to be misrepresentations of the world rather than reinterpretations of the world. Here is a wonderful example of the latter statement. When I was in the hospital and I was talking to the psychiatrist, I told her that I did not see suicide as a sign of weakness. I told her that for me suicide was harder than living and if I had more courage I would have finished the job. This, for the psychiatrist, was a clear sign of mania. For the non-suicidal, life is the hardest thing to do and suicide is easy. Suicide is a “permanent solution to a temporary problem.” For the suicidal, life is like breathing. It is done without thought. It is done compulsively. It is done “just because.” No one thinks to live. They just do it until they don’t. But if life is like breathing, suicidal people are people who like to count their breaths, who like to think about breathing every step of the way, who like to notice that breathing is more complicated than it has to be, and that stopping one’s breath is an end to all complications – temporary or infinite, past, present or future. A suicide attempt is an attempt to hold your breath until you pass out from it. For the suicidal, people who continue to choose life even though it’s hard to breathe are people too afraid to hold their breath until they no longer breathe. Holding your breath when the impulse and instinct is to breath requires strength. Choosing the permanent solution to the never-ending problem of depression, ideation, and absent care and relationality does not take weakness; it’s takes commitment.

When Ohio activist MarShawn McCarrel committed suicide, black activist, organizer and academic communities wrote about the importance of self-care as if what MarShawn needed was time and space to simply deal with his demons alone. However, if his “demons won” and they are multiple, why are the forces fighting those demons individual? MarShawn, like all of us, needed to hear, feel, and obtain us-care in a world that sees little value in it. What one hears in the words, “My demons won today” is an internal/external battle that breaks the dichotomy that exist between the two. Suicide is both an internal and external struggle that requires a continual interrogation of the internal since what is internal is always externalized in some form of another. Us-care is an internal and external methodology that requires the continual interrogation of the micro/macropolitical division since what is micro is always made macro when care is done correctly. Each and every form of suicide is a result of absent care. Each and every socio-political enigma is a question of: should we care or should we not care? For this reason, I’ll conclude with the words of the most radical caretaker I know, the woman who has dedicated her life to facilitating the politics of care, my mother, who has always told me, showed me, and taught me the radical importance of open, vulnerable, affective and effective care. In her rather simple words, “All we can do is care for each other.”

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Runnin’, Runnin’ Runnin’ but Never Runnin’ Away: Latour, Fanon and the Impossibility of a Natural Black Escape

     I.

            The autobiographical never emerges within an isolated frame of reference. The autobiographical emerges within the sociopolitical contours of the World writ-large. Our stories are never “our stories” in a way that strips the biographical away from the sociological, but instead “our stories” are always radically “ours.” In other words, our stories are always stories of relationality (or of the inability to make relations), stories of sociality (or the production of a ruptured sociality), and stories of paradigms (or the socio-political spatiotemporal structures that we inhabit). Sadiya Hartman writes, “The autobiographical example is not a personal story that folds onto itself; it’s not about navel gazing, it’s really about trying to look at historical and social process and one’s own formation as a window onto social and historical processes, as an example of them.”[1] The autobiographical is a case study of the self – a self that is always embedded in a network of social and historical processes.

What follows is an example of such a case study. Frantz Fanon, in his work entitled The Wretched of the Earth, speaks to a “world divided into compartments,” a world where, “economic reality, inequality, and the immense difference of ways of life never come to mask the human realities.”[2] This world is the modern world, the world of the colonizers, the world of anti-blackness. It is in this world that multiple methods of emancipation have been attempted, only to fold onto itself and recycle the practices of subjugation. My story is a biographical account of running, running, running, but never running away. In this story, I speak to the compartmentalized political culture of the modern world which exudes anti-blackness in every direction through a story of an anti-black encounter from my youth, and the hope of escape through running to the natural. However, by conjoining this narrative with the work of Bruno Latour in We Were Never Modern, I look back on that story as a means to articulate why an escape into the natural is a (non)escape. For if the nature/culture divide of modernity is nonexistent, then the notion of escape into nature away from the culture of anti-blackness is nonexistent as well. Fugitivity, or the practice of running as a method of resistance, does not provide any possible transcendence. In other words, we can run from anti-blackness, but we can’t hide.

II.

            What young love does is confirm the self. Friendship is one thing; love is another. To be in love while young is to take the intimate affirmation of friendship and to multiply the sensation. Not only do they like who I am, they like all the hidden parts of me too. They like what I’m afraid to share with everyone else. They know my secrets and they keep them locked somewhere in this thing called, “love.” It is this feeling adults forget when they tell their children, “You’re too young to be in love. You don’t really know what love is.” The adults forget how they were once able to be loved by someone who did not quite know themselves yet; the adults forget how they once were love someone who did not quite know themselves yet. But, the children know and the children never forget – the children know love better than the rest of us.

I fell in love for the first time in 8th grade. We met in middle school in the rural outskirts of a town called North East, Maryland. With a population of 3,715, everyone in the town lived closely; and with a demographic percentage of 85.5% white people and 7.2% black people, everyone in the town lived separately.[3] It was a town that seemed stuck in what many people would like to consider the American past. But it was a town that reminded one of why Anthony Farley is correct in saying, “memories of progress up from slavery are screen memories.  We remember slavery-to-segregation-to-neosegregation as progress up from slavery but there is no progress.”[4] In previous writings I have discussed the lived experience of growing up in rural white America writing:

Our lived experience of racial terror is not only conceptual. It is alive and pervasive. It’s an explicit and pervasive racism that sits right next to you in Biology class. It’s an explicit and pervasive racism that doesn’t wish to play in your hair, but pulls it, demeans it, disgraces it. It’s a racism that calls you, “Nigger,” belittles you into silence, demeans you into suicide. It’s a post-racial racism that imitates the racism of old. It is overt and actual, yet somehow still learns to benefit and hide behind the post-racial laws of integration, tokenized tales of black success, and the optimistic masquerade of the Obama era.[5]

Yet somehow in the midst of the madness of rural white America, I had fell in love with a white girl. She was young, fiery and white. I was young, poetic and black. We had found each other in the mayhem of the Manichean World, still characterized by what Sadiya Hartman called, “the afterlife of slavery.”[6] And we weren’t ignorant to the violence of the anti-black world around us, we just believed that, as I wrote in a song called, “The Story of Determination” in 8th grade, “[W]alkin’ in this life wit so much hatin / it’s so dangerous” and that perhaps our love could, “just transform ya eyes” to see that, “I’m sick of all this pain here / but we don’t have to fight / we are one that’s what we saying.”  To be one, however, with whiteness in an anti-black world, and to identify the securitization of that oneness through a relationality of affect and intimacy between a black boy and a white girl is to fall into the neurosis Frantz Fanon calls, “a hallucinatory whitening.” Frantz Fanon, writing about interracial relationality and the false oneness that it creates states, “Out of the blackest part of my soul, through the zone of hachures, surges up this desire to be suddenly white. I want to be recognized not as Black, but as White. But – and this is the form of recognition that Hegel never described – who better than the white women to bring this about? By loving me, she proves to me that I am worthy of white love. I am loved like a white man. I am a white man. Her love opens the illustrious path that leads to total fulfillment…”[7] I had found a way into a world that was not made for me.

No one could have told me at the time that we were not going to spend the rest of our lives together. I was convinced that our love was a love that cut across the boundaries of the Manichean world and opened up a space for a rupture in this compartmentalized world. However, what I didn’t know in 8th grade was what Jean Veneuse, the protagonist in a novel written by Rene Maran, did know prior to falling in love with Andree Marielle, a white French woman. Fanon, writing about the novel, states, “Andree Marielle has written to him that she loves him, but Jean Veneuse needs authorization. He needs a white man to say: take my sister.”[8] And whereas Jean Veneuse receives that authorization and still lapses into abandonment neurosis – so incapable of coming to terms with the blackness of his body that the legitimation of his white peers who grant him access to oneness with whiteness could not dismay him – I had not. Whereas Jean Veneuse was told, “In fact, you are like us, you are “us.” You think like us. You act like us. You think yourself black and others think of you as such? Big mistake! You only look like a black. For everything else, you think like a European. That’s why it’s only normal for you to love like a European,”[9] I was told, “You are not like us. You are not us. You don’t think like us. You don’t act like us. You are black, and for that reason, you cannot and you shall not continue to date my daughter.”

If the words of her father were not enough to break through the illusionary whitening, then the will of the network of institutionalized anti-blackness was. The father of my lover did not only say we could not be together, because of my blackness, he even called the school and told the school that he wished to keep us separate and the school followed his orders. From school administrators to teachers, there became a devoted effort to ensuring our separation. We could not sit together. We could not walk together. We could not be seen with each other. We could not under circumstances be with each other. It was my first encounter with the implementation of a powerful surveillance of my black body. To be or not to be was not the question. The entire world has begun to conspire towards my (non)being, and the will of the anti-black world had been working effectively. In response to this situation, I wrote in the same “Story of Determination’, “Obviously I’m walking in a darker place / I disagree wit folks that see me in a darker way / my allies see smoke / but I just see some harder days.” The will of the Manichean world had to be sustained and any ounce of innocence and purity I thought I could retain had to be devoured in order to sustain it. Young love confirms the self, and I bared a body unworthy of confirmation. Not only was she supposes to despise who I was, she was suppose scatter my secrets to the world to be surveilled. Not only was she supposed to fear me, but she was supposed to collaborate with the rest of the world in policing me. I am black, therefore, I was/am unworthy of white love. For, “The zone where the natives live is not complementary to the zone inhabited by the settlers. The two zones are opposed, but not in the service of a higher unity. Obedient to the rules of pure Aristotelian logic, they both follow the principle of reciprocal exclusivity. No conciliation is possible…”[10]

In response to this violence, I must have thought – even if subconsciously – to follow in the footsteps of my ancestors. I must have thought that running, like my ancestors had done, had some intrinsic liberatory value that had to be tapped whenever the world seemed at its end.  I must have thought that running would bring the pain of heartbreak and anti-blackness to an end. The 8th grade boy wrote in a song called, “Hold Hands and Run, “I said my mind already set to keep you here forever girl // I don’t wanna see you cry // so let’s run into forever girl.” To run into forever was to run into an eternity outside of the world we inhabited. I wanted to sustain the sensation of love, but suspend the intensity of anti-blackness. I wanted the force of the political world to become still; I wanted to find an outside of anti-blackness. At the time, I must have, in my own way, figured that following the footsteps of my ancestors might have opened the door to some emancipation. I must have found inspiration in the narratives of fugitivity. I must have thought of running as more than an act of exercise, but instead an exercise in action. But where does one run when the paradigm that one is entrapped is one that ensures social death, the inability to form relationality, and exteriority? Where does one go when it seems like the sociopolitical world is mapped to recreate and recycle violence? In eighth grade, my answer to these questions was simple: You run into nature. I wrote, “We can go into the mountains / drinkin’ from fountains / slinging shots at animals / and singing to flowers / camp on the beach wit the waterfall showers / we can sail on the atlantic / just stare at each other / leave a letter on our table / tell our family we love them / and never look back.”

Nature provided the safe haven from a political world bent on my destruction. Nature was outside the political. Nature was where the world of anti-blackness could not go. Nature was where blackness could not be pathologized, where blackness could not be expropriated, made into an instrument, devoured, negated, and harmed. Nature was where young love could go to be young love without the historical racial schema. Nature and its inhabitants lived outside of history. Nature was natural, and therefore the unnaturalness of the social construction of blackness had no impact on its configuration. And whereas this idea appeared true on face-value, this idea was symptomatic of the persuasive influence of modernity and the “hallucinatory whitening” that still remain internalized. Bruno Latour hypothesizes in his We Were Never Modern that, “the word ‘modern’ designates two sets of entirely different practices which must remain distinct if they are to remain effective, but have recently begun to be confused. The first set of practices, by ‘translation’, creates mixtures between entirely new types of beings, hybrids of nature and culture. The second, by ‘purification’, creates two entirely distinct ontological zones: that of human beings on the other hand; that of nonhumans on the other.”[11] The latter practice of purification is the practice that establishes a “partition between a natural world that has always been there, a society with predictable and stable interests and stakes, and a discourse that is independent of both reference and society.”[12] In other words, the practice of purification purifies hybridity in order to create a dichotomy of nature and culture. By subscribing to this notion, I subscribed to the script of modernity which did not allow me to see how nature itself is tainted with the history of anti-blackness.

The Atlantic I wrote about running to is not just an oceanic body of water; it is an oceanic body of water still imbued with the nutrient cycles of dead black bodies thrown overboard from slave ships navigated by white slave merchants.[13] The beach, or the eastern sea shore is where the doors of those slave ships would open only for my ancestors to recognize that the door of the ship had opened up to what Dionne Brand has called, “The Door of No Return.”  I thought I ran to nature to find sanctity, however, I did not know of the Latourian analysis that ruptured the nature/culture divide only to give language to the always already hybrid nature of both. Nature is embedded in a cultural matrix of anti-blackness historicity. The trees are stained with reminisces of noosed black necks; the rivers with the corpses of suicided and drowned black bodies; the mountains and trails with marooned and running black fugitives, and the list goes on and on. It is no wonder that in the same song quoted above, in the same verse quoted above, yet later in that verse, I wrote, “Come and get it if you want it / I feel ya and I want ya / I’m yo man / let’s hold hands and go where / there’s nowhere.”  Indeed, nowhere is the only place I could run. If the nature/culture divide is as Latour describes it, then the Manichean World is embedded there, even in nature as well. Anti-blackness does not end where the entrance to the woods begins. But instead the entrance of the woods begins another encounter with anti-blackness. Henceforth when we, “run innocently across vast acres of grass, formerly stained with black blood,” we must remember that, “only fifty years ago, red faces flew Confederate flags next to black bodies hanging from tree branches. And even though we no longer see the black bodies hanging, the Confederate flags still wave as a symbol of a vanguard that will undoubtedly ‘rise again.’”[14] For we can keep we running, running, running, but we can never run away from the fact of anti-blackness.

Works Cited

Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Grove press, 2008.

———. The Wretched of the Earth. Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 2007.

Farley, Anthony Paul. “Perfecting Slavery.” Loy. U. Chi. LJ 36 (2004): 225.

Gillespie, John. “Rural Niggers.” Propter Nos 1, no. 1 (2016): 20–22.

Hartman, Saidiya. Lose Your Mother: A Journey along the Atlantic Slave Route. Macmillan, 2008.

Latour, Bruno. We Have Never Been Modern. Harvard University Press, 2012.

“North East, Maryland,” City-Data, accessed April 12, 2017, http://www.city-data.com/city/North-East-Maryland.html

Saunders, Patricia J. “Fugitive Dreams of Diaspora: Conversations with Saidiya Hartman.” Anthurium: A Caribbean Studies Journal 6, no. 1 (2008): 7.

Sharpe, Christina. In the Wake: On Blackness and Being. Duke University Press, 2016.

[1] Patricia J Saunders, “Fugitive Dreams of Diaspora: Conversations with Saidiya Hartman,” Anthurium: A Caribbean Studies Journal 6, no. 1 (2008): 7.

[2] Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 2007), 3–5.

[3] “North East, Maryland,” City-Data, accessed April 12, 2017, http://www.city-data.com/city/North-East-Maryland.html

[4] Anthony Paul Farley, “Perfecting Slavery,” Loy. U. Chi. LJ 36 (2004): 229.

[5] John Gillespie, “Rural Niggers,” Propter Nos 1, no. 1 (2016): 20.

[6] Saidiya Hartman, Lose Your Mother: A Journey along the Atlantic Slave Route (Macmillan, 2008), 6.

[7] Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (Grove press, 2008), 45.

[8] Ibid, 49.

[9] Ibid, 50.

[10] Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 4.

[11] Bruno Latour, We Have Never Been Modern (Harvard University Press, 2012), 10.

[12] Ibid, 11

[13] This remark is in reference to statements made in Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake: On Blackness and Being. Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (Duke University Press, 2016), 39–40.

[14] Gillespie, “Rural Niggers.”

Love is Not Colorless

           The Huffington Post recently posted an article on Romeo Miller, hip hop artist and No Limit Forever record label founder, entitled, “Romeo Miller Can Teach Us All Something About Interracial Dating.” The article highlights Romeo’s new relationship with Toneta Morgan, a blonde haired white girl from God knows where, and goes on to talk about the backlash Romeo received from the black community on Instagram for being with a white women. Romeo responded to this backlash in foolishly colorblind fashion saying, “Love is colorless at the end of the day,” a quote which the Huffington Post just praised.

            “In other words, love has no limit,” Taryn Finley wrote to close out the article. But the fact of the matter is, Romeo’s statement proves the complete opposite to be true. Advocacy for colorless love implies that love’s limit lies within the confines of blackness as a significantly, recognizable aspects of a person’s identity and personhood. Romeo’s will to colorlessness negates the fact of blackness and anti-blackness that manifest within the social and private sphere of black social life. Love doesn’t render Romeo free of the white gaze that imparts criminality onto him regardless of his status and celebrity. Love doesn’t render Romeo free of the unconscious and preconscious racism that will find itself conscious and distinguishable the moment the “Negro” attends the first white family dinner. Love doesn’t render Romeo free of white murmurs that will forever question the integrity of the relationship as a relationship consummated by affection and tenderness first, and sexual phantasms of the “animalistic black phallus,” second.

            Love is full of color, struggle, and power dynamics. The interracial relationship is not exempt from that, on the contrary, the interracial relationship is permeating with the socio-political context of race and gender. Whereas the black man (and it is different for a black women), being a man, may dominate the private sphere with physical prowess, the white woman, being white, dominates the social sphere by being the institutional queen of white supremacy. Her position as queen in the systemic structure of white supremacy will become known when the police stops you on the highway and wants to ask her and her alone if she’s “okay.” Your position as dominant in the private sphere will become known when her Aunts, friends, and cousins want to know if, “What they say about you [the black] is true.” It is this fact of blackness that made Fanon say, “Whoever says rape says black man.”

Interracial love is a power struggle built on an asymmetrical racist, patriarchal foundation. But to love and love truly is to love the struggle you’re engaging in. For Romeo, a black man, and Toneta Morgan, a white woman to be involved romantically they can’t ignore this crucial part of the struggle. They can’t cast color to the wayside as if anti-blackness doesn’t cast a question mark on Romeo’s entire existence. The problem has to be faced head on. It has to be discussed, argued, disagreed on, and solidified as part of the communicable discourse in the relationship. Race is as significant, perhaps more significant, as the rest of the discourses that make the struggle in love worth the struggle of love.

As a black man, in an interracial relationship, I’m not here to say whether or not you can be pro-black and date a white women. Personally, I love black people, and I love my white Hispanic girlfriend from the Basque Country. But what I am here to say is that interracial love is not and cannot be colorless. It has to be as color-conscious as the world is, and this consciousness need not be an obstacle. To love and love conscious of color is to love the person as the person is in their fullness, whether it be black and ostracized to the margins of civil society, or white and postured as the symbolic beacon of civil society. And truly, if the person you love can’t love, can’t handle, or won’t attempt to understand your blackness, then that person loves a false imago of you that’s neither helpful nor honestly loving.