Rev. Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

April 19, 1998

"I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. . . . . When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me."

--The celebrated opening passage of Ralph Ellison's classic novel, Invisible Man

A congregant asked me this past week, "Why are you speaking on this topic? What drew you to the subject?" And I answered that I am burdened by the despair and hopelessness that I see in so many of our Black men. I feel weighted down when I read of young Black men killing one another, of new jails being built to house men with no legitimate place in our society, of men who learn to hate themselves and their kind from their earliest days. I am burdened when I see a Black man on the street. I am burdened by his posture and the way he avoids looking at me. I know that he thinks I'm afraid of him. And I am burdened because I know that sometimes I am.

A young Black man, Darrell Dawsey, speaks of his visit to a little four-year-old in a Washington, D.C., housing project: "Outside, in the shadows of boarded buildings, children scramble across the barren, cracked dirt that runs behind a parking lot, climbing jagged hunks of concrete, squealing with genuine delight not yet tainted by the desolation. Inside this third-floor unit, the living room is empty save for a coffee table and the battered, ripped, smelly couch where I sit. In what passes for a dining area, two wobbly chairs rest against a wall, beneath a cheesy oil painting of a matador or schooner or something. From the kitchen wafts the smell of cold days-old peas still on the stove. An open can of cooking lard congeals on the counter nearby, not far from half-eaten, grease-heavy pieces of fried chicken. There's no TV, no books, no toys, no games, no father. I'm visiting. Lil' Boy Brown facing me lives here. . . . I'm terrified for both of us. He must grow up with this, absorbing all the blows and lessons and horrors his home has to give. What these will do to him is anyone's guess. Perhaps, like so many Black men before him, he will ride his experiences like a rocket out of this place…. [On the other hand,] perhaps he will die too early. Perhaps he will kill too often. . . . . This could be my child. Hell, for all intents and purposes, this is my child. He could also be my killer, or my children's. I'm scared for what our America could make of both of us."

We must be careful, though, not to reinforce stereotypes. Ghettos and fried chicken. There is no such thing as "THE Black man." Some Black men are intellectuals, others are mayors of major cities; some Black men love basketball, but as we know others play golf; some are fundamentalist Christians who believe that homosexuality is wrong; others are happily gay; some abuse their women, and others are tender and loving husbands. We need to get away from the stereotypes and see the man. They are all unique human beings.

Not all Blacks live in desperate economic and social circumstance. There is a rising middle class. In 1950 only 5% of Black workers were managers or professionals; today the figure is greater than 20%. Today about a third of Black families are middle-class, double the number only 30 years ago. But Henry Louis Gates, Jr., a Black intellectual at Yale says, "The Black middle class has never been in better shape—and it has never felt worse about things." Much of this middle-class rage comes from the death of a dream, from believing the American promise that if you got your education, if you dressed well, if you spoke well, if you were responsible and worked hard, that you would be rewarded. And that has not been the experience of middle-class Blacks. They apply for business loans and are met with doubt and evasion. They expect to move up the corporate ladder and see less-qualified whites promoted first. They see the vaunted affirmative action programs advancing the interests of white women more than of racial minorities. They see the benefits of government programs being funneled to everyone except them. They are still at the bottom of everyone's list. They just can't win for losing. Annie Elizabeth Delany, the daughter of a freed slave, made this remark when she was 101 years of age: "If you're average and WHITE, honey, you can go far. Just look at Dan Quayle. If that boy was colored, he'd be washing dishes somewhere."

Still looked upon with fear and suspicion, Blacks begin to develop a little paranoia. Was AIDS concocted to infect Blacks? Is the government conspiring to make drugs available in inner-city neighborhoods? With the high percentage of Blacks in jail and on death row, is genocide the ultimate goal? You know, the first time I heard that sentiment expressed, I just blew it off. Now I'm beginning to wonder myself.

What about the Blacks that haven't made it to the middle class? What's happening with them? Since the early 1970's, the numbers have shown a growing divergence between poor Blacks and relatively prosperous ones. The top 20% of Blacks have 50% of Black income, and the inequality is growing ever more rapidly. One of the major reasons for this discrepancy is the nation's steady shift from a manufacturing to a service-based economy. Black families are far more dependent than whites on income from high-paying blue-collar jobs that require modest education. In 1988, for example, manufacturing jobs such as machine operators were the largest single job group for black men. But these jobs are fast disappearing. The automobile industry alone has lost 140,000 jobs since 1979, and manufacturing overall has lost 1.6 million jobs in the last ten years alone. "A Black steel or auto worker earning $30,000 a year who loses his job isn't going to become a stockbroker," says one economist. "He's going to get a lower-paying service job." The key seems to be education, but federal education cutbacks have reversed the trend of more Black high schoolers going on the college. Where is the money going to come from? In 1968, 29% of Black homes were headed by single women; in 1988, the number was 42%. These families are less likely to have the means to get their children into college.

So Henry Louis Gates, Jr., speaks of "two nations," on the one hand the Blacks who have made it to the middle class and on the other, the many whose lives are blighted with poverty and hopelessness. He speaks with regret about having more in common with fellow intellectuals at Yale than he does with the Black street people he passes as he walks to his office. What characterizes the life of this "other nation"?

It's hard to know where to begin. The composite picture is not a pretty one. To begin with, more and more Blacks are ending up in prison—fully 1/3 of Blacks in their 20's are on probation, on parole, or in prison. In 1930, the inmate population in this country was 77% white and 22% Black. In 1986, the percentage was 40% white and 45% Black. Over half a million Black men are in jail and as many more could be sent there or returned there if they violate their parole or probation. Perhaps as many as a million more have records as felons, not the best credential for employment. Their families are poor, their children fatherless. Prison becomes the norm. We are on a dangerous course.

Poverty undergirds so much of the pain in the lives of Black men. 44.8% of Black children live below the poverty line, compared with 15.9% of white youngsters. For as long as records have been kept, the unemployment imposed on Blacks has been approximately double that experienced by whites. If you are Black in America, then, you will find it twice as hard to find and keep a job.

We cannot underestimate the effect of self-hatred in a people who are, after all, just a few generations away from slavery. The internalizing of the oppressor's views in the oppressed--most Black violence is visited upon other Blacks. Slavery? That's over and done with, whites say. But it's not over and done with for Blacks. Let's just get on with it, whites say, the playing field is level now. Is it? Almost all of you in this room today are white. If you were told that you would be paid a sum of money for turning Black, how much would you demand? How much value do you put on your whiteness? How much? A million dollars? Two million? Seven? Just how level is the playing field?

This self-hatred is reflected in the increasing rate of suicide among young Black men, who are now taking their lives at an unprecedented rate. The suicide rate for Black males ages 15 to 24 soared more than 57% from 1987 to 1994. Suicide is now the third highest cause of death among young black men, after homicide and accidents. Rev. Cecil L. Murray, pastor of First African Methodist Episcopal Church of Los Angeles, comments, "Despair is increasing, and that despair is economic, political, educational, and social." Children killing themselves because of lack of hope.

Why is it that the Black woman seems so empowered compared to the Black man? Women sometimes have been used to displace men, as companies say, "If we absolutely must have a Black person here, let it be a woman." James Baldwin, whose words are still eloquent and relevant today, says that "the action of the White Republic, in the lives of Black men, has been, and remains, emasculation." Baldwin goes on to explain that the "male cannot bear much humiliation . . . it obliterates him." Perhaps this explains the bravado of young Black men; and perhaps it explains why some would rather die than live without hope of realizing themselves as men, able to work, able to feed their women and their children.

Patrice Wagner, a Black mother, recalls with pain what her son experiences everyday in this America, this land of hope and opportunity for all. She said she got on the New York City subway line at 157^th St., headed downtown with her sixteen-year-old son and his best friend. She writes, "I sat in a seat near the door and watched the reaction of everyone who got on the train to two young African-American males in sneakers, baggy pants, oversized shirts and caps, who stood legs apart, arms crossed, faces serious, revealing no feeling or emotion. A lone white woman got on at 103^rd Street. . . . she clutched her purse closer to her body, bowed her head, and moved, cowering and fearful, to the farthest end of the car. . . . everyone looked at them suspiciously and moved away, whites and African-Americans alike. All they saw was what the media had taught them to see in young Black men—menace, thief, gangster, thug, rapist, a thing to be feared. I was flooded with emotions. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to fight. . . . I wanted to beat it into the heads of each of these people that my son and his friend were artists, intellectuals, musicians, activists, builders: gentle caring boys, loving sons. I wanted them to see my son for what he was to me: a young man who has given me faith in the birth of a new and better world . . . .

Can you imagine how you would feel as a mother or as a father to know that your precious child was considered a problem, not a person to be celebrated, but as a thing to be feared?

Most of us here today are white. What can our response be to the appalling picture I have set before you? First, let me say that I hope your response is not guilt. In my experience, guilt gives way to unhealthy reactions—to anger at the victim, to accusations of others that their racism is worse than yours, to pain that simply immobilizes. No, let us not choose guilt. Let us rather choose to be informed—informed both of head and of heart--and then to act, based on that understanding. We need to act politically so that those who have been left out in the cold economically can have a place at the table. Otherwise, we will not be able to build enough jails to hold all the prisoners of despair. We need to act not out of sympathy, but out of true compassion and solidarity. We need to recognize our own racism and watch the ugly messages of fear and cynicism that divide us from our brothers. "If those people would only get their act together, the opportunities are there," we say. "Some people are just lack the basic intelligence—and they have poor values," we say. "They're lazy, they want a free ride," we say. "Of course, the people of color in our church are not that way. But they're not really—" What? Not really Black? Yes, they are. And when we say these things, we're robbing them and their brothers of hope.

As part of my preparation for this sermon, I met with a group of Black men from our church. I asked them, "What would you like the congregants to know when they leave the church next Sunday?" And they said several things that were helpful—but one man said something that stayed with me long after the meeting broke up. "Tell them," he said, "tell them that every Black man, every black boy, is inherently good." How sad, that it would be necessary to say that, to think that!

And so I say to you today, "Begin to see Black skin in a different way. Really look at it. Don't look away. Begin to see the beauty there. And when you see a Black man coming toward you on the street, don't catch your breath or walk to the other side. When you pass him, look into his eyes and say, "Good morning." It's a simple gesture, but it's a beginning. It's a way of starting to soften our hearts, to begin to see, to let love have a chance.

So be it.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.