When I was a young man seeking some measure of maturity, I came upon something which I found hard to reconcile--my progenitors were sold into slavery by other Africans. I was about 16 at the time and fully invested in the arcana of black nationalism as well as the proclamations of Paris and Brother Jay. This was not a pose--I was raised agnostic in a city that was falling apart. You know it all too well--crack, murder, AIDS, teen pregnancy. It's the headlines for late 80s urban America, and perhaps nowhere more so than in my native land of Baltimore.
The worst part of all the chaos was that I had no framework, no religion, no mythology to make sense of the mayhem. That was what black nationalism gave me--a means of understanding how we had all fallen into disgrace. So full were we on that notion, that we called it "Consciousness," for if you did not know that we were Original Man, that we were the descendants of kings and queens and thus royalty ourselves, that our time would soon come again, than you were mentally dead and truly lost. If you're snickering, it's because you aren't thinking hard enough. All of us need some sort of mythology and no group is immune to nationalism, to the need to believe that we are special.
Understanding slavery was, for me, a first step toward understanding humanity. Learning that black Muslims killed Malcolm X was another. Guns, Germs and Steel, still another. I never lost that old pride, because, as Hitchens says of religion, the truth turned out to be mythological enough. Harriet Tubman stealing south--repeatedly--to liberate slaves was a verified miracle. Ida Wells Barnett riding the railroads of the segregated South to investigate a lynchings, a pistol at the ready, was heroic on its face. In other words, the actual story was incredible enough. But more to the point, the deeper understanding that there was no dark and light, that there were no paladins, no orcs marked me for life
I thought about all of this again, last night reading Josh Green's piece on Hillary Clinton, and then the comments in the Wolfson post. Here is the thing--believing that you have fallen because of actions outside of your control, or the collective control of your tribe, rewards you with an unearned sense of the cosmic. It allows you to fashion yourself as heroic--a Hercules robbed by the smallness of Gods. It fills you with an anger which is, at its root, a sort of false power, a weak righteousness that turns your enemies into demons. It was thrilling to believe we'd been kidnapped by white interlopers, as opposed to knowing that, in the words of the great Robert Hayden, we'd been sold off for "tin crowns that shone with paste" for "red calico and German-silver trinkets."
That need to believe in something more is exactly how you come to think that you were robbed by John Edwards and Chris Matthews, as opposed to Bill Clinton and Mark Penn. It's how you come to believe that the order of questions in a debate is more decisive than your ability to keep the peace in your own campaign. Think on this for a second: Here was a candidate who was pressing the case that she was uniquely qualified to work Washington's sprawling bureaucracy, while failing to work the bureaucracy of her own campaign. Yet the belief that she was robbed persists.
It's now clear that her campaign was fatally flawed, that Clinton herself failed as an executive in the most basic rudimentary ways. So then, why the lionizing? Why Clinton as the champion of all that's right with feminism? Why Clinton--specifically--as a vessel for the hopes and ambitions of so many women? The answer lies, not with Clinton herself, but with her tormentors.
Obviously, I'm not a Clintonite, but a certain tribe of white men have always evinced a visceral hatred of her which I can't fathom. There's a sexism there, but something more than that, something about the men themselves and their own failings. For someone who's never been a flaming lefty, Clinton draws an incredible amount of venom. I may not completely understand why, but I suspect somewhere out in our fair country there are millions of white women who know exactly what that sort of hatred is all about.
From that perspective, Clinton is not a symbol of the possible, but of what these women have endured. If you see Clinton as a metaphor, not as an actual candidate, not as breathing, loving, fucking, eating, flawed human, but as the personification of all your strife, it almost doesn't matter whether she's a good candidate or not. Think about this notion that the sexism endured by the Clinton campaign is cause for a new woman's movement. The frame is almost jihadic. The concern isn't, How do we make sure that next time we pick a better female candidate, it's How do we use the pain we've endured to our ends.
I know this story so well that it hurts. The need to be noble, when in fact, you're really just beaten, is heartbreaking. This is about Kwame Kilpatrick and Detroit, Marion Barry in Washington, Sharpe James in Newark. It's about Karl Rove and country clubs, 9/11, Iraq and Bush's second term. It's about the South and the Lost Cause, about fighting for the confederate flag while your whole state teeters on the brink of the third world. This is about blindness and humanity, about a life defined by score-settling and what someone did to you, as opposed to what you're going to do for yourself.