This is part of the banned book review "club" I've been a part of recently. The most difficult part of the story was when Matt talks about the sexual assault they were put through when they were a young teen/preteen. It was hard to hear about. However, I really appreciated Matt's emotional intelligence about it. They call it by name -- "assault." They also have mixed feelings about their assaulter (which I suspect could be triggering to some victims of SA) but they acknowledge the complexity of the person and of their own emotions towards the person.
Overall, this story reminded me a bit of Trevor Noah's memoir. The way Black men recognize and memorialize their matriarchs is a beautiful thing to behold. There is a lot of wisdom in the story and a lot of insight from Johnson's life growing up immersed in Black culture and a Black family.
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Memorable quotes:
The projects were low-income housing set up under the guise of "helping" Black and brown folks have their own spaces. In reality, they served as a means to keep us out of "white" neighborhoods, while keeping economic and social systems of oppression in place to further stifle our communities. (p. 5)
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My oh my, how times have changed-- and with good reason. There is a belief that brutality works as a way toward curbing poor behaviors. Many Black kids share the same type of stories about getting whoopings. As I stated earlier, it was a generational practice passed down, like a recipe or a family heirloom. The technical term for it is "corporal punishment," and for many of us that have been through it, it is a trauma. Whooping introduces power dynamics through violence, and furthermore, there is no concrete way to measure where a whooping ends and where chargeable violence and abuse begin. One must admit that *all* of it is violence under the guise that one is considered "acceptable," and the other isn't.
Violence and punishment have long been the system's answers to everything. Going back to the transatlantic slave trade, Black Americans historically were subjected to extreme violence, including whippings, among other abuses, at the hands of the then-dominant white community. We were indoctrinated in violence, conditioned through and by violence, and colonized to adopt it as our own. (p. 46)
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Despite my pride that day, it's important to recognize that the images we see on television and in the media about white boys and guns are much different from those of Black boys. Many white boys from a very young age are their birthright, while Black boys like us had to do it in secrecy. It can't be lost on us that in this country, a Black boy with a gun is equal to his death. A Black boy with a *toy* gun is equal to his death. White boys get hunting guns for Christmas. Black boys like us resorted to traveling to a different state, in the country-side, where no one could see us have that "experience." White boys are led down paths of gun ownership, with law and order and weapons as a means to an end. Black boys are down for the "talk." Not the talk about the birds and the bes and sex, even though many of us get that talk, too. (p. 61)
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As slaves, we ate the scraps, but our ancestors knew that even the scraps had magic. OUr ancestors knew that nourishment from even the barest of pieces could geed the mind, body, and spirit. It's why I am not ashamed to be the descendent of slaves, of people who made a way out of no way. People who survived on hope and hopelessness. People who took parts of animals and vegetables that had no prior use and used them to nourish others. People who passed down those lessons to feed hundreds of thousands, who passed down those lessons to feed millions of Black folks. People who created a culture, an existence. It's why I am not ashamed to eat the foods that my ancestors ate. Every now and again I'll hear some bougie Black person condescendingly refer to some of the foods we eat --pigs' feet, chitterlings, grits-- as "slave food." It's hard for people to accept the slave as anything more than the property they were. However, I see their humanity because I am them. We are the trauma they carried. We are their deaths. We are their joy and lives. We are their souls, and their food is our food. (p. 140 - 141)