Free The Michael Eric Dyson Reader by Michael Eric Dyson Page A

thinking about you a lot because I’ve been talking about black men quite a bit—in my books, in various lectures I give around the country, in sermons I preach, even on Oprah! Or is it the other way around, that I’ve been talking about black men because I’ve been thinking about you and your hellishconfinement behind bars? I don’t need to tell you—but maybe I’ll repeat it to remind myself—of the miserable plight of black men in America.
    I am not suggesting that black women have it any better. They are not living in the lap of luxury while their fathers, husbands, brothers, boyfriends, uncles, grandfathers, nephews, and sons perish. Black women have it equally bad, and in some cases, even worse than black males. That’s one of the reasons I hesitate to refer to black males as an “endangered species,” as if black women are out of the woods of racial and gender agony and into the clearing, free to create and explore their complex identities. I don’t believe that for a moment.
    I just think black women have learned, more successfully than black men, to absorb the pain of their predicament and to keep stepping. They’ve learned to take the kind of mess that black men won’t take, or feel they can’t take, perhaps never will take, and to turn it into something useful, something productive, something toughly beautiful after all. It must be socialization—it certainly isn’t genetics or gender, at least in biological terms. I think brothers need to think about this more, to learn from black women about their politics of survival.
    I can already hear some wag or politician using my words to justify their attacks on black men, contending that our plight is our own fault. Or to criticize us for not being as strong as black women. But we both know that to compare the circumstances of black men with black women, particularly those who are working class and poor, is to compare our seats on a sinking ship. True, some of us are closer to the hub, temporarily protected from the fierce winds of social ruin. And some of us are directly exposed to the vicious waves of economic misery. But in the final analysis, we’re all going down together.
    Still, it’s undeniable that black men as a whole are in deplorable shape. The most tragic symbol of that condition, I suppose, is the black prisoner. There are so many brothers locked away in the “stone hotel,” literally hundreds of thousands of them, that it makes me sick to think of the talent they possess going to waste. I constantly get letters from such men, and their intelligence and determination is remarkable, even heartening.
    I realize that millions of Americans harbor an often unjustifiable fear toward prisoners whom they believe to be, to a man, unrepentant, hardened criminals. They certainly exist. But every prisoner is not a criminal, just as every criminal is not in prison. That’s not to say that I don’t believe that men in prison who have committed violent crimes can’t turn around. I believe they can see the harm of their past deeds and embrace a better life, through religious conversion, through redemptive social intervention, or by the sheer will to live right.
    The passion to protect ourselves from criminals, and the social policies which that passion gives rise to, often obscure a crucial point: thousands of black men are wrongfully imprisoned. Too many black men are jailed for no other reason than that they fit the profile of a thug, a vision developed in fear and paranoia. Or sometimes, black men get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Worse yet, some males are literally arrested at a stage of development where, if they hadmore time, more resources, more critical sympathy, they could learn to resist the temptations that beckon them to a life of self-destruction. Crime is only the most conspicuous sign of their surrender.
    I guess some, or all, of this happened to you. I still remember the phone call that came to me announcing that you