Race, class, and real life "American Fiction"

I confront the "Black experience" while speaking at a school in the Midwest. This is what happened.

If you haven’t seen American Fiction, the screen adaptation of Percival Everett’s 2001 novel Erasure, you’re in for a treat.

Released in December with little fanfare, the film is an excoriating commentary on black identity. Jeffrey Wright (Westworld, Basquiat) portrays Thelonius “Monk” Ellison, a talented Black author whose books have been ignored by the literary establishment because they don’t pander to racial tropes and stereotypes (e.g., broken families, expletive-laced dialogue, drug-laden plots, etc). In an effort to mock the industry that spurns him, Ellison impulsively pens a piece of trashy “thug lit” under a pseudonym. The novel, entitled My Pafology (that’s not a typo) is steeped in the outlandish themes that publishers seem to covet in Black literature. To Ellison’s shock and horror, the book becomes a huge success. Hilarity ensues.

Now it seems that life is imitating art, in a painfully awkward sort of way.

American Fiction has received enormous critical claim, which isn’t surprising. It’s brilliant and wickedly funny. But let’s be honest. It’s also a film that critics know they “should” like: a low budget labor of love featuring some of the hottest Black talent in Hollywood (Sterling K. Brown and Tracey Ellis Ross give knockout performances). Yet the film also undermines and even attacks a core tenet of diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) that progressive-minded critics slavishly embrace: the universalization of Black identity. In the minds of DEI advocates, it’s not sufficient to simply see color; it’s essential that the “Black experience” be acknowledged. Yet America Fiction raises a delicate and thorny question: is there only one Black experience? And who determines what that experience looks like?

Hollywood has always been a case study in contradiction. From gun control (actors lobby against the Second Amendment while brandishing assault rifles in high-octane action films) to feminism (hello, Harvey Weinstein?), it’s often difficult to reconcile progressive values and deeds. So is it shocking that an industry that prides itself on being open minded and forward-looking has historically been one of the the biggest perpetrators of ugly racial stereotypes? Nope.

When I was a kid in the late 70s, I remember happily escaping to theaters with family and friends to see Shaft, Cleopatra Jones, Claudine, Cotton Comes to Harlem, and a host of other blaxploitation flicks that always featured the same set of Black characters — hookers, pimps, petty thieves, gangsters, drug dealers, single moms, and deadbeat dads, with the occasional hard-assed Black judge inexplicably tossed in for good measure. It wasn’t high art, but we didn’t care. We were just thrilled to see anyone on a screen who looked like us (even if they were uninspiring and mostly embarrassing).

Yet these films ignored Black America’s newly-emerging middle and upper class. As the socio-economic landscape of our community began to change in the post-Civil Rights era, we quietly longed for entertainment that reflected our new reality. We craved protagonists who weren’t criminals, on the government dole, or struggling in neighborhoods mired in teen pregnancy and addiction. We wanted to see worlds where our people didn’t just survive, but thrived. Every so often, Hollywood tossed us the occasional bone, but it wasn't entirely satisfying (George and “Weezy” Jefferson may have “moved on up” from Queens to the Upper East Side, but his buffoonish antics were a constant reminder of the class divide: George had earned success as a scrappy dry cleaner, not an educated, white collar professional).

Then came the Huxtables.

“The Cosby Show” debuted in 1984, my freshman year at Princeton. The series was an instant hit across all demographics, but it was wildly successful with me and my Black peers because it featured something we had never seen on any screen: kids from nuclear families, raised by parents with stable and successful careers as educated professionals, who held aspirations for a better life. The desperate longing to have our existence validated sprang from something we quietly acknowledged yet rarely discussed in our efforts to promote racial solidarity. We might be separated from our White peers by culture and skin color, but we were more alienated from many of our Black peers by virtue of class.

Although Black America’s TV patriarch would turn out to be a predatory serial rapist, it would be a tragedy to allow his crimes to obscure The Cosby Show’s singular achievement. The series expanded the dimensions of Black identity, bringing texture and nuance to a group once seen as monolithic. For a while, we seemed to be making progress. From Family Matters to Soul Food to Black-ish, stories of wholesome Black middle and upper class families with wide-ranging identities, perspectives, and experiences became more commonplace.

But now DEI is reversing this trend. The Black experience is once again being flattened and reduced to one of victimization, oppression, and despair. I didn’t appreciate the extent to which this was happening until I came face-to-face with someone who challenged my own Black experience.

Last week, I was invited to speak to faculty at a high school in Fort Wayne, Indiana. The community has been shaken over the past year by a series of incidents among the student body that some perceive as racially-motivated and others view as innocent and misrepresented. Ever since I’ve assumed the role of Executive Director of the Foundation Against Intolerance & Racism four months ago, I’ve spent a lot less time blogging and a lot more time trying to engage directly with Americans who are struggling to overcome the socio-political divide in our country. In this particular case, my goal wasn’t to resolve the source of underlying conflict, but rather to promote healing by speaking to a theme I repeatedly emphasize in my writing: class, not race, is the biggest driver of inequality in America today.

After presenting for forty minutes to an audience of more than two hundred predominantly White teachers, the superintendent came onstage and asked if there were any questions. For about two minutes, there was awkward silence. No one said anything. Then, just as he was about to wrap things up a White teacher in the back of the auditorium raised her hand.

“I hear what you’re saying,” she began politely, “but I kind of feel like you’re just glossing over things and making it seem like everything has been fine since the Civil Rights Movement. But it’s not fine. It’s still not easy being Black. What do you have to say about that?”

I thanked her and proceeded to address her the way I always do when asked this question.

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” I said gently. “I’m not saying that racial discrimination is a thing of the past. I’m saying that changing attitudes and behavior in humans is a process, not an event. And we’re making more progress than we allow ourselves to believe. We’ve moved from Jim Crow to having a Black president in forty years. Think about that. When you place seeds in the ground for a tomato plant, do you expect them to blossom in a day? A few weeks? Or even a couple of months? No. It takes time to see the fruits of your labor. So why would we expect racism to disappear from an entire society so quickly?”

The woman gave this some thought, then sat down. There were a few murmurs and nods, followed by a couple of other questions.

Then a Black teacher stood up. She held the mic for about two minutes, expressing her frustration with issues ranging from the administration’s handling of an incident in which a Black student was called the “N” word to its failure to “see” her as a Black woman.

“I want to know who here is going to acknowledge my experience, my experience as a Black woman,” she pleaded. “That’s what I want to know.”

In that moment, as I looked into her eyes, I could feel her pain. I could see that this woman desperately needed to be seen and was inviting an awareness of her struggle. She was looking to me, another “sister,” for solace and comfort.

I took a deep breath. “May I ask your name?” I said.

“Latasha.”

“Okay, Latasha,” I said. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, when I look at you I see a Black woman. What do you see when you look at me?”

“You’re a Black woman.”

“Allright. Now, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but if you had to guess, how do you think our lives might be different?”

Latasha regarded me carefully and gave this some thought. Then, quietly: “I had a single mom.”

“Ah, okay,” I said, nodding. “That is a big difference between us. See, my parents are married and have been for more than 50 years.” I smiled. “I’m very lucky.”

At that point, the audience erupted in applause, along with a few hoots and whistles. “Lucky” was indeed an understatement.

“Now, let’s keep going,” I said. “How else do you think our lives might be different?”

A long pause from Latasha, then: “Socio-economic.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Well, I’m a teacher, and you’re a lawyer!” she replied, laughing. The rest of the audience joined her, accompanied by a few supportive claps.

“Yes! That’s another big difference,” I said. “In fact, in that respect you actually have more in common with everyone else sitting in this room than you have with me. And they’re White.”

She glanced at her colleagues and smiled.

“Let’s keep going,” I said.

I didn’t prod her; I simply asked questions and allowed her to respond. After we’d engaged in this exercise for another minute or two, she held up her hand.

“So…what you’re trying to say is that class is more important to my experience than race? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“That is 100% what I am telling you.”

She paused and gave this some thought. Then she nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

It was the final question of the morning, and at the moment I think everyone in the audience realized that something powerful had just happened. We all had just witnessed the illusion of division dissolving in real time. We saw it unfold before our eyes.

I didn’t tell this woman want to think. The dots were hidden in plain sight. She simply hadn’t bothered to connect them because she had been trapped in a narrative of the singular “Black experience.”

I share this anecdote because it has convinced me, more than ever, of the hard work that each and every one of us will need to do in the coming years to bring our country together again.

The divide we face can’t be bridged on X, or Facebook, or even Substack. It isn’t going to happen on YouTube or on any podcast. The hard work we must do will need to happen on the ground, one person a time. Connecting with others — with kindness and compassion — and meeting them wherever they are. It will take love, and it will take a lot of patience. But I believe what I experienced at that school in Indiana last week can be replicated all over America if we are willing to unplug from our devices, step out of our echo chambers, and engage with others as human beings worthy of dignity and respect. Try it. You might be surprised.

Keep the faith.