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happy Seeing poor white people makes me Nicholas Powers June 11, 2019 Race & Blackness By Nicholas Powers "Should I kick him in the face? Hard? No, chill, he's not worth it. But why is this white boy begging for money in a Black neighborhood? Is he stupid?" White people begging us for food feels like justice. It fee ls like Afro-Futurism after America falls. It feels like a Black Nationalist wet dream. It has the feels I rarely feel, a hunger for historical vengeance satisfied so well I rub my belly I stopped myself. It's the Martin Luther King Jr. life-coach again, saying, "Love your enemies! Get to know them as people." No Dr. King! Today I own my anger. I want to snatch his food and say, "Go beg in a white neighborhood!" And eat it. And rub my belly. And laugh. smile. The cruelty cures my internalized racism that forces me to empathize with him-so I can be patted on the head like a good peaceful protester. All my white editors want me to write that way. All the white institutions that pay me want me to feel that way. But I don't-and saying I don't is freeing. It pulls the unconscious whiteness out of my brain. I don't need to see my best or worst self reflected on his skin. As I walk away, a white man in tailored clothes and exfoliated skin talked to the homeless white boy. His face is a mix of fear and disgust, race loyalty and pity. He's doing what I did, confronting history. How do I know? The fear in his tight mouth is disgust. The fear in his eyes is forced and unwanted racial empathy. He's worried, like many whites are, that as they become the minority, fewer and fewer places will exist where they have power. They worry that at some point the roles will be reversed and they will have to beg for food. He looked at the homeless white boy and saw a hungry ghost, seemingly expelled from some alternate dimension where Europeans are enslaved, segregated and mass incarcerated. He sees the fall of America. Neither of us ask the kid's name. We don't need to. His name is ink-blot. His name is Rorschach. It's whatever we see in the dark shapes that sleep on the street or pass by us on the train. That occasionally reaches out to us and says, "Help." Nicholas Powers is a poet, Associate Professor of Literature and a journalist. His book "The Ground Below Zero: 9/11 to Burning Man, New Orleans to Darfur, Haiti to Occupy Wall Street" was published by Upset Press. His writings appear in Truth Out, Huff Post, Raw Story and The Indypendent.

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