I once saw a film made in 1967 by a British director called “Dutchman,”
which was based on a one-act drama written by black playwright/poet LeRoi Jones
in 1964. Jones wrote this while his marriage to a white woman of Jewish
extraction was breaking up; one suspects that it reflected Jones own severly
altered attitude about the nature of their relationship. Jones would later change
his name to Amiri Baraka, suggesting a rejection of “assimilation” and
embracing his African roots.
The film follows the original dialogue of the play, which
occurs almost entirely in a New York subway train. A lithe, young, blonde, sexually
aggressive white female in a mini-skirt is seen standing on the ramp when she
notices a young black male in a suit and tie taking a look or two at her from
inside the train. The next moment she boards the train and strolls toward him
in a brazenly suggestive manner; the man is obviously flattered by the
attention but doesn’t want to be made a fool of, and responds to her come-ons
in a way that tries to gauge her “seriousness.”
But it is all an act; the woman merely wants him to confirm
sexual stereotypes about black males and embarrass him with it; when he doesn’t
“play along”—instead trying to force her to be more “specific” about her
intentions—she turns on him and taunts him for “rejecting” his “blackness” and
pretending to be “white.” The man then launches into a speech about how he
really feels about being black in a white society, and having cleared his
conscience boldly announces his rejection of the white female and the sexual
temptation she represents. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize he is dealing with
a psychotic with an agenda, and she quite coolly stabs him in the chest. The
next scene shows her approaching another black male sitting alone a train,
reading a book; he is obviously her next victim.
This story is probably best seen as an allegory about black/white
relations and commonly-held stereotypes. But it is not entirely in the realm of
fantasy; the other day I observed an incident that at least shared a similar
context. I was riding a Metro bus, sitting near the front. At some point the
driver employed the loudspeaker to request that two passengers sitting in the
back of the bus separate; looking behind me, I could see a black teenage male
sitting in the rear seat engaging with a slightly older white female a few
seats up; I knew the “type”: smug, sarcastic, self-satisfied, someone who was
attractive but probably gave herself more credit than she deserved.
I couldn’t quite hear everything that was being said, but
the black male was obviously agitated, and the white female’s expression was
that of someone who was taking delight at taunting him. I doubted they knew
each other; perhaps he tried to talk to her, but her initial response was
interpreted as demeaning, and their conversation “devolved” from there. It
seemed that every time the black male demanded she refrain from insulting him,
she responded with another insult.
The driver tried to persuade the black male to be “the man”
and move away from the female, and with some reluctance he appeared to be about
to do so; but as he passed the white female he suddenly turned on her on
smirking countenance and a noticeably large projectile of spittle ejected from
his mouth. It didn’t appear to strike her, but my own reaction was frustration
in that it was an unnecessary gesture. The next thing I knew was that a young white
male who was sitting at the very front of the bus was flying past me to the
back of the bus, and in the next moment I saw four white males scuffling with
the black male. The driver, a white female, obligingly opened the rear door, and
the black male was thrown was unceremoniously off the bus.
The driver of a truck who had witnessed the ejection drove up to
the bus and informed the bus driver that he had just seen something that he
found disturbing, but he was told that it was “alright” because there had been
a “fight,” and the black male had been causing “problems.” I, however, made it
known that I had a different perspective on the incident. I yelled toward the
back that the white female was no “victim,” which I felt compelled to do in light of her overly satisfied expression in response to the course of events; my observation elicited as a response from one
of the white assailants a “what do you mean?” When the white male who had run
to the back returned to his seat in the front of the bus, he seemed flushed
with pride at his accomplishment; I sneered that it took four of them to throw
one black kid off the bus, and that all I had seen was a bunch of white guys “protecting”
the “sanctity” of some conceited white female. My contempt for the proceedings
was such that the driver felt obliged to admit that she didn’t understand why
the “victim” wouldn’t stop talking, instead continuing to egg the black male
on.
As someone who usually tends to mind his own business and avoid
personal entanglements, I don’t always understand why people choose to “communicate”
with each other as they do. But it is clear that there is a serious disconnect
in how one group interprets meanings and intentions of another, especially given the
racial divide—not helped by the admixture of stereotypes, deceit and
arrogance.
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