The white people overwhelmingly didn’t want to wear their masks here. At least, it was the white people vocally speaking out against them in April and May. They were the ones saying masks were too constricting, too annoying, and they just couldn’t breathe. So the vast majority of white people refused to wear masks in my Arkansas town. No masks in Walmart, no masks at Kroger, no masks as they returned to their churches and their gyms. Some belittled those who wore masks—the weakness of fear, they collectively thought—and sneered “pansy” at the mask-wearers in the stores. There should be nothing to fear, according to them. There never should be anything to fear unless you decide it.
The numbers of Covid-19 cases rose and rose. Our little town became the tenth-fastest growing in the nation in per-capita cases. And the white people did not change their behavior. The rivers were full of kayakers, the softball and soccer fields were full of children, the stores were full of shoppers. They refused to value others’ humanity because it felt too constricting, too annoying to do so. Because they felt they just couldn’t breathe. What white people do not face does not exist to them. They refused to wear the mask.
In Paul Laurence Dunbar’s 1896 poem, “We Wear the Mask,” he writes the powerful metaphor of hiding Black pain and Black authenticity under the Mask of what white people expect them to be. No, it’s more than that: they wear the Mask in order to protect their own Black lives from white violence.
“What Mask?” says my white student, my white colleague, my white relative, my white neighbor, my white senator, my white state, my white history, my white curriculum, my white blinders, my white fragility, my white healthcare industry, my white judicial system, my white education system, my white economic structure, my white nation. “There is no such Mask for Black people. That’s the weakness of fear. There never should be anything to fear unless you decide it.”
When the Black community took off this Mask and took to the streets to protest in May and June—yes, in the little towns in Arkansas, in the big towns in Arkansas—the white supremacists came out, too, armed with their automatic rifles. No masks either. We all know why the white people have been hoarding guns for years. It’s not out of fear of a government takeover. And they say there never should be anything to fear unless you decide it.
My brother called me from Cleveland because he was worried about the white supremacists standing at the end of my street. He doesn’t call me unless it’s an emergency. “White people,” we agreed, “are the scariest.” We don’t think the North is any better about racism; at least in the South they’re obvious about it. In the North, the white people will call it a “good neighborhood,” and never unpack that what they mean is “white.” When I visit my family, I see the spattering of confederate flags flying in homes from northeast Ohio to western New York, and they sure are not celebrating Southern pride.
But the Black people didn’t put the Mask back on when the white supremacists faced them in the streets at the protests. They stood until the white supremacists got tired. They stood until they were tear gassed, and then they came back the next night. And the next. The next. Every night. They’re out there now on the steps of the Capitol in Little Rock. They’ll be there tomorrow.
Erin Clair is Director of General Education, Director of College Operations for Arts & Humanities, and an Associate Professor of English at Arkansas Tech University. She is white, and she is going to keep building something better.
The numbers of Covid-19 cases rose and rose. Our little town became the tenth-fastest growing in the nation in per-capita cases. And the white people did not change their behavior. The rivers were full of kayakers, the softball and soccer fields were full of children, the stores were full of shoppers. They refused to value others’ humanity because it felt too constricting, too annoying to do so. Because they felt they just couldn’t breathe. What white people do not face does not exist to them. They refused to wear the mask.
In Paul Laurence Dunbar’s 1896 poem, “We Wear the Mask,” he writes the powerful metaphor of hiding Black pain and Black authenticity under the Mask of what white people expect them to be. No, it’s more than that: they wear the Mask in order to protect their own Black lives from white violence.
“What Mask?” says my white student, my white colleague, my white relative, my white neighbor, my white senator, my white state, my white history, my white curriculum, my white blinders, my white fragility, my white healthcare industry, my white judicial system, my white education system, my white economic structure, my white nation. “There is no such Mask for Black people. That’s the weakness of fear. There never should be anything to fear unless you decide it.”
When the Black community took off this Mask and took to the streets to protest in May and June—yes, in the little towns in Arkansas, in the big towns in Arkansas—the white supremacists came out, too, armed with their automatic rifles. No masks either. We all know why the white people have been hoarding guns for years. It’s not out of fear of a government takeover. And they say there never should be anything to fear unless you decide it.
My brother called me from Cleveland because he was worried about the white supremacists standing at the end of my street. He doesn’t call me unless it’s an emergency. “White people,” we agreed, “are the scariest.” We don’t think the North is any better about racism; at least in the South they’re obvious about it. In the North, the white people will call it a “good neighborhood,” and never unpack that what they mean is “white.” When I visit my family, I see the spattering of confederate flags flying in homes from northeast Ohio to western New York, and they sure are not celebrating Southern pride.
But the Black people didn’t put the Mask back on when the white supremacists faced them in the streets at the protests. They stood until the white supremacists got tired. They stood until they were tear gassed, and then they came back the next night. And the next. The next. Every night. They’re out there now on the steps of the Capitol in Little Rock. They’ll be there tomorrow.
Erin Clair is Director of General Education, Director of College Operations for Arts & Humanities, and an Associate Professor of English at Arkansas Tech University. She is white, and she is going to keep building something better.
This was excellent-- thank you.
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