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We Can't Breathe: On Black Lives, White Lies, and the Art of Survival

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A Finalist for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay
Insightful and searing essays that celebrate the vibrancy and strength of black history and culture in America by critically acclaimed writer Jabari Asim

"A fantastic essay collection...Blending personal reflection with historical analysis and cultural and literary criticism, these essays are a sharp, illuminating response to the nation’s continuing racial conflicts."—Ron Charles, The Washington Post

In We Can’t Breathe, Jabari Asim disrupts what Toni Morrison has exposed as the “Master Narrative” and replaces it with a story of black survival and persistence through art and community in the face of centuries of racism. In eight wide-ranging and penetrating essays, he explores such topics as the twisted legacy of jokes and falsehoods in black life; the importance of black fathers and community; the significance of black writers and stories; and the beauty and pain of the black body. What emerges is a rich portrait of a community and culture that has resisted, survived, and flourished despite centuries of racism, violence, and trauma. These thought-provoking essays present a different side of American history, one that doesn’t depend on a narrative steeped in oppression but rather reveals black voices telling their own stories.

ISBN-13: 9781250174536

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Picador

Publication Date: 10-16-2018

Pages: 208

Product Dimensions: 4.50(w) x 7.10(h) x 0.80(d)

JABARI ASIM was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. For eleven years, he was an editor at The Washington Post, where he also wrote a syndicated column on politics, popular culture and social issues, and he served for ten years as the editor in chief of Crisis magazine, the NAACP's flagship journal of politics, culture and ideas. He is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship in Creative Arts and the author of six books for adults, including The N Word, and nine books for children.

Read an Excerpt



In my childhood home, we were not allowed to call each other liars. It fueled my father's indignation. Slung with the casual malice that only bickering siblings can summon, Liar! somehow set off a warning beacon, alerting my father wherever he was. A schoolteacher with a reputation for discipline, he wasn't remotely as stern as my friends imagined. But proper speech was an area he patrolled with diligence, and his radar was remarkably sensitive. Lazy enunciation, insults, and vulgarities were the blunders most likely to set him off. Once, in the middle of an argument, I told my brother to drop dead. My father's admonishment was calmly but pointedly delivered, and even now my ears burn at the memory of it. His catalogue of deplorable lingo was expansive and, to our considerable confusion, unpredictable. Words that hardly raised other parents' eyebrows could quickly draw his ire, words like butt, funk, and especially — inexplicably — liar.

No such codes existed beyond our front yard, and the streets presented delectable opportunities to mix it up with the neighborhood kids. We gave as well as we got, diving into the exchange of insults and threats like stragglers in the desert plunging into a sparkling oasis. If we caught someone making an assertion without evidence to back it up, we unleashed our vernacular and let the culprit have it. The local dialect turned you're a liar into you a lie, a contraction I found irresistible despite my father's prohibitions. I appreciated the way it transformed a person into the very thing they were accused of.

Our lies and tall tales usually revolved around girls or athletic exploits and were only occasionally malicious. They were lighthearted fabrications inspired and shaped by the stories we heard at the feet of our fathers, in barbershops and on front porches, at barbecues and ball games. For black people in the 1960s, even less welcomed as full-fledged members of society than we are today, yarn-spinning presented a rare American ritual in which we could freely participate. Other venerable traditions, like burning our neighbors alive, casting a ballot, or taking communion alongside white Christians, had long been denied us. But lying, now that was an equal-opportunity activity. With roots in stories about Aunt Nancy, Brer Rabbit, and John Henry, our inventions were small-scale variations on the African American experience, more about outwitting the powerful than manipulating privilege at the expense of the weak. Our bluster was closer in style to Troy Maxson recalling his tussles with Death in Fences than, say, Thomas Jefferson arguing in Notes on the State of Virginia that orangutans find black women sexy. Those differences aside, what could be more American than pretending truths were self-evident when they seldom were? What could be more American than dressing up a lie in tailor-made language, like romanticizing treason as a Lost Cause or sugarcoating genocide by rebranding it as Manifest Destiny? As a bulwark against the realities of life in a racist republic, our fictions helped us believe we belonged.

In our world, the consequences of being caught in a lie were usually no harsher than school-yard ridicule or parental discipline. A person could get grounded or "put on punishment," as neighborhood parlance would have it. Our falsehoods possessed little power to influence another person's circumstances or alter a destiny, and we understood that their relative impotence stemmed more from our blackness than our youth. Anyone could see that "I blamed that broken window on Johnny and he got put on punishment" was a far cry from "I accused that nigger boy of whistling at me and he got strangled, chopped up, and tossed in the river."

Recently, listening to a white man's story on NPR got me thinking again about untruths and consequences. At age ninety-four, Joseph Linsk disclosed a lie he'd enabled when he was eight years old. He stole two dollars to pay off a debt and said nothing when his mother blamed the theft on Pearl, the family's black cleaning lady. She lost her job and was unable to get another because of her tainted reputation. Linsk remained silent and grew up to become a prosperous physician. Years later, he called on NPR listeners to help him locate Pearl's family so that he could try to make amends. Carrying the burden of guilt for so long, he admitted, had left him "smitten with grief." Such a lovely, complicated phrase. Smitten as in struck down, or as in enamored with? And if Linsk considered himself unbearably tormented, one wonders how he would have assessed Pearl's feelings. I'm tempted to conclude that Linsk, like too many white Americans, was less concerned with restorative justice than with assuaging his own pain.

When I posted a link to his story on Facebook, friends' responses eloquently lamented the long tradition of white lies leading to disastrous outcomes for black people. Yet my favorite comment was the most succinct: "Hmph!" That single syllable epitomized the tangled web encompassing whites' misdeeds and the desire for absolution from the people they've wronged. The ritual is often seen with representatives from the media thrusting their microphones at traumatized African Americans while their wounds are still gushing blood. Effectively serving as proxies for the white gaze, the reporters demand to know if the unlucky sufferers are ready to forgive their assailants, usually police officers or armed vigilantes tragically warped by delusions of supremacy (see Zimmerman, George). On the periphery, public officials hover uncertainly, trembling like Jefferson considering the prospect of a just God. To take the pressure off themselves, appointees and officeholders place it firmly on their bereaved black constituents by suggesting that healing cannot commence until they indicate their willingness to put the transgression behind them. It would be even more helpful if they could also express faith that justice will be done in court or, failing that, heaven. A forgiving victim who remembers to discourage street protests before pausing to pray for the killer will do more to "restore trust" than any indictment or conviction ever could. Reviewing footage of several of these predictable ceremonies made me think of an essay I'd read by the British writer Hilary Mantel. "Oppressors don't just want to do their deed," she wrote, "they want to take a bow: they want their victims to sing their praises."

The history of our Revolution will be one continued lie from one end to the other.


Along with brutality, torture, and murder, a principal step in oppression, American style has long involved getting between the oppressed and their stories. Depending on the circumstances, intervention may involve disputingoppressed people's versions of events, distorting them or seizing them outright, or renaming and repurposing them. Nurturing the lie at the heart of each method, a maneuver known in some locales as "getting it twisted," helps oppressors sustain what Toni Morrison calls the "master narrative." When individuals in some African American communities get things twisted, often beginning their tale with What happened was, a popular response is Who I look like? Boo Boo the fool? The question is quickly recognized as a way of announcing one's refusal to be bamboozled, hoodwinked, or misled. But street-level skepticism is one thing; collective willingness to accept the lie of American exceptionalism is quite another. Many descendants of enslaved Africans are no less intentionally gullible than their countrymen in wanting the American tradition — and the white men who established it — to be uniformly virtuous. For example, we know that more than a century before Thomas Dixon and D. W. Griffith started writing lies with lightning, the Framers were dipping them in ink and inscribing them on parchment. Despite the dishonesty inherent in their secular scriptures, the disheartening fractions and lies of omission, we want the nation's founders to be flawless. We want to believe that one youthful misadventure with a cherry tree was all a typical Great White Father needed to set him on the right path. We want to believe that the original plutocrats were never vain or insecure, that they were never unfaithful lovers or abusive husbands, that they never kept black women in chains and raped them repeatedly, that they never suffered from tooth decay and body odor or knew the heartbreak of psoriasis and regrettable habits. In my old neighborhood this kind of naïveté was called falling for the okey-doke.

Benjamin Banneker, an early American genius, was admirably resistant to willful amnesia. In 1791, he became aware of Jefferson's exuberant lies about black people in Notes on the State of Virginia. They included:

• Black people were more inclined toward lust than whites, but not sufficiently sophisticated to appreciate or experience the complexities of genuine romantic love.

• It was only natural for black men to prefer the superior beauty of white women, just as the orangutan "preferred black women over those of his own species."

• Pain, both emotional and physical, was "less felt and sooner forgotten" among blacks.

• Blacks were "induced by the slightest amusements," "had dull, tasteless and anomalous" imaginations, and were incapable of uttering "a thought above the level of plain narration."

Jefferson's whiteness was so fragile that a profligate lifestyle utterly dependent on human trafficking, sexual exploitation, and coerced labor was not enough. He had to buttress it with deliberate falsehoods designed to comfort the planter class and allay their fears of rebellious blackness. Incensed, Banneker called him on it. Including an edition of his almanac with a letter dated August 20, 1791, he wrote:

Sir, how pitiable is it to reflect, that although you were so fully convinced of the benevolence of the Father of Mankind, and of his equal and impartial distribution of these rights and privileges, which he hath conferred upon them, that you should at the same time counteract his mercies, in detaining by fraud and violence so numerous a part of my brethren, under groaning captivity and cruel oppression, that you should at the same time be found guilty of that most criminal act, which you professedly detested in others, with respect to yourselves.

In other words, Sir, you a lie.

Jefferson's letter in reply was tepid and noncommittal:


I thank you, sincerely, for your letter of the 19th instant, and for the Almanac it contained. No body wishes more than I do, to see such proofs as you exhibit, that nature has given to our black brethren talents equal to those of the other colors of men; and that the appearance of the want of them, is owing merely to the degraded condition of their existence, both in Africa and America. I can add with truth, that no body wishes more ardently to see a good system commenced, for raising the condition, both of their body and mind, to what it ought to be, as far as the imbecility of their present existence, and other circumstances, which cannot be neglected, will admit.

I have taken the liberty of sending your Almanac to Monsieur de Condozett, Secretary of the Academy of Sciences at Paris, and Member of the Philanthropic Society, because I considered it as a document, to which your whole color had a right for their justification, against the doubts which have been entertained of them.

I am with great esteem, Sir, Your most obedient Humble Servant,

Thomas Jefferson.

He made no attempt to directly address or refute any of Banneker's objections, sidestepping such provocations as fraud, violence, and cruel while tossing back an imbecility of his own. That kind of verbal thrust-and-parry, with its sly implications, coy dismissals, and passive-aggressive misdirection continues to shape disputes between whites and Americans of color over the nature of reality, a conflict I like to describe as narrative combat. Years later, Jefferson speculated in a letter to a friend that Banneker probably had (white) assistance in performing the calculations for the almanac and had possessed a mind "of very common stature indeed." In the end he let the lies stand.

Jefferson was not an elected official when he presented his inflammatory and patently false "observations" of black people to the world. Although he was minister to France the year he published his Notes, he was opining as a private citizen. Yet he was a public figure of considerable stature and thus his influence can't be overestimated. His notes enlivened stereotypes that resonate even today. When a white mother called the police in Washington, DC, because black teens near an ATM made her "uncomfortable" — and police unquestionably followed her implicit commands by detaining the youngsters — that was race-based lying at work. When the manager of a lingerie store made all the black customers leave after a black woman was caught shoplifting, that was race-based lying at work.

A different but no less caustic danger results from the liar acting as an agent of the state. When the state gets it twisted, as it did in the case of the Central Park Five, the consequences are long-ranging and irreparable. After a white woman was raped and beaten nearly to death in Central Park in 1989, the Manhattan district attorney's sex-crime unit railroaded five innocent young black and Latino men into prison. Each served between five and twelve years. The state's mendacity was abetted by the defendants' coerced confessions: vague, inconsistent statements in which they lied on themselves. Years later, after another man confessed to the crime and the Five were exonerated, former district attorney Linda Fairstein, who had supervised the sex-crime unit, continued to ignore the complete absence of evidence and insist that the jury had reached the correct verdict. Donald Trump, who had fanned the flames of derision by purchasing full-page ads in local newspapers calling for "muggers and murderers" to suffer for their crimes, also expressed no remorse. "They admitted they were guilty," he said in a statement to CNN. "The police doing the original investigation say they were guilty. The fact that that case was settled with so much evidence against them is outrageous." There was no evidence against them, and investigators found no DNA from any of the young men at the scene of the crime. Like Jefferson and many others before them, Fairstein and Trump refused to admit their roles in perpetuating a toxic deception, even when facts inconveniently illuminated their errors.

Deceiving Americans is one of the few growing home industries we still have in this country.


In 1988, Newt Gingrich spoke passionately of a war against liberals that had to be "fought with a scale and a duration and a savagery that is only true of civil wars," a war in which language would be wielded as "a key mechanism of control." Two years later his political organization, GOPAC, offered aspiring Republican candidates a key list of words and phrases — sick, pathetic, radical, and welfare, among them — to help voters distinguish between them and their Democratic opponents. If not for such maneuvers, it would be tempting to identify something unprecedented in Trump's aggressive pseudo-populist postures during the campaign, as well as his tendency to dismiss any coverage that challenges his narrative as merely fake news. Instead, his tactics remind us that getting it twisted is hardly a new method for the GOP. It is the party of Atwater, after all, and the party whose most popular president in recent decades launched his campaign in Philadelphia, Mississippi, where the bodies of three activists were found during the height of the civil rights battle in that state. Perhaps because of that sordid history, it was just a short spiral from Ronald Reagan's welfare queens to Trump's wilding teens, Mexican rapists, death panels, and gay Kenyan Muslims masquerading as American presidents. Our Twitter-happy narcissist in chief, continuing his long history of dissembling and prevarication, rode into power on a wave of such shouts and murmurs (and dog whistles). The "mainstream" press, suffering from an embarrassing lack of diversity, did little to resist Trump's verbal tsunami, using working class as a euphemism for white people, often uncritically accepting police accounts of shootings involving unarmed black people, and showing a woeful reluctance to identify racists as the unprincipled degenerates they are. The day after Trump declared his candidacy, Dylann Roof executed nine black Charleston churchgoers. As black communities nationwide reeled in horror, initial news reports described the unrepentant assassin as "a bug-eyed boy with a bowl haircut who came from a broken home," a waif so bedraggled and forlorn that local cops took him for sandwiches before hauling him to jail. Similarly, the media, preoccupied with the prep-school costumes favored by Trump's youthful troops, failed to seriously consider the visceral trauma resulting from resurgent racist terror. A month before the election, Mother Jones magazine introduced Richard Spencer as if he were a new neighbor at the block-party cookout. "Meet the dapper white nationalist riding the Trump wave," its promoting tweet cooed. Similarly, ten days after Trump's victory, the Los Angeles Times encouraged readers to "Meet the new think tank in town: the 'alt-right' comes to Washington." The dithering over the appropriateness of using alt-right, white nationalist, etc. was a sideshow that helped us to avoid the fundamental questions that must be confronted: Is voting for a racist itself a racist act? Can one commit a racist act and not be a racist? Until we delve into that riddle, no real conversation can take place between those who voted for the forty-fifth president and those who did not.


Excerpted from "We Can't Breathe"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jabari Asim.
Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.


Table of Contents


Getting It Twisted 1
The Elements of Strut 21
Shooting Negroes 49
Color Him Father 69
The Seer and the Seen 91
Brick Relics 115
The Thing Itself 127
Of Love and Struggle 171

Acknowledgments 189
Selected Bibliography 191