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If Beale Street Could Talk: a review

Because Black love matters as much as Black pain.

By Pallavi JunejaPublished 4 years ago 4 min read
Third Place in Lifelong Learning Challenge
9

The murder of George Floyd was a modern-day lynching.

As such, the United States has been forced (again...) to confront racism – the skeleton in America’s closet that never actually died, especially for Black and Brown people.

This confrontation has been a dynamic un-learning in many ways.

Books that have been available, like White Fragility and How to Be an Antiracist, are now living on Amazon’s list of top 25 best-sellers in 2020. Films that have been available, like 13th and Just Mercy, are being watched with the fervor of a new release. For once, our consumer culture is helpful: we are consuming Black history and the ensuing reality of systemic racism. And our consumption is driving change that could never have been anticipated.

But, as we learn – many of us for the first time – about how Black Americans have been and continue to be oppressed, we tiptoe the fine line of flattening Blackness into tragedy, of synonymizing color with victimhood. In other words, we run the risk of stripping away the dynamicity that makes a group of people – any group of people – wholly human. Because Black joy matters as much as Black pain. And recognizing beauty is as important as recognizing atrocity when trying to really understand and empathize with the experience of others.

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin ends up becoming the story of a Black man falsely accused of rape – an accusation with tremendous historical precedent. But it is foremost the story of Black love and Black art. The existence of beauty as more than an afterthought, the raw coexistence of love and hurt is what makes this book a must-read, especially now.

Fonny and Tish -- the main characters -- grow up together in New York City. And, ultimately, they find themselves in one another.

Fonny is a young Black man, and he is a sculptor. Tish, as the narrator, describes his woodworking as far more than working on wood. Instead, it is the formation of an identity, a self-owned desire, in a world where nothing is meant to belong to Black men: “Fonny had found something that he could do, that he wanted to do, and this saved him from the death that was waiting to overtake the children of our age” (36).

His identity as an artist stands out against the background of a broken education system and a complex family structure and over-policed neighborhoods. Inevitably, his passion as an artist becomes intertwined with his wrongful conviction: “For, you see, he had found his center, his own center, inside him: and it showed. He wasn’t anybody’s ni***r. And that’s a crime, in this fucking free country” (37). That's one thing to know: Baldwin tells the truth.

But Fonny's passion as an artist also becomes so beautifully interlaced with his love for Tish. Early on in the book, she remembers his touch while he is trapped in prison and in the larger carceral state that is America. She remembers having sex with him: “He worked on wood that way. He worked on stone that way. If I had never seen him work, I might never have known he loved me” (42). Her revelation transforms Fonny’s strength from something criminal or threatening into something creative and sensual. Their love is so raw and so real – it almost hurts in the way that it hurts to see Fonny beaten (but never beat) by the racist system.

Ultimately, as a reader, my investment in Fonny and in Tish and in their love extends beyond a story of victimhood and racism. Without a doubt, Baldwin does not let us forget that they are Black Americans, that they are fighting just to live in a society that was not built for them. But he also doesn’t let us forget that they are human, that they love and create and feel freely no matter their actual freedom. And Baldwin invokes such a strong emotional reaction to both facts until they become inseparable. As a result, he demands that we, as readers, recognize the dynamic experience of Black America. And right now, amidst the new revolution, this complexity is something that we mustn’t overlook.

Because Black joy matters as much as Black pain. And Blackness cannot be flattened into a one-dimensional tragedy.

Here is a list of Black-owned bookstores to purchase your copy: https://lithub.com/you-can-order-today-from-these-black-owned-independent-bookstores/.

literature
9

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