Just keep in mind, as a start, that the administration of Donald Trump has been attempting to restrict immigration to this country almost exclusively to -- yes, of course! -- White South Africans. In fact, between the end of October last year and March of this year, except for three Afghans, no immigrants who weren't White South Africans were legally settled in the United States (an eerie record of sorts for our era).
Of course, that should shock no one. After all, we're talking about the president who said, "I love the smell of deportations in the morning," used to insist that President Barack Obama was not born in this country, posted an image on Truth Social of the Obamas as apes and refused to apologize for it, and infamously referred to congressional Representative Ilhan Omar (who was born in Somalia) as "garbage," saying, "I don't want [Somalis] in our country. I'll be honest with you, OK. Somebody will say, 'Oh, that's not politically correct.' I don't care. I don't want them in our country. Their country is no good for a reason." Of course not, since it's one of the "shithole countries!"
And his administration has also gone after DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) in a big-time way. And all of that, sadly, is just to start down a list. But with that in mind, let TomDispatch regular Douglas White explore in a deeply personal fashion the mental devastation racism has indeed caused (and still causes) in this country. Tom
The Mental Devastation of Racism
Beyond Public Accommodation
I was born in the American South in 1942 "in the land of the free and the home of the brave" (as the final stanza of the national anthem puts it). Francis Scott Key wrote those words in 1814. However, they were not true then, or in 1942, or today in Donald Trump's all too reactionary America. My Blackness consigned obstacles to me (as it would have in 1814 and 1942) that White people simply don't have.
Let me explain.
Life Under Racism
Throughout the 1950s, living in a segregated project in Kinston, North Carolina, there were several odd characters who (I now understand) were mentally ill. One was Snap -- or that was what we called him anyway -- a man of medium height and brown complexion with a fuzzy beard. Rain or shine, he walked around in the same grey overcoat, spring, summer, and winter, too. Frequently, he sat in a chair under the shade of an oak tree with his eyes closed while smoking a corncob pipe. I never heard him utter a single word, not one, so I didn't even know if he could speak.
As a kid, I thought he might have been named Snap because his brain had been fractured or broken somehow. When we neighborhood kids were involved in games, he would walk right through the middle of them (as if we didn't exist). If we were playing football and one of us was running out for a pass, Snap would walk between the ball in the air and the receiver, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. So, we would just continue to play as if he didn't exist.
I once asked my mother what was wrong with Snap and she responded with a degree of certainty: "He's not right in the head because a bullet was lodged in his brain." But she explained nothing more. So that left me wondering how he could walk around with a bullet in his head.
I never learned what actually happened to him (though I hate to imagine it today). He was taken care of by relatives who lived a few doors away from us in the project. We children weren't afraid of him, though he was different from any other adult we knew. Instead, I remember feeling sadness whenever I saw him. He seemed so lonely, being unable to communicate with anyone.
Another character in our community was Preacher. He pushed a wooden cart all over town, making noises with his mouth like a motor car in motion. In the cart were pots, pans, and old clothes. I heard that he had been a Jackleg Preacher, which in my community meant that he had been untrained as a minister, but that he had been spoken to by God and told to preach and carry his message. As with Snap, I never heard Preacher say a word, but I recognized that he was crazy and so got out of his way.
The project where we lived was a community in which the "different" and "damaged" existed next to the normal. In better-off communities across the country, both Snap and Preacher would have been sent to mental institutions, but not in our segregated community. I often wonder if they were living examples of what can happen to Black people when racism joins with other forces, including poverty, personal trauma, and abuse, to break the mind. I later came to wonder whether the trauma of racism was in part responsible for their inability to function in a normal way.
The Psychological Effects of Racism
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