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Wheelock Community Read Summer Blog Series

Being An Ally

This is the fourth installment of the Wheelock Community Read Summer Blog Series. Each week, we will be posting a blog written by Wheelock faculty or staff that deals with a theme from this years’ community read; “The Beautiful Struggle” by Ta-Nehisi Coates. This week, please welcome guest blogger Greg Cass, Assistant Professor of Humanities and Writing.  

Being an Ally

by Greg Cass

It’s been a hard summer.  While I was in the middle of reading The Beautiful Struggle, we all bore witness to the continued violence against individuals of color around the country. In Louisiana, Alton Sterling was shot while being wrestled to the ground by police. In Minnesota, Philando Castile was shot during a traffic stop after declaring a handgun he was permitted to carry. In both cases, grainy cell phone videos recorded the moments, and in their looped repetition on cable news they moved slowly from shocking to familiar, and my response softened from outrage to submission. Two more black lives lost; two more reasons for us all to retreat to our political corners and tweet angrily about the other side. These events feel inevitable, and they’re too quickly becoming forgettable.

Often times after one of these incidents occur, I see a common trend in the Facebook posts many of my well-intentioned friends and family members make in response: whitesplaining. These posts often express sympathy, but note that the victim of the violence is responsible for what has happened to him. In their view, if the violence was not deserved, there were at least two or three precipitating choices for which the victim can be blamed. In the more innocent form, this could be a note that there was clearly a reason for the police presence or the traffic stop, and in an extreme form I’ve seen this smug Willy Wonka meme. While my response to these is always anger, I know that these responses represent a limited perspective, one that doesn’t recognize the privileged position from which they speak.

But I could never hope to articulate this as well as Ta-Nehisi Coates does. Late in his memoir, he talks directly to those who like to preach solutions to the violence faced by black youth. His words reflect righteous anger toward those that ignore truth in favor of privilege:

Nowadays I cut on the tube and see the dumbfounded looks, when over some minor violation of name and respect, a black boy is found leaking on the street. The anchors shake their heads. The activists give their stupid speeches, praising the mythical days when all disputes were handled down at Ray’s Gym. Politicians step up to the mic, claim the young have gone mad, their brains infected, and turned superpredator. Fuck you all who’ve ever spoken so foolishly, who’ve opened your mouths like we don’t know what this is. We have read the books you own, the scorecards you keep—done the math and emerged prophetic. We know how we will die—with cousins in double murder suicides, in wars that are a mere theory to you, convalescing in hospitals, slowly choked out by angina and cholesterol. We are the walking lowest rung, and all that stands between us and beast, between us and the local zoo, is respect, the respect you take as natural as sugar and shit. We know what we are, that we walk like we are not long for this world that this world has never longed for us.

When I first read this passage, I saw myself in it. As a concerned outsider, I know I’ve often been quick to judge young black men and the violence they inflict upon each other without ever having walked in their shoes. I take the aerial view, and Coates knows it. He sees no value in my head shaking, and no value in me telling others how they ought to live their lives. I know the academic reasons behind “the walking lowest rung,” but I should not mistake that for the right to be condescending.

So these are the two dynamics laid bare by Coates throughout his book: there is real suffering and real violence that is stealing the lives and potential of black men, but the last thing they need is another voice telling them why they suffer or telling them how to act. For me, this then begs two questions: How can we outsiders be allies in these times? If The Beautiful Struggle inspires empathy and understanding in us, what can we do to advance the cause?

These are hard questions, and when facing them, I think many of us with privilege get paralyzed by the thought of doing something wrong, or insulting someone, and use that fear as an excuse to do nothing. We leave the fight to others and assume the work will get done without us. But there is a better way. We can and should see institutional racism and violence committed against our fellow citizens, regardless of its source, as an attack on ourselves. If you, like me, are moved to action by this book, I want to share with you the best tips I have found for being an ally. This list is not definitive or universal, but I have found these steps to be the most valuable in my own fight for social justice.

1.) Talk less; listen more.

Look again at the quote from Coates above. His anger is clearly focused on those who try to speak over the voices of others. His frustration is focused on the speech acts of those who don’t understand his world, the activists with “stupid speeches,” the politicians who “step up to the mic,” and “all who’ve ever spoken so foolishly.” When those of us with privilege use it to paternalistically speak over the voices of those without it, we are reenacting the violence, reminding them again that we set the terms, and we hold the power.

This is wrong. The first step is to be present in the conversation, to engage and think, but most of all, to listen. Our nation’s history has continually stifled non-white non-male voices, so the best way to fight for social justice is to first hear what that injustice is from someone who experiences it daily. This can be hard, because fighting for social justice feels like it needs to be active, and not passive; it is a fight, right? But you are not the speaker; you are not the soapbox. You are the amplifier, and the goal is to make sure others are heard first.

2.) Read. Read. Read.

Challenge yourself to move outside of your comfort zone in the relative safety of the written word. If Coates’s book has expanded your understanding, keep seeking knowledge. Racism and inequality have deep roots in this country that most standard educations only scratch the surface of. With the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement, there was a popular meme that I saw originally on twitter that read “White privilege is your history being part of the core curriculum and mine being taught as an elective.” Through no fault of our own, this institutional bias has created huge gaps in our understanding of anyone who falls outside of that privileged history. Correct it.

Read about the present. Read about the past. Read about people who aren’t like you. Coates can get you started with 13 books to better understand the experience of Black Americans. But if books aren’t your ideal source, get online. Seek out diverse voices across all media and learn from what they have to say. Challenge your opinions. Challenge the opinions of others. We can’t fight an enemy that we don’t understand, and the complexities of racism in this country will always prove elusive if we don’t study them.

3.) Recognize your privilege.

Before the traffic stop that proved fatal, Philando Castile had been stopped 49 times over the course of 13 years. The reasons for these stops varied, but most were for minor infractions, such as a burnt out tail light. As a white middle-class male, I never worry that a traffic stop could end my life. I would never think that walking on any street or in any neighborhood would put my body in danger. This was the lucky hand I was dealt at birth, and while I have every right to enjoy these luxuries, I have to remain conscious that those privileges exist and that I benefit from them.

Holding privilege is not an inherently bad thing, nor is it a reason to feel ashamed of yourself or where you come from. It also doesn’t mean you’ve had an easy life, or that you haven’t worked hard for the comfort you have. No one is asking for you to feel that way. But, if you aren’t honest with yourself about the advantages you’ve had because of your race, class, religion, ethnicity, gender, or sexual orientation, you’ll never be able to advance the work of sharing those benefits with everyone.

4.) Don’t give up. Don’t disengage. Don’t forget.

Social justice is hard work. It’s not a field to enter expecting fast results or quick satisfaction. The day-to-day events and continued violence can easily break one’s will to continue. There are many more causes; there are many easier fights; TV is REALLY good right now. But this is a fight that matters, and to be a good ally is to recognize that this is not a fight others can choose to ignore. Lucy Wheelock told us that the fight for children and families requires that we “be brave, for there is much to dare.” This fight requires bravery, and to dare to dream of a nation defined by equality is a long-term commitment.

President Obama is fond of quoting a line from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., reminding all of us that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” This is truth. We stand at a point along the curve, unsure of where exactly it began and unclear of how far it goes beyond us. But to be a good citizen is to know deeply that the fortunes of one affect the fortunes of all, to see how our institutions perpetuate values we reject, and to work doggedly to effect real change. Only in a true understanding of this can we attain an authentic and abiding empathy that empowers us all.

Check the Technique

This is the third installment of the Wheelock Community Read Summer Blog Series. Each week, we will be posting a blog written by Wheelock faculty or staff that deals with a theme from this years’ community read; “The Beautiful Struggle” by Ta-Nehisi Coates. This week, please welcome guest blogger Scott Votel, Assistant Professor and Director of Composition Programs. 

Check the Technique

By Scott Votel

It’s called The Beautiful Struggle after all.

So what, exactly, is beautiful?

Ta-Nehisi Coates must mean for that playfully oxymoronic title to affirm John Keats’ idea that ‘beauty is truth, truth beauty,” right? The book is the true and, thus, beautiful story of a difficult childhood under a difficult father in a difficult city at a difficult time. Coates’ memoir is, if nothing else, the bracingly honest self-portrait of a daydream-prone black son of a hard-nosed Panther living in a city so historically rife with violence visited upon black men that you can even buy a Bodymore, Murdaland snap-back in Orioles black-and-orange. The book practically quakes with hard truths. And so, hard beauty.

But the book isn’t only beautiful because it bravely depicts the hard truths of life in Baltimore by a surviving native son. Resist the temptation, if you can, to draw easy lessons from the book! Battle back the urge to anoint yourself with the liberal pieties that some careless readers demand from black authors! Demand more art from a piece of political art, and you’ll see that The Beautiful Struggle is beautiful because it is a deeply strange piece of nonfictional art.

Hear me out: if Coates, a lithe and flexible writer, wanted to write an excoriating report on inner city life in Baltimore in the late 80s and early 90s for the reader’s edification, then the man would have done just that. In fact, he’s built his considerable reputation on magazine-straining mega-essays like “The Case for Reparations” and “The Black Family in the Age of Mass Incarceration” and “Fear of a Black President.” No, what Coates wants to do, among many other things, is to generate an aesthetic experience for his reader.

And the aesthetic experience Coates attempts to engineer breaks most of the unspoken rules of memoir writing. The style is tuned up and tricked out, slang-studded, hyper-allusive. Readers unfamiliar with black or nerd or hip hop culture from the 80s and 90s are lost in a wilderness of unexplained references. Whole conversations are presented without a single attribution. Unless conversations are reported in the form of a transcript. He will frequently slip into someone else’s voice and just as quickly abandon it. Refuses even to set up a present frame story to help us understand his journey through contrast. Just flat out rejects a lot of what we expect from a memoir. In fact, Coates has reported that he didn’t read many memoirs in preparing to write his own: “A lot of the stuff felt cooked to me. After two or three, I stopped reading them.” There it is then, a brave author bravely figuring out how to do it his own way.

I mean, consider the opening chapter.

No, first consider the deeply weird fact that the thing opens up with a fantasy map of Baltimore complete with frayed scroll and Roman sword. It’s a disarming gesture, a reminder that for all his djembe-chic later on Coates is still a nerd at heart. Consider that he follows this up with a sober family tree. A subtle contrast that helps the reader understand that this world is at once fantastical to the boyhood Coates and populated with real people who don’t share this dreaminess. And then consider the opening pages of the opening chapter: a densely allusive passage that stuns the uninitiated. Check the technique:

They were shadow and rangy, like they could three-piece you—jab, uppercut, jab—from a block away. They had no eyes. They shrieked and jeered, urged themselves on, danced wildly, chanted Rock and Roll is here to stay. When Murphy Homes closed in on us, the moon ducked behind its black cloak and Fell’s Point dilettantes shuffled in boots.

What Coates is doing here has a pretty fancy name: literary scholars would say that his narrative is diegetic, not mimetic. In other words, Coates does not try to recreate the exact details of the attack in a realistic way; instead, he creates a distinct voice to report on the action, commenting along the way. And this slangy, free-wheeling approach exaggerates and stylizes the moment such that it—a familiar scene of one group of boys harassing another—becomes new and strange. It shocks us out of the expected way of telling this story. We get to do the hard work of understanding a Young Coates by listening carefully to his idiosyncratic voice: he is conflict-avoidant, dreamy, quick with a self-deprecating joke (“I was spaced-out as usual, lost in […] the magic of Optimus Prime’s vanishing trailer”), a boy in need of protection.

What follows over the next 200-something pages is an impressionistic exploration of this basic dynamic, Young Coates reconciling his basic character with a tough-minded father in a city and country generally unforgiving of black men’s very existence. Along the way, he picks up The Knowledge from his father’s Black Classic Press library and finds conscious rhymes in his Golden Era heroes (Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions) and forges his own voice in the process. Coates does not find his voice. None of us do! Instead, he creates it, like we all do, out of the language around us.

The word we want here is heteroglossia. Literally: different (‘hetero-’) tongues (‘glōssa’). Heteroglossia refers to the way that authors essentially create complex collages of different languages and styles and voices when they write. The originality (and thus worth!) of any given piece of literary art is in the combination of these styles and voices. Coates uniquely borrows the style of DC and Marvel comic books, infuses it with the vocabulary of Black Nationalism, and sets it to militant rhythms of The Bomb Squad. This is new. This particular combination has not yet existed in the history of memoir writing, American or otherwise. And this particular combination, fellow readers, is beautiful.

And what’s more is that this combination, this collage of styles, is more than a cool aesthetic development in the history of memoir. This powerful mashup of styles has a thematic resonance throughout the book. It doesn’t take much thought to realize that Coates is demonstrating that he is the product of these different languages. The man’s very identity is bound up with the languages he uses to present himself. Ta-Nehisi Coates is the language he uses, the words he speaks, the sentences he writes. Like any of us, we cannot be separated from the language we use to construct and reflect and comment upon the world around us.

Which I guess leads me to this simple thesis: The Beautiful Struggle is beautiful because it doesn’t sound like anything else out there. This is black man telling you not what you want to hear but what he knows, which is actually what you need to hear. And what he knows is how he was shaped equally by the ringside taunts of wrestlers in gleaming spandex and the proud scholarship of forgotten black writers. What he knows is that he is the student of T’Challa and Bobo Brazil as much as he is the acolyte of Chuck D and Marcus Garvey. What he knows is how we are the languages that surround us. We are the words that pour through our headphones, just as much as we are the words spoken, too often unheard, by parents and teachers. We are, each of us, an impossible walking dictionary of pop culture and family history and ethnic identity. So: because of the book’s artificial mash-up of voices, because of its hypertrophied style, Coates’ story is urgently beautiful.

The Lyrics of Identity

This is the second installment of the Wheelock Community Read Summer Blog Series. Each week, we will be posting a blog written by Wheelock faculty or staff that deals with a theme from this years’ community read; “The Beautiful Struggle” by Ta-Nehisi Coates. This week, please welcome guest blogger Gillian Devereux, Director of the Writing Center and Instructor in Humanities and Writing.

The Lyrics of Identity

By Gillian Devereux

Born in 1972, I was an only child until 1980, the only kid in my neighborhood who went to my Catholic school, the only person in my family distressed by the fact that we had a black and white television without cable for the first 12 years of my life. My parents encouraged me to entertain myself with books, music, and as little television as possible. I spent decades curled on my bed, stopping and rewinding cassette tapes so I could transcribe lyrics. Later I scribbled my own lyrics which would eventually become poems, or stories, or impassioned passages in half-empty diaries.

I will admit a lack of discrimination in my earliest years, a tendency to doodle Chicago and Journey lyrics on my notebooks, a weakness for Lionel Richie, a belief that “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” had taught us all a critical lesson about desire and fulfillment. But I was a lonely child, bad at making friends and easily depressed. As I entered adolescence, I felt more isolated at home and at school, and this isolation made me anxious and angry, lazy and ambitious, aloof and needy. I still found solace in books, but few I understood addressed the feelings I needed to process. Pop music offered no solace whatsoever, and so I turned, desperate and confused, to punk and new wave.

I buried myself in music, barricaded myself in my room, blasting Tinderbox, Billy Idol, Los Angeles, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Black Celebration, Never Mind the Bollocks …, and London Calling through the flimsy foam headphones of my Sony Walkman. These songs both reflected and revealed — mirroring the emotions my body could barely contain and unearthing other emotions I had not yet been able to acknowledge. This music, this style of lyrics, this raw expression of inequity and injustice shaped the girl I was and the woman I would become. I returned to these songs again and again, letting them guide me through my earliest attempts at feminism and social justice. I can trace their influence on the map of my life, seeing where those artists’ words intersect with my own writing, my own choices, my own beliefs about the world.

When I began reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Beautiful Struggle, I was immediately drawn to the points in the narrative where he discusses his own relationship with music and lyrics. As early as page 5, he references “KRS” while discussing the love he and his older brother Big Bill had for professional wrestling, and only a few pages later, he describes the summer of 1986 as the one when “KRS-One laid siege to Queensbridge” (pg. 11).

KRS-One – Sound of da Police

Coates juxtaposes KRS-One’s booming challenges to the legacy of black slavery — “You can’t stand where I stand / you can’t walk where I walk” — with words from LL Cool J’s Todd Smith persona, sharing an image of his 10 year old self “throwing up [his] hands, reciting” lyrics (pg. 11). He continues to equate the language of rap and hip-hop with reflection, revelation, and revolution throughout his memoir, frequently invoking the metaphor of music or song when examining how he developed a sense of identity. He describes his first day at Lemmel as one where “[e]veryone moved as though the same song were playing in their heads,” adding “[i]t was a song I’d never heard” (pg. 37). He explains how hearing “Lyrics of Fury” at age 12 showed him the path to manhood, to full participation in the battle for Consciousness, proclaiming “I put away childish things, went to the notebook, and caged myself between the blue lines. In the evenings, that summer, I would close the door, lay across the bed, and put pen to pad” (pg. 111)

Just as his father’s identity evolved and coalesced through his work running Black Classic Press, Coates’ immersion in rap and hip-hop culture altered his sense of self and his understanding of his place in the world. Although Coates believed “[e]ach black boy must find his own way to this understanding,” he also recognized that “under the aegis of hip-hop, you never lived alone, you never walked alone” (pg. 61; 111). In 1988, when “all the world’s boom boxes were transformed into pulpits for Public Enemy,” Coates became a “reluctant convert” to the music of Chuck D and Flavor Flav, falling captive to “the many layers, the hints at revelation, and a sound that I did not so much enjoy as I felt compelled to understand” (pg. 104-105).

Public Enemy – Don’t Believe The Hype


Public Enemy’s second album, aptly named It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, tapped into the “collective memory” of Coates and his peers, reminding them how injustice, corruption, and the Reagan era itself manipulated them, herded them into stereotypical roles (drug dealer, basketball player, thug, failure), and disempowered them (pg. 105). At the same time, Public Enemy’s lyrics resonated with fathers and mothers, linking generations through powerful imagery, insightful social commentary, and references to influential black activists like Dr. Khalid Muhammad, whose words became the introduction to “Night of the Living Baseheads:”

Have you forgotten that once we were brought here, we were robbed of our name, robbed of our language. We lost our religion, our culture, our god … and many of us, by the way we act, we even lost our minds.

Coates takes the time to depict his father, a man who eschewed popular culture, who “watched very little TV, because once Conscious, every commercial, every program must be strip-mined for its deeper meaning, until it lays bare its role in this sinister American plot,” making an authentic connection to Public Enemy, showing his readers how “She Watches Channel Zero?!” reminded his father of his mother (pg. 54; 104). Chuck D had the same fears and ambitions as Coates’ father and mother, but unlike them and their writers, Chuck D “spoke beautifully in the lingua franca of [Coates’] time” (pg. 104).

In the late 80s, Coates begins to realize “the claws of rage digging into” him would never disappear, that “[h]istory would be altered, not in the swoop but with the long slow awakening” (pg. 58; 91). In the penultimate chapter of his narrative, Coates submits his college applications and reaches the turning point of his senior year. This is the climax of his story; a college acceptance will forever separate him from the comfortable routine of Woodlawn, the powerful camaraderie of drumming, the familiar confines of home. As his identity shifts from child to man, his musical preferences, influenced, as always, by Big Bill, also shift.

Coates writes about Big Bill introducing him to the reggae legends of the time: Steel Pulse, Burning Spear, and Bob Marley, artists who, like the activists whose words filled the shelves of Black Classic Press, rejected the language and conventions of racial oppression through their names, words, and beliefs. Coates calls these men prophets, explaining how their music foretold his fate: “I did not know where I was headed, but I knew I was mortgaged to the grand ideal—the end of mental slavery and the fulfillment of the book” (pg. 200).

Here, Coates references not only the lyrics to Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” but also Marley’s inspiration and source text, Marcus Garvey’s 1937 speech “The Work That Must Be Done.” Garvey had been invited by the mayor of Sydney, Nova Scotia to speak about his work with the Universal Negro Improvement Association, and his speech focuses on the precarious position of people of color abroad and the means by which they might empower themselves:

We are going to emancipate ourselves from mental slavery because whilst others might free the body, none but ourselves can free the mind. Mind is your only ruler, sovereign. The man who is not able to develop and use his mind is bound to be the slave of the other man who uses his mind, because man is related to man under all circumstances for good or for ill. If a man is not able to protect himself from the other man he should use his mind to good advantage. The fool will always pay the price. The fool will always carry the heavy burden.

Music critics, scholars, and Marley’s biographers have all observed that “Redemption Song,” more than any other track on Marley’s final album, represents a major departure from the musician’s earlier work. Garvey’s life, work, and death had a significant impact on Marley, just as it did on Coates, who references the activist multiple times throughout The Beautiful Struggle, referring to the Bob Marley and Marcus Garvey buttons on his tie-dyed book bag as “the totems of my champions” (pg. 127). And a young man such as Coates, whose father had risen through the ranks of the Black Panthers, whose playmates included Afeni Shakur’s son Tupac, who would search “liner notes for clues, play back lyrics until they were memory, and then play back memory until [he] gleaned messages imagined and real” must have quickly understood the implications of the line “How long shall they kill our prophets / while we stand aside and look?” (pg. 102).

“Redemption Song” became a prophecy for Coates, just as Marcus Garvey’s words had become a prophecy for his father. Like his father, Coates “took up that call, the charge to make Garvey’s kingdom real” (pg. 55). He brought the resources he had at hand — “an hour, a pen, a pad” — and the structure and rhythm of hip-hop to the fight (pg. 147). He transformed his talent as an MC into a talent for prose, fulfilling the book in the most literal, and lyrical, sense. And like the activists and lyricists before him, he used his words to show the world that “[n]one of us ever want to fail. None of us want to be unworthy, to not measure up” (pg. 170).

Bob Marley – Redemption Song (Official Music Video)


Author’s Note: While reading and reflecting on The Beautiful Struggle, I created a Spotify playlist that contains all the available songs named in the book. Periodically, Coates will either reference lyrics to a song or mention an artist without identifying a specific album or track. In these cases, I added songs hip-hop scholars have identified as the most influential to the playlist, which you can stream here.

The Mythical World of The Beautiful Struggle

This is the first installment of the Wheelock Community Read Summer Blog Series. Each week, we will be posting a blog written by Wheelock faculty or staff that deals with a theme from this years’ community read; “The Beautiful Struggle” by Ta-Nehisi Coates. This week, please welcome guest blogger Jenne Powers, Assistant Professor of Humanities and Writing. 

The Mythical World of The Beautiful Struggle

By Jenne Powers

The first chapter of Coates’s memoir opens with a fight scene described in terms that evoke Dungeons and Dragons, the World Wrestling Federation, Lord of the Rings, and the Transformers. Right away, Coates plunges his readers into the media- and myth-saturated world of his young mind. The opening lines describing Murphy Homes read, “When they caught us down on Charles Street, they were all that I’d heard. They did not wave banners, flash amulets or secret signs. Still, I could feel their awful name advancing out of the lore” (1). The lore here is local legend amplified by a boy’s imagined confrontation with orcs, goblins, and trucks that turn into robot killing machines. By including this kind of imagery and these references, Coates casts himself as a player in a monumental story. His mentors – his father, his brother Big Bill – are larger than life. His journey travels through time into the past and the future. Reading is ritual. He is struggling not just on the path to college, but to the Mecca.

As the chapter progresses, Coates develops the complex voice that characterizes this book. Like many narratives about childhood it is a double voice – at once a child’s and a man’s. His point of view is often limited to his child’s eyes and conveys a child’s enthusiasms and fears (“amulets or secret signs…”) but at the same time it is informed by the experiences and wisdom of mature Coates, the author.

His description of WWF wrestling and its juxtaposition to the Murphy Homes battle especially conveys at once his childish enthusiasm and his adult critique of cultural appropriation and racist media stereotypes:

I was open, and wanted to cheer the Birdman, resplendent in wraparound shades, a Jheri curl, and fluorescent gold and blue spandex. . . . maybe that night he dipped and glided toward the ring, flapping his arms and talking to the parakeets perched on each of his shoulders. I wanted to see the Dream, who was at the height of his feud with the Horsemen, and outnumbered, had taken to guerrilla warfare—masks, capes, ambushes, beef extended into parking lots, driveways and dream dates. But I lost it all out there, and when I dig for that night, all that emerges are the tendrils of Murphy Homes, how they dug into my brother’s head. (6-7)

His child’s eye delights in a grown man acting like a bird and bringing pets into the ring, while his adult’s critical eye sees a dangerous caricature of an African warrior, compounded by the subsequent rhetoric of the Dream, a White character who regularly appropriates Black culture. At the end of the passage, we feel a child’s confusion in the fray as well as an adult’s pain in the act of remembering. This double voiced narration allows Coates to develop the important ideas of Knowledge and Consciousness as expertly as he does. While reading this book, we are immersed in the experiences of a young boy who gains Knowledge every day, Knowledge rooted in his experiences as a young Black man in a world shaped by institutionalized racism. His child narrator may not always grasp the significance of his experiences (nor do we at times). However, we are led through the journey by an expert, Conscious guide – Coates.

Coates tells a story of growing up in a setting rich with myths – some patently fictional, some historically liberating, some media-generated, some community-minded. Young Ta-Nehisi demonstrates his resilience and strength by surrounding himself with so many myths. He is not one to succumb to the danger of a single story. He has many heroes to choose from and villains to battle. His coming of age will be, throughout the memoir, owning and telling his own story: Consciousness.

And his voice is not always easy to identify with. But maybe he is not asking us to identify with him. Coates’s language is intensely personal and powerfully political. It is not an everyday voice – no hero’s is. And his journey is not without peril – no hero’s is. But he will persist, and it is his control over language that gives him the tools he needs to complete his quest. This memoir comprises the mythical origin story of the scholar and public intellectual who brings us “The Case for Reparations,” “The Black Family in the Age of Mass Incarceration,” and Between the World and Me.