big black good man
Big Black Good Man, Scene from Jim’s POV
I’ve been through this situation too many times before:
There’s a white man in front of me, he ain’t exceptionally small, and he probably ain’t terribly weak. But when the white man lays his eyes on me he is shook with fear and he feels himself shrink into a mite. When he shuts his eyes briefly he has visions of me squashing him with my foot, and he considers pulling out a weapon. “That man could kill me with one hand”, he is probably thinking. I know that they think this when they see me because they don’t know how to hide it. I ain’t dumb, I can see the way his eyes widen with fear and their hands clench the table like I am going to snatch them away. It doesn’t hurt me to be feared because I am used to nothing but that. The blackness of my skin don’t bother me, it’s the same skin of my mother and father. My proportions don’t bother me either, that’s the way I was built, and I’ve been through too much to be concerned about that. But the look in the white man’s eye when he sees me reminds me that if I took time to look at reflections I would know I ain’t normal, I probably ain’t even human.
I wish the white man knew that I ain’t intending to hurt him when I walk into that room. I’m a man looking for a place to rest. I want a bottle of whiskey and a woman, too. Many men want those same things, but when I request it, when I request a bed and the things that please me, I get a look of fear. That’s how it is for me; it won’t ever be any other way.
When I meet a white man that is scared of me, I sometimes consider taking a minute to assure him that I won’t hurt him. I want to explain that I’m good, and I want the same things every other man wants, and the way I look don’t mean I am going to lay a hand on him. If he does good for me, I will respect that man. I want to let my guard down and tell him that I won’t hurt him. But that would be such an ordeal to have to explain, right?
So I don’t bother. The man will be scared of
I’ve been through this situation too many times before:
There’s a white man in front of me, he ain’t exceptionally small, and he probably ain’t terribly weak. But when the white man lays his eyes on me he is shook with fear and he feels himself shrink into a mite. When he shuts his eyes briefly he has visions of me squashing him with my foot, and he considers pulling out a weapon. “That man could kill me with one hand”, he is probably thinking. I know that they think this when they see me because they don’t know how to hide it. I ain’t dumb, I can see the way his eyes widen with fear and their hands clench the table like I am going to snatch them away. It doesn’t hurt me to be feared because I am used to nothing but that. The blackness of my skin don’t bother me, it’s the same skin of my mother and father. My proportions don’t bother me either, that’s the way I was built, and I’ve been through too much to be concerned about that. But the look in the white man’s eye when he sees me reminds me that if I took time to look at reflections I would know I ain’t normal, I probably ain’t even human.
I wish the white man knew that I ain’t intending to hurt him when I walk into that room. I’m a man looking for a place to rest. I want a bottle of whiskey and a woman, too. Many men want those same things, but when I request it, when I request a bed and the things that please me, I get a look of fear. That’s how it is for me; it won’t ever be any other way.
When I meet a white man that is scared of me, I sometimes consider taking a minute to assure him that I won’t hurt him. I want to explain that I’m good, and I want the same things every other man wants, and the way I look don’t mean I am going to lay a hand on him. If he does good for me, I will respect that man. I want to let my guard down and tell him that I won’t hurt him. But that would be such an ordeal to have to explain, right?
So I don’t bother. The man will be scared of