Citizen: An American Lyric

This work defies classification. It isn't prose poetry (though I understand why it's put in that category) so much as an impressionistic collage of racist incidents and meditations on identity and the body (both the physical body and the cultural "body"). It could even be called a meta-analysis, not in the sense of study of studies, as the word is usually used, but as an analysis that goes beyond the normal gathering of information. Maybe a meta-synthesis. In any case, it's a monumental work. I can't really talk about "liking" this book. In parts it was abstract in a way that lost me. However, I have a huge respect for it. It covers so much ground about racial division, prejudice, the body, identity, and the ways we harm one another. Though there are many choice moments that made me groan or shrink or nod my head, the most striking one for me was this: because white men can't police their imagination black men are dying Despite the gravity of what it handles, this book is a fairly fast read. The formatting is generous and artful in its use of white space and complementary works of art (a touch that I love). Don't let the idea of a book-length or long poem intimidate you. Citizen is a book that begs to be read multiple times with groups of people. Any high school teachers or professors out there should definitely read it and consider using it in classes.

I am reviewing this book specifically with attention to reading in my class called Citizen and Self which is about how we can live better among each other, increase participation in democratic life, and learn how to collaboratively solve problems. I read it with mostly first year college students in Kentucky. Almost all of my students are white. While some students had a hard time with the ideas - and some with the poetry, overall I thought it worked well as long as I reminded them that the book is not directed "at" them but is rather an account of someone's experience and a way to understand the life and challenges that people face in our country. I still had some students who were defensive about the book, or thought that she was being "too sensitive" but by and large the students found it interesting, helpful at seeing a different perspective and helpful in understanding the experiences of African American people in the United States. Most of them said something like, "I had no idea that this was so hard" or "that racism is still so prevalent" or that "the small things every day can be so difficult and become so big and difficult." It was certainly a challenge for them to read but I think overall was helpful. Some of the students were even able to engage with the prose/poems from a literary perspective, talking about the trajectory of the book/poems and the literary devices that she used to draw us in and help the reader see things in a different way. Teaching about race is difficult, but for college students most of whom have never had any exposure to complex ideas about race or racism, short of the basic "you shouldn't treat people of another race badly" this book was a good step in engaging them in the complex and difficult questions of race, justice, fairness, and struggle in the U.S. and also helpful in allowing them to get some practice in reading something with a non-traditional form.

Citizen: An American Lyric is an exceptional and thought-provoking book that delves into the complexities of race, identity, and belonging in America. The author's lyrical and poetic writing style captures the essence of the experiences faced by Black individuals in a society plagued by systemic racism. Through a collection of vignettes, prose, and poetry, the book explores themes of microaggressions, social injustice, and the impact of racism on everyday life. The raw and honest portrayal of these experiences evokes a range of emotions, from anger and frustration to empathy and reflection. Citizen is a vital read that challenges readers to confront their own biases and engage in conversations about race and equality. It serves as a powerful tool for fostering understanding and empathy, making it a must-read for anyone interested in social justice and the pursuit of a more inclusive society.

Reading Claudia Rankine On Race We white people have lots to learn about racism in America no matter how progressive our attitudes toward race. I realized this some years ago when I found Toni Morrison’s Beloved so grimly illuminating in depicting the cruelty experienced after the abolition of slavery by our African American fellow citizens left in a malicious shadow land of unknowing, a reflection of white indifference. It made me abruptly realize that I had never effectively grasped the intensities of hurt and pain of even close black friends afflicted or threatened with affliction as a result of societal attitudes of hatred and fear that lie just below the surface, behavior socially conditioned to be ‘politically correct.’ White consciousness was preoccupied with the condemnation of hideous events that capture national attention, but remain largely unaware of the everyday racism that is the price African Americans of talent and privilege pay for ‘success’ when penetrating the supremacy structures of society that remain predominantly white. I recall some years ago being picked up at the airport in Atlanta by a couple of white undergraduates assigned to take me to the University of Georgia where I was to give a lecture. On the way we got onto the subject of race, and they complained about tensions on their campus. I naively pointed out that the stars of their football and basketball teams were black, and since white students were fanatic collegiate sports fans at Southern universities, wouldn’t this solve the problem. I assumed that these black athletes who won games for the college would be idolized as local heroes. The students taking me to the lecture agreed with my point, but claimed that the black athletes refused to socialize with whites, displaying an alleged ‘reverse racism’ that the white student body resented. In explaining this pattern of multi-culturalism to me, whether accurate or not I have no idea, these young Southerners did not pause to wonder whether this reluctance by campus blacks, including the sports stars, to mingle socially might have something to do with the history of race relations in the South, and not just the history but an of nasty earlier experiences of racism as well, and not just in the South, but throughout whole of the country, and that this was their reason for choosing to be racially aloof! It is with such thoughts in mind that reading Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric (Greywolf Press, 2014) became for me a revelatory experience, especially against a foreground filled with such extreme reminders of virulent racism as lived current experience as Treyvon Martin, Ferguson, Charleston, and countless other recent reminders that the racist virus in its most lethal forms continues to flourish in the American body politic. The persistence of this pattern even in face of the distracting presence of an African-American president who functions both as a healing ointment and as a glorified snake oil salesman who earns his keep by telling Americans that we belong to the greatest country that ever existed even as it reigns down havoc on much of the world. On a more individual level, I can appreciate the extraordinary talent, courage, and achievement of Barack Obama, hurdling over the most formidable psychological obstacles placed in the path of an ambitious black man. Yet looked at more collectively, it now seems all too clear that the structures of racism are far stronger than the exploits of even this exceptional African American man. What makes Rankine’s work so significant, aside from the enchantment of its poetic gifts of expression, is her capacity to connect the seemingly trivial incidents of everyday race consciousness with the living historical memory and existential presence of race crimes of utmost savagery. In lyrically phrased vignettes Rankine draws back the curtain on lived racism, relying on poetic story telling, and by so doing avoids even a hint of moral pedantry. She tells a reader of “a close friend, who early in your friendship, when distracted, would call you be the name of her black housekeeper.” [48] Or a visit to a new therapist where she approached by the front door rather than the side entrance reserved for clients, and was angrily reproached, perceived as an unwanted intruder: “Get away from my house! What are you doing in my yard?” When informed that the stranger was her new patient the therapist realized her mistake, “I am so sorry, so so sorry.” [115]. Or when as a candidate for a university job she is being shown around a college campus by a faculty member who lets her know why she has been invited: “..he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there.” She shares her unspoken reaction that is the main point: “Why do you feel comfortable saying this to me?” [66] The repetition of these daily occurrences in her recounting let’s us better understand why an African American cannot escapes the unconscious barbs of soft racism no matter how intelligent and accomplished a black person becomes in ways that the dominant society supposedly values and rewards. She invokes the inspirational memories of James Baldwin and Robert Lowell, not that of Martin Luther King or Nelson Mandela, or even Malcolm X, as brilliant wellsprings of understanding and defiance, acting as her undesignated mentors. This experience of racism in America has been told with prose clarity and philosophic depth by my friend and former colleague, Cornel West, in Race Matters, a similar narrative of citizenship that Rankine conveys through poetic insight and emotion, allowing readers enough space to sense somewhat our own poorly comprehended complicity. Reading West and Rankine together is one way to overcome the body/mind dualism, with West relying on the power of reason and Rankine on the force of emotion. As Rankine explains with subtle eloquence, what may seem like hyper-sensitivity to episodic understandable stumbles by even the most caring whites is actually one of the interfaces between what she calls the ‘self self’ and ‘the historical self,’ a biopolitical site of self-knowledge that embodies “the full force of your American positioning.” Such positioning is a way of drawing into the present memories of slavery, lynching, persecution, and discrimination that every black person carries in their bones, not as something past. And as Faulkner reminds us over and over again, the past is never truly past. On this Rankine’s words express her core insight: “[T]he world is wrong. You can’t put the past behind you. It’s buried in you..” [307] Summing up this inability to move on she observes, “[E]xactly why we survive and can look back with a furrowed brow is beyond me.” [364] The mystery, then, is not the failure to forget, but persevering given the agony of remembering. The longest sequence in the book is somewhat surprisingly devoted to the torments experienced by Serena Williams in the course of her rise to tennis stardom. Rankine, who in other places suggests her own connection with tennis, thinks of Serena as the “black graphite against a sharp white background.” She recounts her early career struggles with eminent umpires in big matches who made bad calls, trapped in what Rankine calls “a racial imaginary.” Serena feels victimized because black, and on several taut occasions loses her composure under the intense pressure of the competitive moment, raging and protesting, and then being called “insane, crass, crazy.” [193] While Rankine appreciates that Williams is likely to be considered the greatest woman tennis player ever, she still views her primarily as bravely triumphing over the many efforts to diminish her. As a tennis enthusiast myself, it is the one portion of Rankine’s lyric that does not ring entirely true, or more precisely, that the race optic misses Serena’s triumphal presence on the public stage that has been accomplished with uncommon grace, joyfulness, and integrity. Unlike that other African American over-achiever, Barack Obama, Williams has attained the heights without abandoning her close now inconvenient associates the way Obama ditched Jeremiah Wright and even Rashid Khalidi and William Ayers so as to provide reassurance to his mainstream white backers. Williams has always continued to affirm warmly her Dad despite his provocative antics and defiance of the white establishment that controls the sport. She held out long enough so that the racist taunts she and Venus received at Indian Wells were transformed into tearful cheers of welcome on her return 13 years later after being beseeched by the sponsors. Williams, always gracious and graceful in victory on the court, with a competitive rage that is paralleled by a fighting spirit that puts her in the winners’ circle even when not playing her ‘A’ game, Serena is for me the consummate athlete of our time, doubly impressive because she does not shy away from memories of the Compton ghetto where she grew into this remarkable athlete and person and while still acquiring the wit, imagination, and poise to speak French when given her latest trophy after winning the Roland Garros final in Paris. Considering where she started from she has traveled even further than Obama, although his terrain entails a far heavier burden of responsibility and historical significance. Somehow I feel Rankine perhaps absorbed by the preoccupations that give coherence to Citizen missed the deeper reality of Serena Williams as a glorious exception to her portrayal of the African American imaginary. I do not at all deny that Williams’ life has been framed from start to finish with the kind of micro-aggressions that Rankine experienced, and indeed a closer proximity to the macro-aggressions that the media turns into national spectacles, but presenting her life from this limited viewpoint misses what I find to be the most captivating part of her life story. And maybe a fuller exposure to Rankine’s reality would lead me to celebrate her life as also one that transcends race as the defining dimension of her experience. What is known is that in 1963 Rankine was born in Kingston, Jamaica, raised in New York, educated at the best schools, and is enjoying a deservedly fine career as award winning poet, honored scholar, and rising playwright. With brief asides, coupled with a range of visual renderings that give parallel readings (Rankine is married to John Lucas, a videographer, with whom she writes notes in this text for possible future collaborative scripts on racially tinged public issues), she brings to our awareness such societal outrages as the beating of Rodney King that was caught on a video camera, and led to the Los Angeles riots of 1992 or the racist aspects of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina or a series of more recent assaults, including the diabolic frolic of fraternity boys at a university who joyously recalled the pleasures of lynching or the slaying of Trayvon Martin by a security guard whose crime was followed by his unacceptable acquittal. It is this tapestry of experience that seems to be for Rankine the American lyric that provides the sub-title of her book, and silently poses the question, without offering us the satisfaction of answers, as how these awful tales alter the experienced reality of being a ‘citizen’ of this country at this time; that is, if the citizen is viewed as one who owes loyalty to the state and is entitled to receive human security, protection, and the rule of law in return, how does this relate to the black experience of human insecurity and inescapable vulnerability. Rankine leaves me with the impression that even if these entitlements of citizenship can be somehow delivered (which they are not to those struggling), the grant of loyalty in the face of persisting racism is suspect. Raising such doubts is against the background of Rankine’s surface life as mentioned is one of privilege and success, holding an endowed chair at Pomona College, someone who plays tennis and can afford to see a therapist. Rankine is telling us both that this matters, saving her from the grossest of indignities because of the color of her skin, but not sparing her from an accumulation of racial slights or relieving her of the heavy awareness that she could be a Rodney King or Trayvon Martin if her social location were different or that whatever she might do or achieve she is still haunted by the memories of a ghastly past for people with black skin. In the deep structures of composition and consciousness that informs Citizen is a brilliant and instructive interweaving of time present and past, embodying both the memories buried within Rankine’s being and the present assaults she endures as a result of headlines bearing news of the latest hideous racist incident. Despite Rankine’s own personal ascent she as citizen confronts these past and presents challenges to her being, as underscored by the everyday racism that cannot be separated from the lynchings, beatings, and jail time that the black community as community has experienced ever since being transported to this land in slave ships. Such displays of awareness are followed by more conventionally poetic reflections on what this all means for Rankine. In lines that epitomize her lyric voice, and that she might be choose for her gravestone: “you are not sick, you are injured— you ache for the rest of your life.” And again: “Nobody notices, only you’ve known you’re not sick, not crazy, not angry, not sad— It’s just this, you’re injured” The worst effect of such an injury is an acute sense of alienation that separates the public self from the private self: “The worst injury is feeling you don’t belong so much to you—“ Reverting one last time to my own experience from the other side of the mirror, I recall my first intimate relationship with an African American as a boy growing up in Manhattan in the 1940s and 1950s. I was raised by a troubled, conservative father acting as a single parent who warily hired an African American man to be our housekeeper on the recommendation of a Hollywood friend. Willis Mosely was no ordinary hire for such a position, being a recent Phi Beta Kappa graduate from UCLA, with a desire to live in New York to live out his dreams to do New York theater, a big drinking problem, and an extroverted gay identity, but beyond all these attributes, he was a charismatic personality with one of the great, resounding laughs and an electrifying presence that embodied charm, wit, and tenderness, demonstrating his intellectual mettle by finishing the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle in lightning speed, then a status symbol among West Side New Yorkers. Willis was a challenge for my rather reactionary father who could only half hide his racist bias and on top of his, was also unashamedly homophobic; added to this my dad was counseled by family friends that it was irresponsible to have his adolescent son’s principal companion be a gay man in his low 30s. I am relating this autobiographical tidbit because despite this great gift of exposure to a wonderfully loving black man in these formative years, who influenced me greatly in many ways, I was unable to purge the racism in my bones, or was it genes. Years later while dating a gifted former black student, whose outward joyfulness acted as a cover for her everyday anguish and deeper racial torment, she let me know gently that I would never be able to understand her because, as she put it, “we listen to different music.” It happened, I had just taken her to a Paul Winter concert that she didn’t enjoy, and so I missed the real meaning of her comment until this recent reading of Rankine’s Citizen. In effect, it took me several decades to hear this dear friend because until recently I was listening without really, really being able to hear! Of course, the primary failing is my own, but it is a trait I share with almost the whole of my race, and probably most of my species, and is indirectly responsible for the great weight on the human spirit produced by low visibility suffering that goes unnoticed everywhere in the world except by its victims. To become attuned to this everday racism, as Rankine shows so convincingly, is also to become even more appalled by the high visibility racism that in our current societal gives rise to public condemnations across the political spectrum. What Claudia Rankine shares and teaches is that every African American citizen must live with the existential concreteness of racism while even the most liberal of American white citizens live with only an abstract awareness of their own unconscious racism or, at best, their rather detached empathy with the historical victimization of our African American co-citizens. Just as blacks have the torments of racism in their bones, whites are afflicted with resilient mutant forms of unconscious racism. We learn through this extraordinary lyric that moving on, for either black or white, is just not an option! And yet it is a necessity!

Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric, may be thought of as a book of poetry, especially because it was the recipient of the NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work in Poetry. However, the pieces collected in this book defy easy classification; Citizen is a book of lyricism, image, blank space, identity, and tribute. It is a counter-narrative to the racism of the dominant white culture in America, as it seeks to give voice to those who have been silenced and grouped into a collective that erases individuality. Rankine seeks to reclaim the image of the black body by removing it from view; the writing in this book is highly lyrical, but holds back in its imagery. Rather, images appear as actual photographs that color the stark white pages of the book. By deemphasizing the image of the black body in her language, Rankine speaks against the conception of the black body as something merely to be viewed. But Rankine does more than remove things from view; she calls forth every person’s complicity in the racist culture of which Americans are all a part. She does this by writing most of the pieces in this book in the second person. The reader is confronted with herself over and over in lines such as “The sky is blue, kind of blue. The day is hot. Is it cold? Are you cold? It does get cool. It is cool? Are you cool?” Rankine seems to be asking the reader, are you cool with this? Will you sit by and allow systematic racism to oppress and destroy an entire people? She lets no one escape her microscope, ultimately showing us that both the victim and the oppressor are damaged by the effects of racism. Citizen is an essential read for every American, at the very least because it undercuts the idea that there is one single, true American narrative; in reality, the lessons we learn in history class are largely a “fiction of facts.” Black people in America have been continuously oppressed through the language of the white narrative; in this book, Rankine uses lyricism and photographs to reclaim the oppressive linguistic translations of the black experience—she illuminates another side of history.

I've read this fifth volume of Rankine's poetry three times, and each time I learn more about what I do not know. Rankine exposes the everyday incidents of personal racism, the public racism of how Serena Williams is treated throughout her career, and the violent racism revealed in the deaths of unarmed black men. But the adjectives of "personal," "public," and "violent," are mere artifacts. What Rankine is showing is that all racism is personal, public, and violent. As she, and the rest of the world, watch Williams be the object of blatantly erroneous calls, it is personal for her. And it is violent in how it attacks her very humanity. The deaths of unarmed black men, the "unintentional" racist comments of her white, liberal, and educated friends, and the public shaming of someone responding honestly to being harassed live beyond the moment. The book itself is a scrapbook of poetry, creative prose, quotes, verbal collages, and visual art. She almost seems to be scrambling, desperately, for a way to get her message across. At times, she hits it over and over, as she experiences it over and over. "Haven't you said this to a close friend who early in your friendship, when distracted, Author_Photo_of_Claudia_Rankine Claudia Rankine would call you by the name of her black housekeeper? You assumed you two were the only black people in her life. Eventually she stopped doing this, though she never acknowledged her slippage. And you never called her on it (why not?) and yet, you don't forget." These are the daily reminders of the racism inherent in our society but only experienced by those who are not white. Ranking divides her book into several sections, including ones focusing on her daily encounters with racism, one on the treatment of Williams, and one focusing on headline events such as the killings of Trayvon Martin and James Craig Anderson. In addressing so many forms of racism, Rankine requires a response (and, of course, not to respond is to respond). If you want to feel good about the U.S. (and the world) and race, don't read this book. If, like me, racism is not something personally experience, this book will give you some insight to the pervasiveness and horrendous impact of racism.

Despite the heady reputation of this book and its billing as poetry, I found it neither heady nor poetry. I looked forward to learning about life in America for a black woman, but I got a pastiche of events that came, it seemed, from the experience of others or from the news. I would have liked a more creative use of language and less repetition. Others who have read it, saw the tennis matches explored as evidence of racism to be the subtle form of the book, the rally back and forth over the net. If that was the intention of the repetition, I didn't get it.

Citizen: An American Lyric Rankin is a national treasure - she speaks eloquently of truth, beauty, hatred and love. THis book was stunning in all aspects.Citizen is divided into seven sections. It has no table of contents nor index. The poems are without title. There is nothing given to the reader to ground her in any specific time, place, or frame. Rankine uses this lack of bounded-ness well as she weave her words in an out of a dream like existential world, which, she sharply illuminates with a sudden turn to a dark reality. Citizen is illustrated with a variety of art works. These serve to heighten the tension inherent in her voice; to make visible her words, as if her words were not sufficiently visible and striking. These pictures serve to extend the conversation she has and add depth to the feelings that have no name or bottom. The book is audacious in its form, being a clarion call to action. The variation of verse to poem left me surprised and drawn in to this work as one piece, rather than separate poems about racial justice and equality. Rankine all but screams from many of the pages, telling the reader to feel ashamed, frightened, furious about the larger social and smaller personal injustices suffered by Black Americans. One of her pieces (p. 49) asks the question “what makes language hurtful?” a particularly cogent topic to someone who deals in words. Rankine takes this theme and runs with it, unfolding the gift wrap on the box to reveal the empty box contained within. Not even an empty box, a box that does not exist, but is painfully present in its box-hood. She refers to “language that feels hurtful is intended to exploit all the ways you are present.” Instead of the invisibility of race, Rankine presents the hyper-visibility of race as seen in our “language acts.” This was a revelation to me; language as a way not to erase but to heighten the presence of an outcast group. Citizen’s hybrid style of presentation is bold, cutting, and if you can handle it, accurate. She writes about the truths we try to shrug off or deny. Rankine takes what the world views as news and expresses it as the banal quotidian lived experiences of other (Black) people. She uses both politics and the prosaic insults inherent in the day of a (Black) citizen. And she speaks poetry. For example: “Yesterday called to say we were together and you were bloodshot and again the day carried you across a field of hours, deep into dawn, back to now, where you are thankful for what faces, the storm, this day’s sigh as the day shifts its leaves, the wind, a prompt against the calm you can’t digest.” (p.75) The soft hush, the warm breeze, the tension of this quiet backdrop is felt against the reality of a (Black) person’s day. It is so evocative, of what? Therein lies the tension.