"The Lottery" Reader Response--Discussion Question Process Analysis Discussion Question “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson  Your discussion question response on “The Lottery” MUST be submitted as a Micr

Just Walk on By: A Black Man Ponders His Power to Alter Public Space

By Brent Staples

About the author: As he describes in Parallel Time: Growing Up in Black and White (1994), Brent Staples

(b. 1951) escaped a childhood of urban poverty through success in school and his determination to be a

writer. Although Staples earned a Ph.D. in psychology from the University of Chicago in 1982, his love of

journalism led him to leave the field of psychology and start a career that has taken him to his current

position on the editorial board of the New York Times . Staples contributes to several national magazines,

including Harper's, the New York Times Magazine, and Ms ., in which "Just Walk on By" appeared in 1986.

In his autobiography…, Staples remembers how in Chicago he prepared for his writing career by keeping a

journal. "I wrote on buses, on the Jackson Park el – though only at the stops to keep the writing legible. I

traveled to distant neighborhoods, sat on their curbs, and sketched what I saw in words. Thursdays meant

free admission at the Art Institute. All day I attributed motives to people in paintings, especially people in

Rembrandts. At closing time I went to a nightclub in The Loop and spied on patrons, copied their

conversations and speculated about their lives. The journal was more than 'a record of my inner

transactions.' It was a collection of stolen souls from which I would one day construct a book."

My first victim was a woman – white, well dressed, probably in her early twenties. I came upon her

late one evening on a deserted street in Hyde Park, a relatively affluent neighborhood in an

otherwise mean, impoverished section of Chicago. As I swung onto the avenue behind her, there

seemed to be a discreet, uninflammatory distance between us. Not so. She cast back a worried

glance. To her, the youngish black man – a broad six feet two inches with a beard and billowing

hair, both hands shoved into the pockets of a bulky military jacket – seemed menacingly close.

After a few more quick glimpses, she picked up her pace and was soon running in earnest. Within

seconds she disappeared into a cross street.

That was more than a decade ago. I was twenty-two years old, a graduate student newly arrived at

the University of Chicago. It was in the echo of that terrified woman's footfalls that I first began to

know the unwieldy inheritance I'd come into – the ability to alter public space in ugly ways. It was

clear that she thought herself the quarry of a mugger, a rapist, or worse. Suffering a bout of

insomnia, however, I was stalking sleep, not defenseless wayfarers. As a softy who is scarcely able

to take a knife to a raw chicken – let alone hold it to a person's throat – I was surprised,

embarrassed, and dismayed all at once. Her flight made me feel like an accomplice in tyranny. It

also made it clear that I was indistinguishable from the muggers who occasionally seeped into the

area from the surrounding ghetto. That first encounter, and those that followed, signified that a vast,

unnerving gulf lay between nighttime pedestrians – particularly women – and me. And I soon

gathered that being perceived as dangerous is a hazard in itself. I only needed to turn a corner into a

dicey situation, or crowd some frightened, armed person in a foyer somewhere, or make an errant Ms. Halverson Unit: To Kill a Mockingbird

move after being pulled over by a policeman. Where fear and weapons meet – and they often do in

urban America – there is always the possibility of death.

In that first year, my first away from my hometown, I was to become thoroughly familiar with the

language of fear. At dark, shadowy intersections in Chicago, I could cross in front of a car stopped

at a traffic light and elicit the thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk of the driver – black, white, male, or

female – hammering down the door locks. On less traveled streets after dark, I grew accustomed to

but never comfortable with people who crossed to the other side of the street rather than pass me.

Then there were the standard unpleasantries with police, doormen, bouncers, cabdrivers, and others

whose business is to screen out troublesome individuals before there is any nastiness.

I moved to New York nearly two years ago and I have remained an avid night walker. In central

Manhattan, the near-constant crowd cover minimizes tense one-on-one street encounters. Elsewhere

– visiting friends in SoHo, 1

where sidewalks are narrow and tightly spaced buildings shut out the

sky – things can get very taut indeed.

Black men have a firm place in New York mugging literature. Norman Podhoretz 2

in his famed (or

infamous) 1963 essay, "My Negro Problem – And Ours," recalls growing up in terror of black

males; they "were tougher than we were, more ruthless," he writes – and as an adult on the Upper

West Side of Manhattan, he continues, he cannot constrain his nervousness when he meets black

men on certain streets. Similarly, a decade later, the essayist and novelist Edward Hoagland extols a

New York where once "Negro bitterness bore down mainly on other Negroes." Where some see

mere panhandlers, Hoagland sees "a mugger who is clearly screwing up his nerve to do more than

just ask for money." But Hoagland has "the New Yorker's quick-hunch posture for broken-field

maneuvering," and the bad guy swerves away.

I often witness that "hunch posture," from women after dark on the warrenlike streets of Brooklyn

where I live. They seem to set their faces on neutral and, with their purse straps strung across their

chests bandolier style, they forge ahead as though bracing themselves against being tackled. I

understand, of course, that the danger they perceive is not a hallucination. Women are particularly

vulnerable to street violence, and young black males are drastically overrepresented among the

perpetrators of that violence. Yet these truths are no solace against the kind of alienation that comes

of being ever the suspect, against being set apart, a fearsome entity with whom pedestrians avoid

making eye contact. Ms. Halverson Unit: To Kill a Mockingbird

It is not altogether clear to me how I reached the ripe old age of twenty-two without being

conscious of the lethality nighttime pedestrians attributed to me. Perhaps it was because in Chester,

Pennsylvania, the small, angry industrial town where I came of age in the 1960s, I was scarcely

noticeable against a backdrop of gang warfare, street knifings, and murders. I grew up one of the

good boys, had perhaps a half-dozen fistfights. In retrospect, my shyness of combat has clear

sources.

Many things go into the making of a young thug. One of those things is the consummation of the

male romance with the power to intimidate. An infant discovers that random flailings send the baby

bottle flying out of the crib and crashing to the floor. Delighted, the joyful babe repeats those

motions again and again, seeking to duplicate the feat. Just so, I recall the points at which some of

my boyhood friends were finally seduced by the perception of themselves as tough guys. When a

mark cowered and surrendered his money without resistance, myth and reality merged – and paid

off. It is, after all, only manly to embrace the power to frighten and intimidate. We, as men, are not

supposed to give an inch of our lane on the highway; we are to seize the fighter's edge in work and

in play and even in love; we are to be valiant in the face of hostile forces.

Unfortunately, poor and powerless young men seem to take all this nonsense literally. As a boy, I

saw countless tough guys locked away; I have since buried several, too. They were babies, really –

a teenage cousin, a brother of twenty-two, a childhood friend in his midtwenties – all gone down in

episodes of bravado played out in the streets. I came to doubt the virtues of intimidation early on. I

chose, perhaps even unconsciously, to remain a shadow-timid, but a survivor.

The fearsomeness mistakenly attributed to me in public places often has a perilous flavor. The most

frightening of these confusions occurred in the late 1970s and early 1980s when I worked as a

journalist in Chicago. One day, rushing into the office of a magazine I was writing for with a

deadline story in hand, I was mistaken for a burglar. The office manager called security and, with an

ad hoc posse, pursued me through the labyrinthine halls, nearly to my editor's door. I had no way of

proving who I was. I could only move briskly toward the company of someone who knew me.

Another time I was on assignment for a local paper and killing time before an interview. I entered a

jewelry store on the city's affluent Near North Side. The proprietor excused herself and returned

with an enormous red Doberman pinscher straining at the end of a leash. She stood, the dog Ms. Halverson Unit: To Kill a Mockingbird

extended toward me, silent to my questions, her eyes bulging nearly out of her head. I took a

cursory look around, nodded, and bade her good night. Relatively speaking, however, I never fared

as badly as another black male journalist. He went to nearby Waukegan, Illinois, a couple of

summers ago to work on a story about a murderer who was born there. Mistaking the reporter for

the killer, police hauled him from his car at gunpoint and but for his press credentials would

probably have tried to book him. Such episodes are not uncommon. Black men trade tales like this

all the time.

In "My Negro Problem – And Ours," Podhoretz writes that the hatred he feels for blacks makes

itself known to him through a variety of avenues – one being his discomfort with that "special brand

of paranoid touchiness" to which he says blacks are prone. No doubt he is speaking here of black

men. In time, I learned to smother the rage I felt at so often being taken for a criminal. Not to do so

would surely have led to madness – via that special "paranoid touchiness" that so annoyed

Podhoretz at the time he wrote the essay.

I began to take precautions to make myself less threatening. I move about with care, particularly

late in the evening. I give a wide berth to nervous people on subway platforms during the wee

hours, particularly when I have exchanged business clothes for jeans. If I happen to be entering a

building behind some people who appear skittish, I may walk by, letting them clear the lobby before

I return, so as not to seem to be following them. I have been calm and extremely congenial on those

rare occasions when I've been pulled over by the police.

And on late-evening constitutionals along streets less traveled by, I employ what has proved to be

an excellent tension-reducing measure: I whistle melodies from Beethoven and Vivaldi and the

more popular classical composers. Even steely New Yorkers hunching toward nighttime

destinations seem to relax, and occasionally they even join in the tune. Virtually everybody seems

to sense that a mugger wouldn't be warbling bright, sunny selections from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. It

is my equivalent of the cowbell that hikers wear when they know they are in bear country.

1

Soho: A district of lower Manhattan known for its art galleries.

2

Norman Podhoretz: A well-known literary critic and editor of Commentary magazine.