“No”, she went on, “no more for me either. Not even a girl. It’s awful the way it skips generations and then pops out. Why, he actually said he didn’t care what colour it turned out, if I would stop worrying about it. But , of course, nobody wants a dark child.” Her voice was earnest and she took for granted that her audience was in entire agreement with her.
Irene whose head had gone up with a quick little jerk, now said in a voice of whose even tones she was proud: “One of my boys is dark.”
Gertrude jumped as if she had been shot at. Her eyes goggled. Her mouth flew open. She tried to speak, but could not immediately get the words out. Finally she managed to stammer: Oh! And is your husband is he-is he-er-dark too?”
Irene who was struggling with a flood of feelings, resentment, anger, and contempt, was, however, still able to answer as coolly as if she had not that sense of not belonging to and not despising the company in which she found herself………..Her husband, she informed them quietly, couldn’t exactly “pass”.
The excerpts cited are found on page 38 of Nella Larsen’s novel entitled Passing. It was written and first published in 1929. In recent years it has received a lot of renewed attention because of its close examination of racial and sexual ambiguities. It has achieved canonical status in many American universities. The preceding is from my copy of Larson’s Passing published by General Press in 2019.
The act of passing. Larson’s novel, Passing, is focused on characters living in the 1920’s. Their mostly shared childhood took place in Harlem. They are so fair in complexion and hair, they can pass for being white. One does exactly that. Her life evolves as she hides her racial identity. The drama of the story is highlighted by them meeting each other again after a few decades of life. I won’t go any further with details in case you want to read the story.
This month as the leaves fall, the wind sharpens it’s bite and the air stammers between rain and snow, the season is passing for winter or fall with no more masks of summer or spring. As I reflect on Larson’s novel Passing, I have to admit that I can no longer dismiss the notion that we have grown beyond our latent fears of facing something or someone perceived different. Fear leads to anger. Easy to stoke ignorant fear with our eyes. Different skin color and hair added to our amplification of speech, or dialects uncommon in our neighborhoods: watch as fears grow like weeds climbing trellises of hate. Am I pompous enough to preach here about how to end racial, sexual orientation, ethnicity, or gender hate? Of course not. But I can plant the seed in myself to let go of hate and anger. I can hope my example positively affects my family and their lack of fear and anger, in turn, positively extinguishes the flames of hate and fear in their loved ones as they live their lives.
Ironic that I publish this on Halloween. The day of masks! I’ve learned to leave behind my masks over time. Masks that hid my fear and the seeds of anger. Am I totally mask less yet? No, but I don’t need a huge suitcase to carry them around any more!
Thank you for reading.
Be at peace and joy!
Mark