دانلود کتاب چگونه خط رنگ خم می شود – جغرافیای تعصب سفید در آمریکای مدرن

The heat was oppressive, even under the shade of one of the towering oak trees that cover the grounds of Louisiana State University (LSU). A blanket of humidity weighed down the campus, as did a tense silence. It had been a bloody start to summer in Baton Rouge. The vigil I was attending was being held to commemorate two tragic events that took place in July 2016. The first was the killing of Alton Sterling, a 37- year-old Black man who was shot six times at point-blank range by a Baton Rouge police officer on July 5th. The second event was the killing of three local law enforcement officers—Montrell Jackson, Matthew Gerald, and Brad Garafola—who were shot by a Black Marine Corps veteran from Kansas City, MO, in an act of vengeance for Sterling’s death only a week and a half later.3 The theme of the vigil was clear: it called for “unity” and “healing.” What was unclear was how much Sterling was meant to be included in the service. The White student body representative who spoke framed his remarks as a tribute to the “ultimate sacrifice of the officers” and a condemnation of “the plague of violence that has found its way into our community.” He mentioned Sterling’s killing only as an event that tested the community’s “bonds of friendship.” The Black student representative who spoke next appeared uneasy. “Just to reiterate,” he said, “we are here to recognize all the lives. You may feel he (referencing the previous speaker) didn’t say certain names, but we’re here to ‘vigilize’ all the lives.” Technically, the Black student reaffirmed what the organizers had told us were the “ground rules” of the vigil: that “no side would be taken.” Most of the other speakers, however, deferred to the true spirit of those rules: much was said about the importance of loving one another and condemning hate and violence. But Sterling, and the realities of life in the impoverished, Black community where he had lived, were all but invisible.