Personal Terrors

Fear and Fear and Fear in America

Happy Black History Month! And a hearty welcome to all, including new premium subscribers! I hope this post finds you well! I started this newsletter just over a year ago as a way to work through my thoughts on writing and life. I never had any intention of this being a burden. Much to my delight, it’s no burden at all. I’ve enjoyed every post. It’s been a bonus to know that you read this and perhaps get something from it. Thank you for participating. Feel free to peruse the archive, which includes earlier posts only available to premium subscribers. You’ll find interesting essays and interviews with amazing writers. Much more to come!

Occasionally, in this premium subscriber space writing, I share writing I produced for other venues. Sometimes, the pieces are oldies from the era in my life before I declared myself a writer (or I had only just declared such). Or I share writing that is hard to find. Today’s essay is falls in the latter category. Like you, I enjoy reading, and I enjoy thinking about what I’ve read. Sometimes, I’m asked by magazines to share my thoughts about what I’ve read. I’ve never thought of myself as a book critic, but apparently that’s what I am when I share these thoughts. My favorite stint as a book critic, thus far, was working with the Virginia Quarterly Review for nearly two years. The magazine won the 2019 National Magazine Award for General Excellence. I’m not saying I’m the reason they won, but I’m not NOT saying that haha. For my part, I would pick a set of books with some similar themes then start out with a personal reflection that helped tie it all together. Today’s post is one of my favorite reviews from this period. I hope you enjoy.

As always, thank you to the premium subscribers who make this newsletter possible, especially those who just signed up. I appreciate your support. This would be much harder to do without your help.

Without further ado, here is my review, “Personal Terrors: Fear and Balkanization in Tribal America.”

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The first time a police officer runs his hand up the secret space between my legs, I’m sixteen. I’ve just walked out of a dance. I’m not drunk. In fact, with one exception, I won’t even have a glass of wine until my midtwenties. I’m not high. I’ll never smoke a joint or do ecstasy. I’m certainly not armed. Even firecrackers scare me. But I am almost six-three in my boots. I’m over 270 pounds, which was useful during my aborted stint on my high school football team. And, yes, I’m Black.