Brent Staples, Just Walk on By (1986 Ms.

Magazine)
My first victim was a womanwhite, 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 mana broad six feet two inches
with a beard and billowing hair, both hands shoved into the pockets of a bulky military jacketseemed 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 23 years old, a graduate student newly arrived at the University of
Chicago. It was in the echo of that terrified womans footfalls that I first began to know the unwieldy inheritance Id
come intothe 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 raw chickenlet alone hold it to a persons throatI 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 womenand 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 move after being pulled over by a policeman. Where fear and weapons meetand they often do in
urban Americathere 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 driverblack, white, male, or femalehammering 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, cab
drivers, and others whose business it 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. Elsewherevisiting friends in SoHo,
where sidewalks are narrow and tightly spaced buildings shut out the skythings can get very taut indeed.
Black men have a firm place in New York mugging literature. Norman Podhoretz in his famed (or infamous) 1963
essay, My Negro Problemand Ours, recalls growing up in terror of black males; they were tougher than we
were, more ruthless, he writesand 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 Yorkers quickhunch 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 talked to. 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.
It is not altogether clear to me how I reached the ripe old age of 22 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 fist fights. 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
mergedand 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 fighters 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, reallya teenage cousin, a
brother of 22, a childhood friend in his mid-twentiesall 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 editors 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 citys 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 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 talks like this all the time.
In My Negro ProblemAnd Ours, Podhoretz writes that the hatred he feels for blacks makes itself known
to him through a variety of avenuesone 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 happened 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 Ive 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 wouldnt be warbling
bright, sunny selections from Vivaldis Four Seasons. It is my equivalent to the cowbell that hikers wear when
they know they are in bear country.

"The Veil" and "Double Consciousness"

In The Souls of Black Folk (1903), arguably W.E.B. DuBois most famous work, he introduces and addresses
two concepts that describe the quintessential Black experience in America the concepts of the veil and
double-consciousness. Though DuBois uses these terms separately, their meanings and usage in his works are
deeply intertwined. These two concepts gave a name to what so many African-Americans felt but previously
could not express due to a lack of words to accurately describe their pain. The implication and connotation of
these words were far-reaching because not only did it succinctly describe the plight of being Black and
American then, it rings true to the core and essence of what it means to still be Black and American today.
For DuBois, the veil concept primarily refers to three things. First, the veil suggests to the literal darker skin of
Blacks, which is a physical demarcation of difference from whiteness. Secondly, the veil suggests white
peoples lack of clarity to see Blacks as true Americans. And lastly, the veil refers to Blacks lack of clarity to
see themselves outside of what white America describes and prescribes for them.
Any socially-aware, present-day African-American has had at least two life-altering experiences in life the
moment he/she realized he/she was Black, and the moment when he/she realized that was a problem. Like
DuBois, many African-Americans can pinpoint the exact instance at which both of these life altering encounters
took place, and they too came to this realization at a young age. For DuBois, these realizations came during a
youthful ball, at which his card was peremptorily refused by a Southern, white girl simply (or rather, not so
simply) because he was Black. Of this encounter he writes the following:
Then it dawned upon me with a certain suddeness that I was different from the others; or like [them
perhaps] in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no

desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt, and lived above
it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows.
In this passage, DuBois initial reaction upon realizing that being Black was a problem in American society is
interesting because this same sentiment is commonly felt by African-Americans today. In addition, DuBois
reactionary feeling of contempt for all white people on the other side of the veil reveals a larger point about the
veil concept. Because many people only understand DuBois veil concept to mean that white peoples view of
Black people is obstructed by this not-so-invisible veil that hangs between the races, many forget to see that this
lack of vision is two-fold; that is, just as the white girl looking through the veil could not properly see DuBois
for who he was beyond his skin, he in turn could not clearly see the whole white race because of his one
negative encounter with her as well, which he then projected onto the entire white race.
Although there is a veil that shades the view of both Blacks and Whites, the reason why Blacks traditionally
have a better understanding of whites than the reverse is because of this two-ness lived and felt by Black
Americans. In other words, upon coming to the realization of being Black and what that has historically meant
in America (or arguably presently means in America), Black people have long known how to operate in two
Americas one that is white and one that is Black. DuBois describes this phenomena as doubleconsciousness, which is the awareness of the two-ness of being an American and an African-American, and
the largely unconscious, almost instinctive movement between the these two identities, as needed.
DuBois describes African-Americans as a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in
this American world a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself
through the revelation of the other world. Further, of the actual concept of double-consciousness, DuBois goes
on to say the following:
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at ones self through
the eyes of others, of measuring ones soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and

pity. One ever feels his two-ness: an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled
strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn
asunder.
This passage is perhaps the most powerfully written, (and amazingly accurate for some) of the sheer burden of
being Black and American in this society. Although written over a century ago, for many modern-day AfricanAmericans this passage is a reflection of how very little has changed in Americas conceptualization of what is
Black and of what is American. But more importantly, for African-Americans it is an illustration and
reminder of how far they still have to go.
Source: http://xroads.virginia.edu/~UG03/souls/defpg.html