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His accent turns our once-familiar words into a different dialect entirely, their meanings blurred under the heaviness of his tongue. But George doesn’t notice. He’s pleased with himself, as if we should be impressed by his butchering of our language.
George’s power doesn’t come only from the fact that he has a penis. It comes from his whiteness.
In another world, with his education and determination, he could have been a lawyer or a doctor. Maybe then, white men would have looked him in the eye and shook his hand firmly, with respect. But his inability to speak English diminished him, cut him down.
But in a way, it was also a good thing. Because it planted something deep within me, a seed of anger that grew, that made me watch and ponder and learn, until I was strong enough to release my own rage.
The only power he has is the power you are willing to give him, and you’ve given him nothing. Not a scrap.
And when you take everything from him, you can say what these men say about us: He was asking for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.
It must be nice to be so assured of your safety that you don’t have to worry about being alone at night or getting in the wrong car.
