The Measure of a Man

by Sidney Poitier

In Nassau, while learning about myself, I had become conscious of being pigeonholed by others, and I had determined then to always aim myself toward a slot of my choosing. There were too many images of what I could be. Where I could go. Too many images of wonderful, accomplished, interesting black people around and about for me to feel bad about my color. In Miami, this strange new society started coming at me with point-blank force to hammer home its long-established, nonnegotiable position on the color of skin, which declared me unworthy of human consideration, then ordered me to embrace the notion of my unworthiness. My reply was, “Who, me? Are you fucking crazy? Me? You’re talking to me?” I was saying, “Hey, not only am I not that which you would make me. Here’s what I in fact am. First of all, I’m the son of a really terrific guy, Reginald James Poitier. And Evelyn Poitier, my mom, who’s a terrific woman. I have no evil designs; I’m a well-intentioned, meaningful person. I’m young, and I’m not particularly headstrong—though I can get pretty pissed. I’m a good person, and nothing you say can undo that. You can harp on that color crap as much as you want, but because of the way I was raised, I don’t have a receptor that’s gonna take in any of that.”