A young black man is making his way through our alley with a Red Wings cap cocked atop his head, rapping, a wire leaking up from his jeans, the faint staccato of the “N”-word the only words I can make out. But peering down on him from my second-story back porch, what grabs me most and won’t let go are his thigh-riding sagging jeans. His red-and-green checkered black butt.
I mean, how can I embrace crisply dressed Malcolm X — and then condemn his saggy-jeaned grandson? It’s not right. It’s not fair.
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Why doesn’t Saggy Pants amuse or even impress me? Why have I instantly reduced him to the clownish, disrespectful title, “Saggy Pants”? I mean, a Red Wings hat—the historic symbol of suburban white fandom styled sidewise on the head of a young black man? Brilliantly appropriated. And the way he orchestrates lyrics with both hands and, every four steps, tugs up his pants without missing a beat? Beautifully choreographed.
But I’m not amused and far from impressed. In fact, I’m instantly angry.
I’m trying not to be – in this moment, and in other moments when the ubiquitous Saggy Pants crosses my path in this city of Detroit we both live in—I’m trying to understand, to accept, to not get all bent out of shape. I mean, how can I embrace crisply dressed Malcolm X—and then condemn his saggy-jeaned grandson? It’s not right. It’s not fair. I should be more understanding, empathetic, conscious.
But I’m not. I’m enraged.
So after dinner, I ask my wife. Again.
Julia, with no trace of anger or judgment, reminds me that when white people define what is acceptable, or even desirable, in terms of appearance, behavior, intelligence, whatever, they’re making their belief system the norm that other people have to live up to.
That strikes me as absolutely accurate. So why am I feeling my anger swell up again?
“Finally,” she says, “sagging jeans, the N-word — it’s none of your business.”
She has not said this to antagonize me, and, again, she’s dead-on accurate. I know she is.
But when, a half-hour later in the middle of grading papers, the whole incident seizes me again, it’s time to take action, to do what I often do when I’m angry, confused: I bring up a fresh page and type fast and furiously, let it rip. Peter Uncensored, Politically Incorrect Peter, Shadow Peter. Say what I would never say aloud, maybe what I believe I’d never even think to myself, allowing whatever is there — the good, bad, and ugly — to have its say.
Though I knew something extra-ugly was boiling beneath Saggy Pants, what vomits out in the next ten minutes shocks and scares me.
None of my business, you said? First of all, isn’t everything my business? (So much for your point, Julia.) And second of all, isn’t Saggy Pants making it my business — or at least, trying to make it my business? Remember how Lucie got upset with us the other night when we’ve asked her to go brush her tooth because it was time for bed — how she quickly turned and shook her fanny in our general direction before leaving the room? Isn’t Saggy Pants doing that — but with the volume turned way up, and non-stop? When he sticks his butt out the back of his jeans, isn’t he, in some kind of way, with some kind of intention, sticking it at me — sticking it to me?
Well, couldn’t they just not do that, couldn’t they just, for my sake, for god’s sake, for the sake of the country, for everybody’s sake, pull up their pants? I, for one, would like them better if they did. (I realize I have reverted to “they”-calling, that all young black men everywhere our Saggy Pants. But I’m just getting going here.) And they could walk a little easier too, not have to take wiggly little steps to go forward. Stop. Heft them up again. Then shuffle forward like a child in diapers on the way to their “crib.” Yes! — they could go forward with their lives a lot more briskly if they’d just pull up their god damn pants! They’d be better able to walk the line, march to the beat of the rest of us, get a job. (I’m dimly aware these are words I’ve heard coming from the mouths of people whose views I despise.) And hey, a lot of their parents and their grandparents are on my side, aren’t they? It’s not just me; come on, wouldn’t they like their sons and grandsons to pull up their pants so they could move along with their lives? I’ve got some company here, right? Bill Cosby, right?
(I haven’t said the N-word yet — so I can’t be a racist, right? And why does Saggy Pants say the N-word? RAPs it out loud, no less! It’s demeaning, degrading, don’t they realize that? Shouldn’t they just stop saying it?)
And why can’t Saggy Pants be more like the homeless old black men panhandling in front of CVS? They’re annoying as hell some days, but they’re not a threat to me. In fact, they have to engage me in some kind of way if they’re going to get something from me. They can’t stick out their ass at me– and then ask me for a dollar.
Saggy Pants says Fuck You. Saggy Pants says I don’t want to talk to you. Saggy Pants says you can keep your motherfucking dollar. The stereotypical black woman holding her hand up like a traffic cop, head turned away: Talk to my hand, asshole! This is the young black man’s version of that: Talk to my ass, asshole!
And I resent that! Isn’t this supposed to be a civil society where we sit down across from each other and, politely, with our pants properly pulled up, talk through our differences? For the good of all, isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? What happened? Why doesn’t it work that way anymore?
(I know it’s never worked that way, not for young black men, anyway. But I won’t allow that fact to get in the way of my tirade.)
And check this out! I know it’s simplistic, and probably some people will accuse me of being racist, but —
Don’t like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad free(I know nothing good has ever come after such a“but,” but I’m off to the races…)
— But wouldn’t fewer young black men be killed if they just pulled up their pants?!
Save Your Ass: Pull Up Your Pants! Now there’s a cause I could get behind!
Finally, with that last bullet, I am done. I am beyond done.
I sit back in my chair, anger and shame rising and falling in my body, and look out the back window into the alley the original Saggy Pants had traversed earlier in the day.
What the hell happens to me when I see those saggy pants? I ask myself. Who am I — who do I become?
The answer is a punch in the gut: I become The White Guy.
Saggy Pants brings out The White Guy in me.
All the prejudices I believe I have transcended return with a vengeance. Despite living twenty-five years in Detroit, despite being married to a black woman who has helped me understand something of what it is to be black, despite having a ten-year-old son the world will soon see as just another black boy in a long line-up of black boys … at the mere sight of a pair of sagging jeans, I suddenly, violently, show my true colors. Just when I thought I was something more evolved, more progressive—a young black man walks past me dressed a certain way, and, snap of the fingers, I’m exposed as an ass, an asshole, a racist.
In short, The White Guy.
Which enrages me even more.
Because, finally, deep down, deeper than where The White Guy resides (which, clearly, is pretty damn deep) I don’t want to be The White Guy. I don’t want to believe what he believes, think the way he thinks, acts the way he acts. Ever. And call me naïve, but I don’t think any one of us, even the most racist white cop or the most committed young Nazi, wants, deepest down, to be The White Guy—a man with only hate in his heart.
Can I see this young black man as the complicated, creative human being he is, and I am, both of us embroiled in a centuries’ old narrative, using whatever we have – words, clothes, movements — to tell ourselves and the world who we are, and what we’re feeling, and what we want?
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Which raises the bottom-line question prompted by Julia’s wise words: So what is my business, if it’s not executing The White Guy’s agenda of enforcing my public dress code, or, in other situations, policing the use of the N-word – or worse? What happens the next time—tomorrow—I come across another young black man wearing saggy jeans?
Can I possibly imagine even some of the daily rage he must feel—maybe when he sees me, almost certainly when he sees a cop? Can I remember that, most days, when I am not endarkened with the rage of The White Guy, I have a righteous anger of my own—that I, too, recognize the supreme injustice of this criminal justice system; that I have been profoundly inspired by Malcolm, Martin, and the whole Civil Rights Movement? Can I possibly admit that there is some part of this tight-assed jeans-on-high middle-aged white man that wants to move through the world with the grace and audacity of a young black man? Can I see this young black man as the complicated, creative human being he is, and I am, both of us embroiled in a centuries’ old narrative, using whatever we have—words, clothes, movements—to tell ourselves and the world who we are, and what we’re feeling, and what we want?
I don’t know if I can do all that. I am sure I will need some more refreshers from my wife, and from others as well — from my old friend, James Baldwin, and from his heirs, Ta-nahisi Coates and Kevin Powell. And someday, if I can come down off my high porch, my high horse, maybe from Saggy Pants himself. In the meantime, can I acknowledge The White Guy is part, though not all, of who I am, mind my own business, and let this young black man walk his path in peace?
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Photo credit: Getty Images
I think we all know the answer (subconsciously) and THAT is what is truly infuriating… Most people don’t have a personal tailor. So what if your penis hangs lower than the crotch of your pants? God forbid anything comes along and excites you. You can either be visible to the public OR pull your pants down. Anybody who has one would know.