100 Years Of Baldwin. We Need At Least 100 More.

Today I will once again invoke my Howard Cosell Rule and write a post that will not relate directly to bicycling or bicycles.

On this date 100 years ago, James Baldwin was born in Harlem.  He was not, however, part of that New York City community’s fabled “Renaissance.” He did not come from a family of writers—though he, of course, became one—or musicians, dancers, painters, sculptors or intellectuals. Rather, he was born to a single mother who, when James was three, married a strict Baptist minister who came up from New Orleans.

As he relates in some of his essays—and as he alludes to in some of his fiction—he spent most of his childhood and adolescence in poverty during the Great Depression. He also experienced racism that, while not as overt as his father might have experienced, nonetheless helped to shape his point of view as a writer and activist.

I am commemorating him today because he helped to shape my life.  From the time I first discovered his work—copies of Giovanni’s Room and  The Fire Next Time in the most unlikely of places:  on the bookshelf of my campus’ Christian fellowship—I couldn’t get enough of his writing.  For a couple of years, I had a copy of one of his books in my back pocket, backpack, shoulder bag, panniers or handlebar bag. My life was very different from his, but I wanted to write with his style, passion and conviction.

To this day, passages of Baldwin’s work course through my mind—or, more precisely, reverberate through my ears. One is the most succinct explanation of “terrorism*” I have seen: “The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.” (The Fire Next Time) Another is a coda for my life: “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” (No Name In The Street) And—could Baldwin have been foretelling Trump and his cult with this?: “There are so many ways of being despicable it quite makes one’s head spin. But the way to be really despicable is to be contemptuous of other people’s pain. (Giovanni’s Room)

Oh, if only I could write like James Baldwin. And ride like Eddy Mercx.  And look like Rebecca Twigg.

*-How does that saying go? One country’s terrorist is another country’s freedom fighter.