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I was invited to review Between the World and Me just as the world plunged headlong into fresh deep realms of darkness and chaos. The novel coronavirus had turned vibrant cities into ghost towns, and ICU wards into war zones. But that wasn't the only pandemic: police in the United States had killed 164 black men and women in the first eight months of 2020 (Cohen 2020). The video-streamed murders of young African American men took place before our eyes. “Karens,” so many of them, took center stage. The name emerged as a derisive term, calling out the blatant racism of white people who ascribe malicious intent to African Americans engaged in everyday activities of life: birdwatching or taking a daily jog. There was Starbucks Karen, Central Park Karen, San Francisco Karen. In each situation, the malevolent actions—a malignant othering—sought to set boundaries as to where it was or wasn't appropriate for the other's body to be present and to suppress the voice of the other—what they had a right to say to a person in the historical majority.
As I began to read Between the World and Me, I painfully remembered when my own body was not my own and my voice could be so easily silenced. I was eighteen and had just moved to my first apartment in Queens. With a newfound sense of independence and optimism for the future, I left my apartment to make a grocery run to cook my first meal. Within ten minutes, an unmarked car accelerated toward me. It jumped the curb and blocked my path. I was paralyzed. My instincts to run were thwarted—thankfully! Two white men jumped out with guns drawn.
One officer grabbed my jacket collar and, using it to choke me, threw me to the ground and pinned me, the gun in his right hand placed at my temple, his knee on my back. The other held a walkie-talkie in one hand and his gun in the other. I pleaded, implored them to listen to me. A