To be clear, Amiri Baraka is a controversial figure and depending on what side of his opinions on everything from race to 9/11 you fall on, you either revered the man or hated him. Based on the tributes and critiques offered up of the man and his work in the wake of his death, there would seem to be no middle ground on Amiri Baraka. Except there is and I certainly occupy that gray area.
Amiri Baraka is a man I respect. Both the man and his work mean a great deal to me. I read much of his work at a point in my life where I was consciously and unconsciously defining my identity as a person on this planet, as a woman and as a Black woman. I found Baraka's thinking on race and the experience of Black people in this country eye-opening. I found his thinking incisive and his passion on the subject rallied me, woke me, even, from what I now deem a deep sleep on race.
You see, I grew up in New York, Brooklyn, New York, to be exact during the 80s and early 90s. But I didn't grow up in the Brooklyn of rap songs. I grew up in a middle class two parent household in a three bedroom house with an attic and a basement, a backyard with a tree I climbed and a front yard with a lawn my father would mow on Saturday mornings in the spring and summer.
I went to schools (public) where I was either one of very few African Americans in the classroom or the only African American in the classroom. My family was the second Black family to move on our block and though as I grew up, I watched my neighborhood transition to a more diverse landscape, I still very much lived in a White neighborhood. It wasn't until I transitioned to one of the city's specialized high schools that I learned I wasn't quite the only one and that the city was an oasis of color. And it wasn't until I attended high school that I realized color was an issue at all. You see even when I was the only one or one of few, I never felt lonely, never thought about my status at all, never felt singled out or odd man out or treated any different at all--perhaps a fool's paradise. Sure, I'd hear older relatives talk about race and even use the n-word. Sure, I saw Roots on TV. But race seemed to be something that was an issue of the past, something that Martin Luther King had already died to fix like Jesus died to save us all of our sins, and as far as I knew, Martin Luther King and Jesus were both successful and as a result, the sin of racism had never touched my life and never would. Amen.
But in high school, I started to hear my classmates of color say things about their treatment by faculty (and the world) based on their race. They seemed to have an awareness I did not. And though I heard the whispers and the complaints and sympathized, I did not yet empathize. I felt completely disconnected from the idea that someone would treat me differently because of my race. I did begin to explore this idea in my personal poetry and began taking an after school class that a teacher, Mr. Jackson (of course!), taught called African American Studies to those interested. (Note, this was not a required class and I may be wrong, but I'm sure he didn't get paid for this endeavor.) And though Mr. Jackson's class sparked something critical in me, making me wonder whether or not I knew how to be Black and though I became so obsessed with the notion that I had no clue that I read everything "Black" I could get my hands on and went on to college to major in African American Studies, it wasn't until college that the critical spark turned into something truly transformative. Because there at Temple University, Amiri Baraka's writing awaited me. And I woke up.
Before Amiri I'd read Toni Morrison and Paule Marshall and bell hooks and Toni Cade Bambara and Gayl Jones and Nikki Giovanni and more. I'd read almost the entire cannon and had been moved, really seriously moved. But it wasn't until I'd read "The Dutchman" that I'd understood some things about myself. Maybe because it was set in a NYC that I understood; I'd ridden those same NYC subways and watched scenes like the one between Clay and Lula play out, scenes I'd previously dismissed as just one of those NYC things. But after reading "The Dutchman" I began to understand how and why my parents had protected me from race to the point that I felt like I didn't exactly know how to be Black. I learned about repression as I now suddenly remembered my White classmates saying that I didn't sound Black. I realized in order to exist in the world I had occupied, one untouched by race that I had to pretend certain things hadn't happened or weren't happening. I realized that this world untouched by race was largely of my own making; definitely aided by my parents for the best of reasons, but still of my own making. Reading "The Dutchman" forced me to open my eyes and reexamine my relationship with race and with myself and set me on a better path. Through "The Dutchman", Amiri Baraka did what writers are supposed to do: he made a difference in my life. He inspired me to strive for more. He helped me understand something about myself and the world I live in. Just as Hemingway's A Moveable Feast did for me that same year. And Hemingway is the epitome of a non-perfect human being, but he's revered. Then why not Amiri? He was a man and a writer who did the job of a writer despite whatever imperfections observers can point to. 
So yes, Amiri Baraka, as he was in life, is a controversial figure in death, and I didn't agree with every thing he said or every belief he held and after all, he was a man, not a deity. He made mistakes. But he was a writer and it is in that spirit I will honor him, standing in that gray area where I recognize that people, writers, everyone, can be two opposing things, both good and not so good and that in choosing to honor what is good does not mean I dismiss what is wrong. Because when we do, when we dismiss or ignore what is wrong, we can die from the wounds. "The Dutchman" taught me that. Amiria Baraka taught me that. And for that I thank him.Rest easy, Amiri.
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