“If you imagine someone who is brave enough to withdraw all his projections, then you get an individual who is conscious of a pretty thick shadow. Such a man has saddled himself with new problems and conflicts. He has become a serious problem to himself, as he is now unable to say that they do this or that, they are wrong, and they must be fought against. He lives in the “House of the Gathering.” Such a man knows that whatever is wrong in the world is in himself, and if he only learns to deal with his own shadow he has done something real for the world. He has succeeded in shouldering at least an infinitesimal part of the gigantic, unsolved social problems of our day.” – Jung
God, why, why did you make me so ugly? What did I do to make the whole world hate me so much? Why did I have to be born black in this world?
As I stood there, weeping from the core of my soul. I wondered what in the hell was happening to me. I felt that I was possessed; by something beyond my control. But at the same time, this pain felt somewhat familiar. The words that were coming out of my mouth. They weren’t the words of a man. But they were the words of a child. It was starting to come back to me now. I remembered the very first time that I realized that I wasn’t like every other kid in the sandbox. “Does it rub off? Your hair feels funny, why are the backs of your hands black, but your palms are white?”, the other kids at recess would say. It was then, in between four square, jacks, and marbles that I was called Nigger for the very first time. The memory of it was slowly beginning to come back to me. How it felt, how I had held the pain of that emotion in my chest. How the word Nigger seemed to have the power to paralyze my entire body. That word Nigger affected me like kryptonite had affected Superman whenever he got too close to it. It seemed to destroy my strength, like when Sampson got his ponytail cut off by Delilah. I held that pain in my chest as long as I could, until I could one day wish it away. Until it would just vanish inside of me, and I would never have to see it or feel it ever again. I could do this because I had done it before with other painful emotions and memories. Because like Pinocchio, who wished that he was a real boy, I too believed that “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires, will come to you.”
“The black skin of the Negro was not only ugly, but was also the symbol of moral taint and turpitude. The Negro was the descendant of Ham, and thus accursed, and designed to be of service to his master, the white man.” – Ashley Montagu