Anatoly Vorobey (avva) wrote,
Anatoly Vorobey
avva

немного англоязычного чтива-6

Гуляя по журналу Transition, нашёл интересную статью Нормана Подхореца (Norman Podhoretz), написанную в 1965-м году. Называется: "My Negro Problem — And Ours" (да, негров тогда ещё Negroes называли). Podhoretz известен в американских журналистских кругах своим путешествием от крайнего либерализма к консерватизму (другой еврей в американской журналистике, знаменитый тем же самым — David Horowitz). Эта статья написна ещё в ту пору, когда Подхорец был либералом. Он довольно интересно рассказывает о своём детстве (30-е годы, бедный квартал Нью-Йорка) и о взаимной ненависти белых и негров, о том, как он эту ненависть испытывал сам и испытывал на себе, и ещё много о чём в контексте взаимоотношений между расами в Америке. Довольно честная и открытая статья, совершенно не страдающая свойственным многим американским либералам патетическим заламыванием рук. Рекомендую к прочтению.

Выкладываю её в сеть (PDF, 1.7Mb) и даю несколько цитат под элжекатом.

  • "I think there was a day — first grade? second grade? — when my best friend Carl hit me on the way home from school and announced that he wouldn't play with me anymore because I had killed Jesus. When I ran home to my mother crying for an explanation, she told me not to pay any attention to such foolishness, and then in Yiddish she cursed the goyim and the schwartzes, the schwartzes and the goyim. Carl, it turned out, was a schwartze, and so was added a third to the categories into which people were mysteriously divided."

  • [другой эпизод, в одном из старших классов. Команда автора выигрывает в спортивном соревновании, потому что более сильная команда, состоящая сплошь из негров, дискредитирована за обман] "That afternoon, walking home, I was waylaid and surrounded by five Negroes, among whom is the anchor man of the disqualified team. "Gimme my medal, mo'f—r," he grunts. I do not have it with me and I tell him so. "Anyway, it ain't yours", I say foolishly. He calls me a liar on both counts and pushes me up against the wall on which we sometimes play handball. "Gimme my mo'f—n' medal," he says again. I repeat that I have left it home. "Le's search the little mo'f—r," one of them suggests, "he prolly got it hid in his mo'f—n' pants." My panic is now unmanageable. (How many times had I been surrounded like this and asked in soft tones, "Len' me a nickle, boy." How many times had I been called a liar for pleading poverty and pushed around, or searched, or beaten up, unless there happened to be someone in the marauding gang like Carl who liked me across that enormous divide of hatred and who would therefore say, "Aaah, c'mon, le's git someone else, this boy ain't got no money on 'im.") I scream at them through tears of rage and self-contempt, "Keep your f—n' filthy lousy black hands offa me! I swear I'll get the cops." This is all they need to hear, and the five of them set upon me. They bang me around, mostly in the stomach and on the arms and shoulders, and when several adults loitering near the candy store down the block notice what is going on and begin to shout, they run off and away. "

  • [о своём отношении к неграм сейчас] "But envy? Why envy? And hatred? Why hatred? Here again the intensities have lessened and everything has been complicated and qualified by the guilts and the resulting over-compensations that are the heritage of the enlightened middle-class world of which I am now a member. Yet just as in childhood I envied Negroes for what seemed to me their superious masculinity, so I envy them today for what seems to me their superious physical grace and beauty. I have come to value physical grace very highly, and I am now capable of aching with all my being when I watch a Negro couple on the dance floor, or a Negro playing baseball or basketball. They are on the kind of terms with their own bodies that I should like to be on with mine, and for that precious quality they seem blessed to me.

    The hatred I still feel for Negroes is the hardest of all the old feelings to face or admit, and it is the most hidden and the most overlarded by the conscious attitudes into which I have succeeded in willing myself. It no longer has, as for me it once did, any cause or justification (except, perhaps, that I am constantly being denied my right to an honest expression of the things I earned the right as a child to feel). How, then, do I know that this hatred has never entirely disappeared? I know it from the insane rage that can stir in me at the thought of Negro anti-Semitism; I know it from the disgusting prurience that can stir in me at the sight of a mixed couple; and I know it from the violence that can stir in me whenever I encounter that special brand of paranoid touchiness to which many Negroes are prone."
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