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Informationen zum Autor Touré is an author who has published six books, including I Would Die 4 U: Why Prince Became an Icon and Who’s Afraid of Post-Blackness?: What It Means to Be Black Now , a New York Times and Washington Post Notable Book. He was a TV host at MSNBC, MTV, and BET, and a correspondent at CNN. He hosts the podcast Touré Show . He has written for The New York Times , The New Yorker , Rolling Stone , The Washington Post , The Nation , Vogue , and many other publications. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and two children. Follow his Instagram @Toure. Klappentext Originally published in hardcover in 2011.Who’s Afraid of Post-Blackness Chapter 1 Forty Million Ways to Be Black Once, I went skydiving. For about four minutes in 2007 I was above—and plummeting rapidly toward—a small town in the middle of the Florida panhandle. Jumped out of the plane solo at 14,000 feet. I did it for a TV show called “I’ll Try Anything Once” in which every week I accepted fear-inducing challenges. On the way to the skydiving center the production team stopped for lunch at a restaurant where three middle-aged Black men who worked there recognized me from TV and came over to our table to say hi. We got to talking and they asked what I was doing there. I told them I was on my way to go skydiving. Their faces went cold. They were stunned. One of them said, in a conspiratorial tone and at a volume meant to slide under the sonic radar of the white people sitting right beside me, “Brother, Black people don’t do that.” The other two nodded in agreement. They quickly glanced at the rest of my team and then back at me as if that clinched their point: The only people doing this risk-your-life, crazy foolishness are some loony white boys and you. As they saw it I was breaking the rules of Blackness. I was afraid but not about breaking the invisible rule book. The plane was old and small with only a seat for the pilot, barely enough room for five adults to sit on the floor, and not enough height to stand. There was one clear, thin, plastic, rickety door that didn’t look strong enough to keep people from falling through it. The walls of the little plane were so thin that the sound of the engine permeated them completely. In order to be heard you had to yell. The plane did not move with the efficiency and grace you want from a plane, it reminded me of an old dying car that sputters and wheezes and makes you pray it’ll start and keep running until you get there. As it climbed into the sky it seemed to be saying, “I think I can, I think I can.” If I hadn’t been scheduled to jump out for the sake of television, I would’ve listened to the voice inside me yelling “Bail!” At 14,000 feet the thin plastic door—which recalled a grandmother’s couch protector—was pushed up and through the open maw you could feel the oppressively fast, hard, uninviting wind slashing by, daring you to play deadly games. You could barely see the Earth below, large buildings now smaller than ants, acre-sized fields tinier than a baby’s palm. My eyes were saucer wide, my palms were soaked, my heart was banging in my chest as if looking for a way out, saying, “You can go, but I’m staying here in the plane.” The breathless terror enveloping me as a jump virgin was not assuaged by my macho divemaster, Rick, a former cop and Marine with a military-style buzzcut who owns the drop zone, jumps twenty times a day, and finds the fear of newbies funny. Rick thought gallows humor was appropriate at that moment. With the door open he said, “Just remember, no m...
