But there’s a thin line between love and hate, in the words of an R&B classic that had black and white Americans slow-dancing in the summer of 1971. Dolezal’s apparent racial imposture and Roof’s alleged racist massacre are two facets of white America’s love-hate relationship with blackness, a category whites invented in the first place to represent all the things we are not. There may be good reason to question the mental health of both Roof and Dolezal, but if we frame them as isolated anomalies or freakish, inexplicable cases we are deliberately missing the point. They belong to a long history I discussed in a different context last week, a history that is far from over and whose repercussions will not stop resounding. It’s a history in which white people consistently return to a view of black people not as individuals or even as members of a distinctive but internally diverse social community, but as a symbolic and mysterious category, a locus of fear and desire.
The longing to subdue or destroy the Other and so secure the boundaries of one’s own identity, and the longing to destroy one’s own identity, in effect, and become the Other, are closely akin in psychological terms. I’m not saying that the dreadful crimes apparently committed by Dylann Roof, a young man barely out of adolescence, or Rachel Dolezal’s lifelong campaign of racial reinvention, can be boiled down to such generalizations. But those recurring cultural narratives are clearly relevant here, and the more we learn about these two people’s life stories, the stranger and more ambiguous they become.
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