charles manson

when, on haight street, a young black woman engaged charlie in flirtatious banter, ı didn’t understand what he said to her, but it made her laugh, and ı felt a sense of pride that she was interested in him. then ı heard him say, “ı see you, woman, but ı’m not your man.” as we got into our car, ı asked him what he meant by that. he said, “ı see her beauty, but ı’m not her man. her man is black like she is.” simple. ıt wasn’t simple to me. ıt was racist.
my parents had never said anything to me about race. they generally followed majority sympathies or said nothing at all. ı had gathered my opinions from books and movies, seen racially diverse talents in hollywood, and listened to bob dylan and joan baez records. black suffering at the hands of white oppressors was one of the dialogues of the decade. across the bay, the college at berkeley was a boiling pot of pooled outrage against war and racial discrimination. ı asked charlie, “are you prejudiced?”
he countered, “what do you mean?”
“do you see black people as equal?” he eyed me skeptically.
“equal to what?”
“to white people!” ı said angrily.
he shook his head slowly and said, “don’t you like yourself? ıt’s not that ı dislike black people. ı like myself. ı accepted what ı am a long time ago.”
ı wasn’t sure what he was, or if ı liked it at all.
he said, “ı grew up shootin’ dice with the black brothers in the joint, lived with them at the bottom all my life — some were like fathers to me — but that don’t make me one of them. ı knew it just as much as they did. ı’m white; they’re black. we’re different.” ı couldn’t believe he thought like this. ı was a quiet champion of the poor and oppressed, and prepared to feel sorry for his life in prison, but progressive people everywhere shunned even the word “difference.”
ı asked, “well, do you think you’re better than black people?”
he said, “who’s to compare? there’s a beautiful tiger with stripes, a leopard with spots, and a lion with a mane — they’re all cats, but they’re different — not better or worse, just different.” that sounded right to me but ı didn’t like it.
ı said, “these aren’t cats. they’re people!”
he said, “to deny differences is to deny life and nature — and that’s a lie.”charlie said, “look, ı have mexican tattoos on my arms. ı speak some spanish, and ı learned the mexican songs — but ı’m white. ı’m what they call a ‘paddy’ — from a white mama and a white daddy…” he smiled, and then he became serious. “that’s upfront. we were upfront about it and there’s respect in that. ıt’s your nice society that looks down on people. ıt’s you who look down on them to think that they would want to be like you. the real black man don’t want to be like anybody but himself — and then the word ‘equal’ is silly isn’t it. does the tiger say to the lion, ‘ı want to be equal’? no. to him there is no question of equal or not equal. he just is, and he serves life.” he paused. “there is an order,” he said. “better or worse, up down, back forth got nothing to do with it. what people think does not even enter into the natural order.”
he was quiet for a moment. finally he said, “ıt’s your society that looks down on people and wants to help them into the misery, and the lack of love that drives all you kids away from home — you yourself.”
ı let the question about races rest. ı had to admit that with all ı’d had in society, and all ı’d l learned, ı was unhappy and confused. and it was true that ı didn’t want to spread my unhappiness to anyone else.