Living in Armageddon Time
About five years ago, I had a troubling conversation with a romantic partner. He was white. I am Black. We’ve all heard these kinds of stories before. Stories about a Black person being shocked by their white partner’s politics or behaviors, being jolted out of a melting pot fantasy about us all mixing together and giving the world color. This isn’t one of those stories. It’s not even a story really—it’s more of an anecdote. I refer back to it all the time to remind myself of my choices and, more importantly, my mistakes.
I was in the living room watching Insecure. Now, if you remember, the first season of Insecure was an important moment in modern mainstream Black culture, especially for women. Not since Girlfriends had we had a popular, successful show about our experiences that was funny and sexy and didn’t take itself too seriously. Online, it brought me together with Black women all over the world who were watching and enjoying, and debating. It was in the middle of all that conversation and coverage that I was watching, intently, eyes glued to the screen. My white partner was also in the room, on his computer, doing whatever it is he did there. But eventually, he saw how much I was enjoying myself watching and he started watching too. But with his participation came snarky remarks and a constant MST3K-like commentary informed by his white experience of what he was watching. I often had to pause and go back to hear dialogue and eventually his presence made my enjoyment impossible. So, I paused the show and asked him to sit on the couch with me.
I had barely begun calmly explaining to him why his engagement with this show I adored was condescending when he burst into tears asking me if I was accusing him of being racist. At that point, it was no longer about the show and I dropped that whole portion of the conversation. I reconfigured, asking him: “How exactly did we get here? I don’t understand. I’m not trying to make you feel bad I just thought it would be better to tell you that you’re annoying me instead of just letting it fester.” And then came the beginning of what would become a long-term argument pattern between the two of us: Small things immediately become large, and suddenly we’re talking about our whole entire lives. At some point, I remark: “I feel like you haven’t had many Black people in your life and maybe that’s why this conversation is so difficult for you.” I wasn’t making any sort of accusation, I was simply trying to understand why he was so upset. It was like he thought he was being tested and watched and I had a hidden camera somewhere, ready to expose him as being a bigot.
Not listening—as he often didn’t—he then launched into a story about how he had a Black friend growing up and they were very close. But then, he switched to a private school and they fell out of touch with each other. Weeping, he repeats to me that he is not a racist and that he was just a kid and didn’t understand their differences in terms of race and class.
Does this sound familiar? If the answer is yes, then you either 1) are Black and have had this kind of frustrating conversation before, or 2) you have seen James Gray’s most recent feature film Armageddon Time. For those unfamiliar, Gray’s film—based on his childhood in Queens, New York—tells the story of a young Jewish white boy named Paul (Banks Repeta) on the cusp of teenhood trying to figure out what kind of person he wants to be. Complicating this journey is his relationship with a troubled Black kid, Johnny (Jaylin Webb). Though they are both troublemakers who struggle in school, Paul and his family’s newly acquired acceptance into whiteness has afforded him the opportunity to get ahead. Johnny has no such resources and has already been given up on by his teachers and the school system.
It’s a difficult film, mainly due to its honesty and fearlessness in revealing the prejudice of its white characters and how their worldview is tragically limited in many respects. Trying to decide whether to be in the game or work against it is difficult when carrying the burden of history and the pressure to succeed in establishing a legacy. Succession’s Jeremy Strong and the always amazing Anne Hathaway are skilled and convincing in their performances, revealing their character’s flaws without being monstrous. As Paul’s grandfather, Anthony Hopkins gets the easy job. He gets to be the progressive and empathetic man who is simply too old to have to play the assimilation game anymore. His presence is a respite from the film’s oppressive bleakness as we watch solidarity dissolve in favor of the promise of a better life.
I could talk about how well-done the film is, especially in its exploration of Jewish identity and the trauma that hangs like a shadow over an entire people who simply just want to be left alone to survive. I could feel the anguish and pain, twisting. I could feel the overwhelming love the characters have for each other. It’s beautiful to witness.
But then I think of Johnny and the love he doesn’t have. Further, I think of the darkness associated with his mere presence in the film as if he’s already a ghost haunting a world that never wanted him to begin with. When I think of him I can’t help but think of myself or the little boy who disappeared into the memories of my partner, only to come spewing out in my direction for the sole purpose of rousing my sympathy and distracting from a comparably benign inquiry.
One thing white people seem to not understand is that for me, it’s always Armaggedon Time. The past is not much different from the present for me. What happened to Johnny could happen tomorrow. Maybe it happened yesterday. How many places is it happening? How many times does a Black person out of the kindness of their heart put their trust in a friend or lover to protect them and treat them well? To listen and give space for them? And how often are those needs simply not met in favor of cradling a guilty conscience? It’s worth thinking about.
This piece is not about whether the film is good or bad. I rarely find that question worth answering. What I hope for it and for anyone watching, is that they are able to empathize with both Paul and Johnny, even though they are presented in a manner that is inherently unbalanced—because that’s how it actually is. A film cannot cure society’s ills, nor should it be required to. But shouldn’t you, as a human being, have some interest in the welfare of others? The least you can do is be able to admit when you don’t care—or didn’t in the past—and sit with the discomfort of that knowledge. We are in a constant state of becoming who we are meant to be. That’s not possible when you live your life in a state of denial. Moving forward requires looking back.