Reflections on Between the World and Me, Chapter 1.

I sat down with Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me the way one sits before an open fire—curious but braced for heat. This book came to me as a recommendation from Robert Peoples of Affinis Humanity, whose work in secular humanism and religious deconstruction challenges us to confront deeply ingrained systems of thought and oppression.

Coates writes to his son with an unflinching honesty that feels both intimate and unrelenting. As a Southern white woman, raised in a region where history seeps through red clay and whispers from church pews, I’ve long understood that much of this country’s story has been written in black ink, on white pages, with blood in the margins. But I am learning that understanding is not the same as knowing.

In the first chapter, Coates doesn’t tell the story of the “American Dream” we were taught in school. Instead, he exposes the scaffolding beneath it—a system that has required the plunder of Black bodies for its very foundation. He speaks of his own body with a reverence that is both foreign and familiar. As a woman, I’ve understood, in my own way, the fear of my body being made a battleground, but never to the extent he describes. Never with the same relentless pursuit by a nation that demanded not just ownership but erasure.

I find myself sitting with the discomfort of his words, aware of the fragility that whispers, “But not me,” while the deeper truth pushes back, “But yes, you too.” I see how whiteness has been a shield I didn’t choose but have nonetheless benefited from—a shield that protected my family’s dreams while breaking others’ backs.

What strikes me most is Coates’ insistence on seeing the world as it is, not as he wishes it to be. He refuses to soften his language to make his pain more palatable. His words challenge me to question how often I’ve clung to optimism as a way of bypassing responsibility. Loving people of color requires more than good intentions or kind words—it demands a reckoning. A tearing down of the comfortable myths that allow injustice to hide in plain sight.

Coates writes, “The Dream rests on our backs, the bedding made from our bodies.” Reading those words, I felt an ache—an ache for the Black men and women whose stories I never asked to hear, and an ache for the lie I was sold about my own innocence. It’s humbling to see your place in a history you didn’t write but are still responsible for.

This first chapter didn’t offer solutions, but it did offer clarity. Coates’ words remind me that love isn’t passive. It isn’t about feeling good or being liked—it’s about seeing fully and acting justly. And so I sit with the fire of his words, letting them burn away my illusions. I hope to rise from these ashes with a love that is honest and brave enough to embrace truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

I look forward to continuing this journey through the book, knowing it will challenge me, knowing it will hurt. But I also know that growth doesn’t happen without discomfort, and love—true love—cannot thrive without justice.

Thank you, Robert, for guiding me toward this text and reminding me that expanding our love for others begins with facing the truths we’ve long ignored.