Talking about racism can be hard, but...
Most kids of color grow up talking about racism. They have “The Talk” with their families—the honest talk about survival in a racist world.
But white kids don’t. They’re barely spoken to about race at all—and that needs to change. Because not talking about racism doesn’t make it go away. Not talking about white privilege doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
The Other Talk begins this much-needed conversation for white kids. In an instantly relatable and deeply honest account of his own life, Brendan Kiely offers young readers a way to understand one’s own white privilege and why allyship is so vital, so that we can all start doing our part—today.
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|Publisher:||Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy Books|
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.00(d)|
|Age Range:||12 - 18 Years|
About the Author
Jason Reynolds is a #1 New York Times bestselling author, a Newbery Award Honoree, a Printz Award Honoree, a two-time National Book Award finalist, a Kirkus Award winner, a Carnegie Medal winner, a two-time Walter Dean Myers Award winner, an NAACP Image Award Winner, and the recipient of multiple Coretta Scott King honors. He’s also the 2020–2021 National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature. His many books include All American Boys (cowritten with Brendan Kiely), When I Was the Greatest, The Boy in the Black Suit, Stamped, As Brave as You, For Every One, the Track series (Ghost, Patina, Sunny, and Lu), Look Both Ways, and Long Way Down, which received a Newbery Honor, a Printz Honor, and a Coretta Scott King Honor. He lives in Washington, DC. You can find his ramblings at JasonWritesBooks.com.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: Bottle of Nesquik, Bottle of Long Since Forgotten 1 Bottle of Nesquik, Bottle of Long Since Forgotten
Here’s the situation:
Two teenagers go to a convenience store.
Actually, two different convenience stores.
Kid A is in a car that pulls up outside one at a gas station in Jacksonville, Florida. Music’s bumping. Got “Beef” by Lil Reese, Lil Durk, and Fredo Santana cued up on the playlist.
Kid B walks into one on a busy street near Boston, Massachusetts. Headphones on. Head bobbing to A Tribe Called Quest’s “Can I Kick It?” Yes you can, he mouths along as he pulls open the glass door.
Kid A’s there with three friends. One of them goes into the store to grab some snacks and a bottle of something long since forgotten.
Kid B’s there to get a bottle of Strawberry Nesquik.
They’re just two kids, two kids loving their music and going to the convenience store—but then everything changes.
Kid A’s waiting in the car. “Beef” blasting. He’s out with friends. They’re having a good time.
Kid B, though, grabs his bright yellow bottle of Nesquik and slips it into the folds of his puffy down coat. Yes you can! Then he strolls right out the door without looking back. He hasn’t paid for the Strawberry Nesquik. He’s stolen it. And he’s done this before. He’s got a crush on a girl who loves Strawberry Nesquik (even though it’s gross—and it is—it’s gross!), and he loves giving her a bottle in the hallway before homeroom because he likes the coconut smell of her hair and the way her high-sprayed bangs rise off her forehead like a flag. He likes the way roller coasters run wild loops through his gut whenever their eyes meet. He gives her one of these stolen bottles of Strawberry Nesquik about once a week, maybe more, and he’s been doing it for the past month.
He hasn’t thought twice about the people in the store.
Or anybody else, really.
Just the girl with the bangs climbing toward the sky.
More than one thousand miles south on Route 95, Kid A’s bumping to the music with his buddies, still waiting for the friend in the store, when a car pulls up beside them. The two adults in the car start giving the friends dirty looks. The clock starts ticking. In three and half minutes everything will be different. Lives will have changed. But when the car pulls up, Kid A has no idea. All he sees are the scowls. Scowls he’s seen before. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just a kid and his music is loud. And if the adults would just take a breath and let it go, let this boy be a kid and let his too-loud music thump, only a few minutes later his car would be gone, the music would be gone, and there’d be no story to tell.
Instead, the woman in the car opens her door, and before she leaves to go into the store, the man who’s with her turns to her and says, “I hate this thug music.” This man, the scowler, starts yelling at Kid A and his friends, starts calling them names. One of Kid A’s friends turns down the music, but Kid A’s sick of the scowler’s scowls. Sick of the way this man, this adult, keeps talking to him, so he turns the music back up and tries to drown him out. Tries to drown out everything the man’s saying. Those scowls. Those kinds of arguments. He’s all too used to them. He’s heard it all before, and all too often, he’s heard the slurs and the name-calling that follows. He’s heard it all before and he’s heard it enough—so up goes the music, bass rattling the car doors. Up goes his voice too, yelling back at the man, matching him insult for insult. But the clock is still ticking.
The clock is still ticking when Kid A’s friend comes out of the convenience store and gets back in the car. The clock’s still ticking as Kid A and the man keep yelling, their voices loud enough to climb up and over the music. The clock’s still ticking when the adult man shouts at Kid A, “You aren’t going to talk to me like that.”
And it’s supposed to be kids driving around through the night, shouting their lyrics—In the field, we play for keeps/I’m out here, no hide-and-seek—like kids all over the country do, are doing, will do later. The clock is still ticking when the man reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a 9 mm pistol—and then everything goes into hyperspeed.
The man fires and fires. Bullets crash through the door beside Kid A. Bullets rip through the car around and into Kid A. Bullets explode and crack open the night as the kids throw the car into reverse, try to escape, but the man steps out of his own car, crouches in a shooting stance, and fires and fires and fires. Ten bullets in all.
The clock only stops ticking when the kids pull into a nearby parking lot and find Kid A gasping for air. Losing his breath. No chance to drink that bottle of who-knows-what soda or whatever as his blood spills across the car seats, down onto the concrete, where it stains the parking lot, the whole town, the whole state, the whole country, because Kid A’s blood is the blood of another innocent, unarmed child who has been called names, called all kinds of things, like a thug, and who hasn’t done anything illegal, hasn’t done anything wrong, except be a kid—and murdered all the same.
Kid B’s the one who did something wrong. Kid B’s the one who did something illegal. Kid B’s the actual thief.
But nobody’s ever called him one. Nobody knows he is one. Because nobody’s ever even suspected he’s one.
In fact, later that spring, when Kid B is working for a talent agency in Boston, auditioning to model for a series of magazine ads, the casting director will lean forward and say to Kid B, “Hey, yeah, we definitely want you. You look like the kid next door. You look like the all-American boy.”
Now let me tell you more about Kid A.
He was someone’s son. He liked Jacksonville, where he lived. He liked to play basketball and PlayStation. But his singular passion was music. All the music. In the field, we play for keeps... Making mixes for his buddies. He had dreams and family and friends.
You might say he was just another “all-American boy,” except I fear not enough people told him that. The adults who pulled up in the car beside him certainly didn’t. That man took one look at Kid A and suspected... assumed... profiled Kid A as a “thug.” As someone who was up to no good. Even though he wasn’t. The man prejudged Kid A—and his prejudice did all the thinking. And Kid A paid the price for it.
But Kid A wasn’t a thug. He wasn’t a thief.
Kid B was the thief. The way Kid B acted, you might call him the thug.
But here’s what else I have to tell you:
Kid A was Black.
And Kid A was a real person. His name was Jordan Davis.
And Jordan Davis was murdered because of racial prejudice—because of racism.
Kid B was white.
And Kid B was a real person too. That kid? He’s me. Brendan Kiely. I’m the thief.
And I’m alive because... well, we’re going to get to all that.
Table of Contents
An Introduction Jason Reynolds xv
1 Bottle of Nesquick, Bottle of Long Since Forgotten 1
2 Two Americas 7
3 So What Is This Talk I Never Got? 17
4 How I Tell a Story 25
5 White Boy 37
6 Chicken-and-Egg Problem … Solved! 51
7 Cheating to Win 62
8 History Lives in the Present 71
9 The Entire System Is Rigged 83
10 Ninja Runs 97
11 Hard Look in the Mirror 114
12 What Bullying Looks Like … to a Whole Community 132
13 So Step Up! 146
14 Well, Actually, Hang on a Second … Step Back 148
15 Messing Up 153
16 Messing Up … and Listening 161
17 Who? 167
18 Listening … without Getting Defensive 168
19 Listening … and Believing 178
20 Taking Action 196
Author's Note 219
Some People I Listened to and Learned from Who Influenced the Writing of This Book 249
Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions for
The Other Talk
by Brendan Kiely
There are ways that you can prepare as an individual to engage with The Other Talk, especially as you set expectations for your own experience with the book’s content. As you begin to read the text, know that your mental and emotional work as a reader will likely involve each of the following:
LISTENING to stories and perspectives you haven’t heard before;
QUESTIONING what you thought you knew, including messages you’ve internalized and narratives that have been used to frame how and why racial inequality exists and persists;
UNLEARNING some or maybe most of what you’ve been taught about American history, including the history of your own community;
GRAPPLING with your identity as a white person and your relationship to racist systems.
1. Most white people grow up thinking that race is skin color, but that idea is wrong: race is a social construction. How were you taught to think about race as a child? Who taught you, and how did they convey the information? How do the resources provided here, along with what Brendan writes—that race is a concept that was made up a long time ago by people with social power—give you new ways to think about what race is and what it isn’t?
2. Consider what Brendan shares in The Other Talk about the impact of the question “What are you?” on people who are not perceived to be white. How do you think individuals decide which box to choose on the census? What happens when more and more people start checking more than one box? How do increasing numbers of people who identify with more than one racial group change the way we think about race in America and about who is American?
3. Many of us were raised to think that racism is defined as individual acts of meanness, and that racism is a problem because of the harm it does to marginalized groups. But just like the concept of race, racism is much more complicated. Consider the idea that racism is multifaceted: it’s about beliefs, but it’s also about behaviors, policies, practices, and systems. Everyone is affected, and everyone is implicated. How do these ideas shift the way you think about the nature of racism, the unequal playing field it creates, and the different forms of harm it causes to different groups of people? How are white people, too, harmed by racism?
4. Consider the development of your own racial identity. When did you first realize that race mattered? How did you know it mattered? Who was involved? What thoughts and feelings were attached to this experience?
5. Think back to the earliest time you realized you had a racial identity. What did that experience teach you to think about your race in relation to other races?
6. What messages were you sent in your home, neighborhood, or school about race? What messages were you sent about who or what had value, who or what was desirable and good, who or what was undesirable and bad? What was confusing? What things were you left to make sense of on your own?
7. In The Other Talk, Brendan describes the process of revisiting stories from his life and seeing them in a new light—that is, making the conscious choice to retell every single story with a focus on how being white shaped what happened. What stories from your life can you revisit with this focus in mind? How do these stories look different when you think about the role whiteness played in what happened to you?
8. Consider what Brendan says in The Other Talk about reckoning with his Egyptian neighbor’s experiences in Queens, New York, in contrast to his own:
“I’d heard my neighbor talk about the difficulties he’d had with people looking at him condescendingly at the bank when he went in to apply for a loan. About how when he went to the public pool, some of the employees watched him, scrutinized him—as if they feared he might harm someone if they didn’t keep their eye on him, when all he was doing was going for his morning swim. But none of that had ever happened to me. Those are experiences I’ve never had when I’ve interacted with anyone in a position of authority. I’ve never been made to feel like I don’t belong in a public pool or a bank or a school or any public institution. Because I am white.”
How do these accounts from the book help you to think more deeply about the impact of whiteness on other people, and about how people who are not white navigate the power and impact of whiteness on their daily lives?
Learning to talk thoughtfully, compassionately, and accurately about race—and its corollary for white people, white privilege—takes knowledge and skill. It also takes practice. Racism is painful and traumatic; it’s a heavy weight we all bear, and it harms all of us. But we as white people don’t have to remain stuck. We can equip ourselves with new knowledge, we can build stamina for hard conversations, and we can replace guilt and shame with courage and hope. We aren’t responsible for the wrongs committed by our ancestors, but we are responsible for the world we’ve inherited. We can work together to make it a better and more just world for everyone.
This guide was prepared by Jennifer Buehler, Associate Professor in the School of Education at Saint Louis University.
This guide has been provided by Simon & Schuster for classroom, library, and reading group use. It may be reproduced in its entirety or excerpted for these purposes.