Caste Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Isabel Wilkerson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Wilkerson, Isabel, author.

  Title: Caste : the origins of our discontents / Isabel Wilkerson.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Random House, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020012794 (print) | LCCN 2020012795 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593230251 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593230268 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Caste—United States. | Social stratification—United States. | Ethnicity—United States. | Power (Social sciences)—United States. | United States—Race relations.

  Classification: LCC HT725.U6 W55 2020 (print) | LCC HT725.U6 (ebook) | DDC 305.5/122—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020012794

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020012795

  Ebook ISBN 9780593230268

  randomhousebooks.com

  Title-page art by Bruce Davidson/Magnum Photos

  Cover design: Greg Mollica

  Cover photograph: Bruce Davidson/Magnum Photos

  ep_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  The Man in the Crowd

  Part One: Toxins in the Permafrost and Heat Rising All Around

  Chapter One: The Afterlife of Pathogens

  The Vitals of History

  Chapter Two: An Old House and an Infrared Light

  Chapter Three: An American Untouchable

  An Invisible Program

  Part Two: The Arbitrary Construction of Human Divisions

  Chapter Four: A Long-Running Play and the Emergence of Caste in America

  Chapter Five: “The Container We Have Built for You”

  Chapter Six: The Measure of Humanity

  Chapter Seven: Through the Fog of Delhi to the Parallels in India and America

  Chapter Eight: The Nazis and the Acceleration of Caste

  Chapter Nine: The Evil of Silence

  Part Three: The Eight Pillars of Caste

  The Foundations of Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents

  Pillar Number One: Divine Will and the Laws of Nature

  Pillar Number Two: Heritability

  Pillar Number Three: Endogamy and the Control of Marriage and Mating

  Pillar Number Four: Purity Versus Pollution

  Pillar Number Five: Occupational Hierarchy: The Jatis and the Mudsill

  Pillar Number Six: Dehumanization and Stigma

  Pillar Number Seven: Terror as Enforcement, Cruelty as a Means of Control

  Pillar Number Eight: Inherent Superiority Versus Inherent Inferiority

  Part Four: The Tentacles of Caste

  Brown Eyes Versus Blue Eyes

  Chapter Ten: Central Miscasting

  Chapter Eleven: Dominant Group Status Threat and the Precarity of the Highest Rung

  Chapter Twelve: A Scapegoat to Bear the Sins of the World

  Chapter Thirteen: The Insecure Alpha and the Purpose of an Underdog

  Chapter Fourteen: The Intrusion of Caste in Everyday Life

  Chapter Fifteen: The Urgent Necessity of a Bottom Rung

  Chapter Sixteen: Last Place Anxiety: Packed in a Flooding Basement

  Chapter Seventeen: On the Early Front Lines of Caste

  Chapter Eighteen: Satchel Paige and the Illogic of Caste

  Part Five: The Consequences of Caste

  Chapter Nineteen: The Euphoria of Hate

  Chapter Twenty: The Inevitable Narcissism of Caste

  Chapter Twenty-one: The German Girl with the Dark, Wavy Hair

  Chapter Twenty-two: The Stockholm Syndrome and the Survival of the Subordinate Caste

  Chapter Twenty-three: Shock Troops on the Borders of Hierarchy

  Chapter Twenty-four: Cortisol, Telomeres, and the Lethality of Caste

  Part Six: Backlash

  Chapter Twenty-five: A Change in the Script

  Chapter Twenty-six: Turning Point and the Resurgence of Caste

  Chapter Twenty-seven: The Symbols of Caste

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Democracy on the Ballot

  Chapter Twenty-nine: The Price We Pay for a Caste System

  Part Seven: Awakening

  Chapter Thirty: Shedding the Sacred Thread

  The Radicalization of the Dominant Caste

  Chapter Thirty-one: The Heart Is the Last Frontier

  Epilogue: A World Without Caste

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Bibliography

  By Isabel Wilkerson

  About the Author

  Because even if I should speak,

  no one would believe me.

  And they would not believe me precisely because

  they would know that what I said was true.

  —JAMES BALDWIN

  If the majority knew of the root of this evil,

  then the road to its cure would not be long.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  The Man in the Crowd

  There is a famous black-and-white photograph from the era of the Third Reich. It is a picture taken in Hamburg, Germany, in 1936, of shipyard workers, a hundred or more, facing the same direction in the light of the sun. They are heiling in unison, their right arms rigid in outstretched allegiance to the Führer.

  If you look closely, you can see a man in the upper right who is different from the others. His face is gentle but unyielding. Modern-day displays of the photograph will often add a helpful red circle around the man or an arrow pointing to him. He is surrounded by fellow citizens caught under the spell of the Nazis. He keeps his arms folded to his chest, as the stiff palms of the others hover just inches from him. He alone is refusing to salute. He is the one man standing against the tide.

  Looking back from our vantage point, he is the only person in the entire scene who is on the right side of history. Everyone around him is tragically, fatefully, categorically wrong. In that moment, only he could see it.

  His name is believed to have been August Landmesser. At the time, he could not have known the murderous path the hysteria around him would lead to. But he had already seen enough to reject it.

  He had joined the Nazi Party himself years before. By now though, he knew firsthand that the Nazis were feeding Germans lies about Jews, the outcastes of his era, that, even this early in the Reich, the Nazis had caused terror, heartache, and disruption. He knew that Jews were anything but Untermenschen, that they were German citizens, human as anyone else. He was an Aryan in love with a Jewish woman, but the recently enacted Nuremberg Laws had made their relationship illegal. They were forbidden to marry or to have sexual relations, either of which amounted to what the Nazis called “racial infamy.”

  His personal experience and close connection to the scapegoated caste allowed him to
see past the lies and stereotypes so readily embraced by susceptible members—the majority, sadly—of the dominant caste. Though Aryan himself, his openness to the humanity of the people who had been deemed beneath him gave him a stake in their well-being, their fates tied to his. He could see what his countrymen chose not to see.

  In a totalitarian regime such as that of the Third Reich, it was an act of bravery to stand firm against an ocean. We would all want to believe that we would have been him. We might feel certain that, were we Aryan citizens under the Third Reich, we surely would have seen through it, would have risen above it like him, been that person resisting authoritarianism and brutality in the face of mass hysteria.

  We would like to believe that we would have taken the more difficult path of standing up against injustice in defense of the outcaste. But unless people are willing to transcend their fears, endure discomfort and derision, suffer the scorn of loved ones and neighbors and co-workers and friends, fall into disfavor of perhaps everyone they know, face exclusion and even banishment, it would be numerically impossible, humanly impossible, for everyone to be that man. What would it take to be him in any era? What would it take to be him now?

  Part One

  TOXINS IN THE PERMAFROST AND HEAT RISING ALL AROUND

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Afterlife of Pathogens

  In the haunted summer of 2016, an unaccustomed heat wave struck the Siberian tundra on the edge of what the ancients once called the End of the Land. Above the Arctic Circle and far from the tectonic plates colliding in American politics, the heat rose beneath the earth’s surface and also bore down from above, the air reaching an inconceivable 95 degrees on the Russian peninsula of Yamal. Wildfires flared, and pockets of methane gurgled beneath the normally frozen soil in the polar region.

  Soon, the children of the indigenous herdsmen fell sick from a mysterious illness that many people alive had never seen and did not recognize. A twelve-year-old boy developed a high fever and acute stomach pangs, and passed away. Russian authorities declared a state of emergency and began airlifting hundreds of the sickened herding people, the Nenets, to the nearest hospital in Salekhard.

  Scientists then identified what had afflicted the Siberian settlements. The aberrant heat had chiseled far deeper into the Russian permafrost than was normal and had exposed a toxin that had been encased since 1941, when the world was last at war. It was the pathogen anthrax, which had killed herds of reindeer all those decades ago and lain hidden in the animal carcasses long since buried in the permafrost. A thawed and tainted carcass rose to the surface that summer, the pathogen awakened, intact and as powerful as it had ever been. The pathogen spores seeped into the grazing land and infected the reindeer and spread to the herders who raised and relied upon them. The anthrax, like the reactivation of the human pathogens of hatred and tribalism in this evolving century, had never died. It lay in wait, sleeping, until extreme circumstances brought it to the surface and back to life.

  On the other side of the planet, the world’s oldest and most powerful democracy was in spasms over an election that would transfix the Western world and become a psychic break in American history, one that will likely be studied and dissected for generations. That summer and into the fall and in the ensuing years to come, amid talk of Muslim bans, nasty women, border walls, and shithole nations, it was common to hear in certain circles the disbelieving cries, “This is not America,” or “I don’t recognize my country,” or “This is not who we are.” Except that this was and is our country and this was and is who we are, whether we have known or recognized it or not.

  The heat rose in the Arctic and in random encounters in America. Late that summer, in New York City, an indigo harbor in a safely blue state, a white man in Brooklyn, an artist, was helping a middle-aged white woman carry her groceries to a southbound subway in the direction of Coney Island.

  By then, it was impossible to avoid talk of the campaign. It had been a political season unlike any other. For the first time in history, a woman was running as a major party candidate for president of the United States. A household name, the candidate was a no-nonsense national figure overqualified by some estimates, conventional and measured if uninspiring to her detractors, with a firm grasp of any policy or crisis that she might be called upon to address. Her opponent was an impetuous billionaire, a reality television star prone to insulting most anyone unlike himself, who had never held public office and who pundits believed had no chance of winning his party’s primaries much less the presidency.

  Before the campaign was over, the male candidate would stalk the female candidate from behind during a debate seen all over the world. He would boast of grabbing women by their genitals, mock the disabled, encourage violence against the press and against those who disagreed with him. His followers jeered the female candidate, chanting “Lock her up!” at mass rallies over which the billionaire presided. His comments and activities were deemed so coarse that some news reports were preceded by parental advisories.

  Here was a candidate “so transparently unqualified for the job,” wrote The Guardian in 2016, “that his candidacy seemed more like a prank than a serious bid for the White House.”

  On the face of it, what is commonly termed race in America was not at issue. Both candidates were white, born to the country’s historic dominant majority. But the woman candidate represented the more liberal party made up of a patchwork of coalitions of, roughly speaking, the humanitarian-minded and the marginalized. The male candidate represented the conservative party that in recent decades had come to be seen as protecting an old social order benefitting and appealing largely to white voters.

  The candidates were polar opposites, equally loathed by the fans of their respective adversary. The extremes of that season forced Americans to take sides and declare their allegiances or find a way to dance around them. So, on an otherwise ordinary day, as the Brooklyn artist was helping the older woman with her groceries, she turned to him, unbidden, and wanted to know who he was voting for. The artist, being a progressive, said he was planning to vote for the Democrat, the more experienced candidate. The older woman with the groceries must have suspected as much and was displeased with his answer. She, like millions of other Americans in the historic majority, had brightened to the blunt-spoken appeals of the nativist billionaire.

  Only weeks before, the billionaire had said that he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and his followers would still vote for him, devoted as they were. The woman overladen with groceries was one of them. In the bluest of sanctuaries, she had heard his call and decoded his messages. She took it upon herself to instruct the artist on the error of his thinking and why it was urgent that he vote the right way.

  “Yes, I know he mouths off at times,” she conceded, drawing closer to her potential convert. “But, he will restore our sovereignty.”

  It was then, before the debates and cascading revelations to come, that the Brooklyn man realized that, despite the odds and all historic precedent, a reality star with the least formal experience of perhaps anyone who had ever run for president could become the leader of the free world.

  The campaign had become more than a political rivalry—it was an existential fight for primacy in a country whose demographics had been shifting beneath us all. People who looked like the Brooklyn artist and the woman headed toward Coney Island, those whose ancestry traced back to Europe, had been in the historic ruling majority, the dominant racial caste in an unspoken hierarchy, since before the founding of the republic. But in the years leading to this moment, it had begun to spread on talk radio and cable television that the white share of the population was shrinking. In the summer of 2008, the U.S. Census Bureau announced its projection that, by 2042, for the first time in American history, whites would no longer be the majority in a country that had known of no other configuration, no other way to be.

  Then, that fall, in the midst of what seemed a cat
aclysmic financial crisis and as if to announce a potential slide from preeminence for the caste that had long been dominant, an African-American, a man from what was historically the lowest caste, was elected president of the United States. His ascension incited both premature declarations of a post-racial world and an entire movement whose sole purpose was to prove that he had not been born in the United States, a campaign led by the billionaire who was now in 2016 running for president himself.

  A low rumble had been churning beneath the surface, neurons excited by the prospect of a cocksure champion for the dominant caste, a mouthpiece for their anxieties. Some people grew bolder because of it. A police commander in southern New Jersey talked about mowing down African-Americans and complained that the woman candidate, the Democrat, would “give in to all the minorities.” That September, he beat a handcuffed black teenager who had been arrested for swimming in a pool without authorization. The commander grabbed the teenager’s head and, witnesses said, rammed it “like a basketball” into a metal doorjamb. As the election drew near, the commander told his officers that the reality television star “is the last hope for white people.”

  Observers the world over recognized the significance of the election. Onlookers in Berlin and Johannesburg, Delhi and Moscow, Beijing and Tokyo, stayed up late into the night or the next morning to watch the returns that first Tuesday in November 2016. Inexplicably to many outside the United States, the outcome would turn not on the popular vote, but on the Electoral College, an American invention from the founding era of slavery by which each state has a say in declaring the winner based on the electoral votes assigned them and the outcome of the popular ballot in their jurisdiction.