by Andrea Crowley-Hughes

Take all of a Saturday to decide whether you’re going to see Jordan Peele’s lauded horror comedy, “Get Out.” You generally can’t make it through horror movies without hyperventilating, but Jesse David Fox says you’ll be okay, and most everyone you’ve heard from agrees that the quality of this work is worth the discomfort. After the apprehensive part of your brain puts forth its losing arguments, head into the night. Hold your partner’s hand extra tight as the theater lights dim. Fidget in the big leather chair that cushions you with empty air and leaves your feet dangling. Chew your gum. Nervously sip your bottled water.

You’ve been prepared for the jump scare in the beginning. You were not prepared to be instantly disarmed by Chris’ white girlfriend, Rose. Sinking into the playful rhythm of their banter feels natural, comfortable. At every sign of danger, sit with the tug of resistance that stops you from placing any culpability onto her. Overeager parents who ask too many questions? Certifiably creepy. The white woman who could physically be your counterpart? You really want to believe she is different.

As the Armitage family’s secret is uncovered piece by rotten piece, be bone-chilled rather than simply scared. You may not feel the jolt of relived trauma as much as the quick, searing pain of a bandage pulled off, followed by a heavy sort of sickness. The film is structured to catapult you past feeling vaguely “bad” about generations of white violence. Every nightmare scene is immediate, because it is processed through Chris’ eyes. As a film viewer, you share his eyes for a short time. As a white person, you live with the complications of this fused perspective.

After the movie is over and fear and catharsis has taken root, go back home too wired to sleep. Watch some old “Key & Peele” episodes to keep the insight flowing, but also the laughs. You don’t want to forget what you saw, but there is an urge to dull its acuity. Sleep fitfully. Wake up and rise.

The day after seeing “Get Out”, I had an immediate startle response when thinking about the all-white spaces I inhabit, a reflex brought about by recalled fear and the moving image. Words alone could not convey how it feels to live on high alert in white communities, but the images on that screen fleshed it out with eerie perfection.

A few days later I stepped onto a plane and into an experience that could not have been better timed, cast or directed – a trip to Marin County, California, to get oriented into a new job. The travel represented not just a shock to my normal habit of staying put, but the trying on of a lifestyle that fit stiffly, like the new boots and bag I bought hastily before the flight. I grew up around work, loss and lack; sharing a bulky computer was a step up from hand-writing reports late into the night. My mother worked long hours, my grandparents worked with their hands and expensive things were generally out of the question. Now I was about to be in a space even the middle class could not afford.

I stayed in a non-offensively liberal town (no doubt its residents would have voted for Obama a third time if they could have!) but I felt Chris’s wariness like a constant echo. The surroundings were uncannily crisp and clean, with miles of bridge and a bus schedule between the too-cute mountain town and San Francisco. There were no people of color to be seen. At a local comedy show, a performer made sure to get in a mention of “race – the human race…” before skewering the idea of political correctness to an audience that looked just like him.

After the day’s work and socializing was done, I would trek to my cabin-style room set back among the trees. I was not used to the difference time zones, or to being alone for long stretches of time, so I turned to old episodes of “Parks and Recreation” and let Aziz Ansari’s Tom Haverford soothe my nerves.

Like a record scratch or a tree branch brushing up against glass, a realization interrupted this flow. I was turning to Tom for his “cool,” his style and expressions, to delight me and displace my own nervousness. I was consuming him, using him. No matter how much my class distanced me from this world, my instincts were compatible with the sinister systems that created my manicured surroundings. Although I’ve read a fair share of blog posts about white consumption, now I was faced with it on a non-abstract level and unable to turn away. Horrifying, yes, but just the type we need to fear if we’re going to work for justice in this world.