The subplot of On the Come Up that deals with the racist security guards at Bri's school offers the reader a window into what it's like for Bri, a young black woman, to move through a prejudiced world. Bri and her black and Latinx classmates are targeted by the guards, Long and Tate, with shocking regularity and for no reason other than the color of their skin—and though Bri is only sixteen, plenty of people that she comes into contact with see her as a threat for the same reason. By exploring the ways that Bri must try to keep herself safe as she navigates her world, as well as examining the ways in which people of color more broadly are denied opportunities of all sorts, Thomas illustrates clearly and viscerally how people of color are systematically set up to fail and in a world that fears them and denies them opportunities to succeed.
Throughout the novel, Bri regularly points out to the reader what she and her fellow black students are supposed to do: work hard, attend college, and ultimately, get out of Garden Heights and the poverty that most people of color in the neighborhood experience. Though she's well aware of how things are "supposed" to play out, she's also cognizant of the ways in which both prejudice and the realities of the post-recession U.S. economy keep people of color from progressing along this hypothetical path. Bri's brother Trey is one of the most pointed examples of the ways that the expected narrative fails many black students. Though he was an involved and successful student in high school and went on to attend a prestigious college, Trey is unable to find a job thanks to the combination of his race and the economy. Because of this, Trey spends the novel working in a pizza joint for minimum wage.
Meanwhile, the way that Bri's teachers at school treat her as a belligerent troublemaker, even when she displays the same normal teenage attitude as the white girls at school, suggests to Bri that it might not be worth it to even try to succeed in the world of academics—a world that, from what she's seen, is overwhelmingly white and unforgiving of her and other black students. Bri sees the combination of Trey's trajectory and her treatment at school as possible proof that the version of success she's expected to achieve isn't something that's actually available to a student of color, especially when she adds to that the social strain of being one of only a few black students.
Even beyond what Bri experiences in school, the black characters in the novel are often caught in a double bind when it comes to being seen as acceptable and appropriate in the eyes of white people. For example, Bri watches her mother, Jay, who spent several years homeless and unemployed because of her addiction to crack, struggle to find a job. Most employers don't want to employ a former drug user, as they see her as a liability and assume she is likely to start using again. Jay, like Trey, is doing everything "right" when the novel starts—she has a job and is attending college to become a social worker—but this doesn't mean that she's protected from prejudice or, for that matter, is "good enough" to impress white potential employers when she loses her job.
On the other hand, Bri also understands that though drugs harm users like Jay, dealing drugs is wildly profitable. Aunt Pooh, a gang member and drug dealer, is doing everything that Bri has been told over and over again not to do—and yet, Pooh is the one helping Jay pay bills and put food on the table, and she and the other drug dealers are the only ones in Garden Heights not struggling financially. Importantly, however, Pooh also tells Bri that she doesn't want to have to deal drugs her entire life to make ends meet; she understands that it's not a reliable long-term solution, even if in the present, it's the only way to reliably make a living. To add even more nuance to this, however, Pooh doesn't practice what she preaches and shows no indication of having any inclination to do anything but deal. She remains wound up in the drug-affiliated gang violence even after ending up in jail, suggesting to Bri people like Pooh have little incentive to actually stop dealing, even when the stakes of continuing are insanely high. The contrast between Pooh and Jay makes it clear that for many people of color, there are no "good options for surviving in a racist world.
When it comes to Bri's music, Bri discovers that her blackness and the stereotypes that come with it are both a blessing and a curse. While her lyrics about gang activity, police brutality, and economic inequality resonate with Garden Heights' black residents, neighboring white communities latch onto them as proof that the black students attending Midtown are dangerous and infusing the school with drugs and violence. Bri can't win: in order to be honest and appeal to her black audience, she risks white onlookers viewing her as a one-dimensional, racist caricature of "dangerous" black culture.
While On the Come Up doesn't offer any failsafe remedies for these toxic racial dynamics, the exchanges between Bri, Jay, and Superintendent Cook at the PTA meeting offer some hope for improving the racist systems plaguing Midtown. Jay forces Cook to speak privately with her and Bri and, after Cook apologizes to Bri for the way the school treated her in the aftermath of Long and Tate's assault, she encourages him to understand that Bri is a child—not a "dangerous" black kid, but a child deserving of a safe environment in which to learn. With this, the novel suggests that the best way to fight racism is by creating situations in which feared minorities become inarguably human to those who would never have a reason to examine their own prejudices. In a broader sense, the novel makes a case for its own existence through this argument, as Bri's story offers readers a window into what may be a very different world from their own—one that's nonetheless inhabited by people fighting to succeed and be respected for their innate humanity.
Racism and Prejudice ThemeTracker
Racism and Prejudice Quotes in On the Come Up
Not that the Garden was ever a utopia, hell no, but before I only worried about GDs and Crowns. Now, I gotta worry about the cops too? Yeah, people get killed around here, and nah, it's not always by the police, but Jay says this was like having a stranger come into your house, steal one of your kids, and blame you for it because your family was dysfunctional, while the whole world judges you for being upset.
He graduated with honors. Worked his ass off to get there in the first place, only to have to come back to the hood and work in a pizza shop.
It's bullshit, and it scares me, because if Trey can't make it by doing everything "right," who can?
"What's wrong with what you say?"
"I talk about guns and stuff, Curtis. He doesn't want people to think that's me."
"They're gonna think it anyway. If you can get something from this, forget the nonsense and go for it."
"You know who the biggest consumers of hip-hop are?"
"White kids in the suburbs," Miles answers dryly, as if he's heard this before.
"Exactly! White kids in the suburbs," Supreme says. "You know what white kids in the suburbs love? Listening to shit that scares their parents. You scare the hell outta their folks, they'll flock to you like birds. The videos from tonight? Gonna scare the hell outta them. Watch your numbers shoot up."
It actually makes sense that white kids in the suburbs will love the videos. But Long and Tate called me a "hoodlum," and I can't seem to shake that word.
"Pooh and her drug-dealing money, saving the day."
It is kinda messed up. Here my brother is, doing everything right, and nothing's coming from it. Meanwhile, Aunt Pooh's doing everything we've been told not to do, and she's giving us food when we need it.
That's how it goes though. The drug dealers in my neighborhood aren't struggling. Everybody else is.
She's still not listening to me. "If you would just listen to the song—it's not what they made it out to be, I swear. It's about playing into their assumptions about me."
"You don't get that luxury, Brianna! We don't! They never think we're just playing!"
"That's right, fuck censorship," I say, to three hundred viewers. "They don't get it because it ain't for them to get. Besides, if I am strapped like backpacks, maybe it's 'cause I gotta be, bitch. Ain't my fault if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable every goddamn day of my life."
"I want you to look at her for a second, Dr. Cook," Jay says. "Really look at her."
She sets her hand on my back so I have no choice but to stand straight and look him in the eye, too.
"She's sixteen, Dr. Cook," Jay says. "Not a grown woman, not a threat. A child. Do you know how I felt when I was told that two grown men manhandled my child?"
"Me and my twin know all the words to your song!" this snaggle-toothed girl pipes up.
I scribble my name for her. "Oh, for real?"
"'Strapped like backpacks, I pull triggers,'" she and her sister squeak. "'All the clips on my hips change my figure.'"
I stop writing.
How old are they? Six? Seven?
It's like having a bucket of ice water thrown into my face.
Ratchet hood rat.
Thousands of people just heard me act like that. Millions more may see the video. They won't care that my life is a mess and I had every right to be mad. They'll just see an angry black girl from the ghetto, acting like they expected me to act.
Supreme laughs to himself. "You played the role," he says. "Goddamn, you played the role."
Problem is, I wasn't playing. That's what I've become.