In John Howard Griffin's controversial 1962 memoir Black Like Me, the white man Griffin embarks on an anthropological and personal journey, posing as a black man in the Deep South in an effort to understand the black experience. Equal parts personal revelation and argument, Griffin seeks to provide evidence of pervasive racial discrimination and to show that, through empathy, white people can change and begin to understand the black experience. The problem, however, is that Griffin himself doesn't change. The bad encounters he experiences sometimes cause fleeting changes in his identity and his arguments, but ultimately they only contribute to the same misconception: the belief that by painting his skin black, Griffin can understand—and, therefore, talk about—the experience of a person of color. . He begins using the pronoun “we” to refer to the black community almost immediately after the transition. As a result, he simultaneously rejects and usurps black identity, wounding his own identity of empathy and undermining his credibility in advocating for racial equality. Griffin's aim is well-intentioned and radical for its time. However, his desperation to speak on behalf of black people ultimately only undermines his thesis of equal humanity and contributes to a counterproductive theme of imperialist sympathy in which the white man claims authority over the experiences of a marginalized people. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay Soon after changing his skin color, Griffin begins using the collective "we" in reference to black people, implying that simply dyeing his skin allows him to speak on behalf of the black community as a whole. Within a day of gaining black skin, in what he sees as his “first intimate look” at black life, Griffin declares, “We were Negroes and our concern was the white man and how to go d 'agreement with him” (Griffin, 35). Not only does he use his limited experience as a black man to define the “concern” of all Negroes, but he alienates himself from the “white man” he was just a few days ago. Furthermore, Griffin remains surprisingly open about his “former” whiteness, not because he wants to emphasize a disparity between his internal identity and outward appearance, but because to him the fact that he “once was white” is irrelevant (35). For Griffin, the physical blackness of his skin gives him license to define himself as “totally a Negro, regardless of what he may once have been” and an immediate reclamation of the sense of “shame,” “fear,” and worthlessness of blackness . experience (23). Griffin's self-declared blackness gives him false license to act as a misguided voice for the movement for black equality. Griffin's attempt to empathize with the black community and argue that the white man does not "have any God-given rights that [the black man] does not have" (though presumptuous), is well-intentioned (36). And, in its historical context, also courageous. However, his argument does not survive the test of time, as many new critics highlight the ethical lapses and problematic consequences that arise when white men equate empathy with a fundamental understanding of a marginalized group's experience. As the 2016 documentary 13th says, when white people “take command of a conversation [about black movements]… they inevitably create more repression” (Ana DuVernay). For John Howard Griffin, however, his experience “represents what it is to be a Negro in a land where we keep the Negro under control…not the white man's experience as a Negro in the South” (11). In the end,.