On August 21, a total solar eclipse will arrive
mid-morning on the coast of Oregon. The moon’s shadow will be about 70 miles
wide, and it will race across the country faster than the speed of sound,
exiting the eastern seaboard shortly before 3 p.m. local time. It has been dubbed
the Great American Eclipse, and along most of its path, there live almost no
black people.
Presumably, this is not explained by the implicit bias of the
solar system. It is a matter of population density, and more specifically
geographic variations in population density by race, for which the sun and the
moon cannot be held responsible. Still, an eclipse chaser is always tempted to
believe that the skies are relaying a message. At a moment of deep disagreement
about the nation’s best path forward, here comes a giant round shadow, drawing
a line either to cut the country in two or to unite it as one. Ancient peoples
watched total eclipses with awe and often dread, seeing in the darkness omens
of doom. The Great American Eclipse may or may not tell us anything about our
future, but its peculiar path could remind us of something about our past—what
it was we meant to be doing, and what we actually did along the way. And if it
seems we need no reminding, consider this: We tend to backlight our history,
and so run the risk of trying to recover a glory that never existed. When the
light in August changes, watch carefully.