The Undercover Introvert

If Black Folks Could Fix Racism, We’d Have Done it Decades Ago

by Leave a Comment

I recently wrote a blog post about what it’s like to be black in America. As usual, there were shitty comments from people that I blocked immediately, because ain’t nobody got time for that. But there were also a few seemingly innocuous comments that were actually pretty terrible. Anytime I write about my experience of being a person of color in a country with a long history of treating folks who look like me poorly, I invariably receive the same kind of unsolicited advice:

You should try harder to make white folks understand. Be patient and give them the benefit of the doubt. Don’t alienate your allies.

It literally happens every time. Without fail.

White folks, let me clue you into something you might not have considered before: if black folks could cure racism, it would already be cured.

We would have dealt with that shit decades ago. Believe me. And telling me to be nicer to white folks, or to not get offended at racist shit in an attempt to keep from rocking a boat that’s been on rough seas for centuries is utter bullshit. Stop doing it.

Let’s use an example to illustrate how wacky and ignorant this kind of a suggestion is:

Woman: Jim made a joke about my breasts again in front of everyone in the meeting. I’m getting really tired of the sexist crap in this office.

Man: Whoa, do you ever think that you’re just being too sensitive? Jim was probably just being funny. Give him the benefit of the doubt.

Woman: *stabs man*

Okay, maybe not that last part, though we can all agree he deserved it for those ignorant statements. But do you see how that kind of exchange puts the onus for fixing the problem squarely on the person being oppressed by the nonstop barrage of sexist behavior? It’s not just a case of blaming the victim, but of suggesting that the victim is the one who needs to do better.

Get a sense of humor. Wear different clothes. Smile more so no one thinks you’re an uppity bitch.

Here’s what I need you to do from now on, white folks: stand the hell up and collect your people. All of them, especially the ones showing their asses on the daily. White people created the widespread systems of oppression that POCs are experiencing in this country and it’s going to take white people to tear them down. Instead of suggesting that I get a sense of humor (already have one, thanks) or undertake the emotional labor of teaching the offending individual how to be a decent human being, how about you confront the people who look like you when they spout racist crap or treat POCs like garbage? It’s really that simple.

Sexism would have ended a century ago if women could’ve just rolled up their collective sleeves and rabbit punched some sense into the men around them. But men created the patriarchy, and they need to do the work of dismantling it. In partnership with women, of course, but we need you to step up, gents.

Collect. Your. People.

So, no, I’m not going to give a white person the benefit of the doubt when she says something blatantly racist or treats me like a second class citizen. It doesn’t matter if she didn’t ‘mean to be racist’. Impact trumps intent. Every time. I am under no obligation to treat you with kid gloves when you literally didn’t take a second to weigh the impact of your words before you said them. Why should I consider your feelings when you couldn’t care less about mine?

And if you don’t like being called out, then make like a POC and learn to weigh every word you speak and action you take, all day, every day, because a misstep could result in devastating consequences for you. And I’m not talking about hurt feelings. I mean life and death. Asking you to do better pales in comparison to that, now doesn’t it? And if you’re the ally you say you are, it’s really the least you can do.

Image Source

On Being Black in America

by 1 Comment

I was recently asked to sit on a panel by a local group that was hosting a discussion about what it’s like to be black in America. Mostly older white folks would be in attendance, and I was invited to be as real as possible in my comments. If you’ve read any of my other articles, you know that level of honestly isn’t hard for me to achieve, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t lighten my part of the discussion with humor, as I am wont to do, because of how receptive it makes people to what I’m saying. I wanted to deliver gut punches that left the audience gasping. I wanted to bring them low, where I sometimes find myself. And I really wanted this mostly white audience to understand that being black in America means understanding and accepting a myriad of things:

This country is not for you.

Living in America is a lot like inexplicably finding yourself in someone else’s house. You understand that this isn’t your house, so you’d better be on your best behavior or you might be forcibly ejected. You have to explain why you deserve to be in the house in the first place, and you don’t dare make the owners of the house feel uncomfortable, no matter how they act towards you.

2. You are routinely treated as though black folks are a monolith, meaning that when one POC does something, it’s treated as though it’s representative of the entire group.

White folks will use the preference or statement of one POC as evidence against you when you call them out on their racism. For example:

You: what you just said was really racist.

White person: but I say that around my black friend and he doesn’t have a problem with it.

This never works in the opposite direction.

You: do you want some of this dish I made?

White person: No, thanks. I don’t like eggplant.

You: what? My other white friend loves eggplant. I don’t understand why you don’t…?

This shitty phenomena is a prime example of othering. Because this is the white folks’ house and they make the rules, they get to be individuals, with their own hopes, fears, strengths, and weaknesses. But one bad apple will ruin the entire orchard where POCs are concerned. And you will be held personally accountable for anything terrible that another black person does.

3. You will face constant microaggressions.

There will be so many examples of the hostile and casually racist microaggression in your day to day life, but here are just a few of the most common:

-You will be ‘othered’. Since America isn’t your house, you will be treated like a suspicious outsider who must be watched, questioned, and disbelieved.

-You will walk into a store and not be noticed by employees who will then run to assist a white customer who comes in after you. Or, worse, you will be followed, treated with open suspicion, told to buy something immediately or get out while white customers are left to browse in peace.

-White people will be surprised to find out that you have a college degree and that it’s not in African Studies.

-White people will assume you have many kids, all from different partners.

-You will receive backhanded compliments such as:

You’re pretty for a black girl!
Wow, you are so articulate!
You don’t even act black!

-Upon first meeting, before even asking your name, a white person will demand to know: What are you?

4. You will be expected to drop everything to educate white folks no matter the time, place, or what you are doing.

Google exists for a reason and there are thousands of articles, books, and blog posts on the subject of how to identify and work through implicit racial bias. But instead of using any of these free resources, white people will expect you to take on the burden and heavy emotional labor of instructing them on how to best go about bettering themselves.

5. White folks will feel the need to share with you every racist interaction they encounter throughout their day when you are literally just trying to get through your own life.

They will lose their minds over every social media post, every news story about an unarmed black man getting shot by a police officer, every racially charged comment overheard in the store. And they will bring all of this to you, laying it onto your already heavy shoulders.

This kind of fanatical outrage is especially troubling because it places the white person at the center of a discussion about blatant racism, leaving the POC in the position of comforting that person. You know racism exists from daily experience, and it’s exhausting to get all of this secondhand racism on top of the firsthand racism you are already dealing with. This exhaustion is compounded by the soothing of the white person that you will have to undertake just to extricate yourself from a conversation that you didn’t want to have in the first place.

6. You will be perpetually asked to rubber stamp a white person’s questionable conduct as not racist. Usually, this conduct actually is racist, but that isn’t what you are there to say. You are there to comfort the white person and provide them with assurances that they are not being racist. This evidence will likely be used in the future against another black person who later calls out this white person on some racist conduct. Because all POC are the same, remember?

7. You become used to hard facts at an early age, such as:

-Your skin color is a liability that leads to and justifies poor and unfair treatment.

-In a dispute, especially if it involves law enforcement, your word will never be accepted over that of a white person’s.

-The cardinal sin is making a white person feel uncomfortable. Your job as a POC is to soothe white people and never allow them to feel guilty, even when they are the perpetrators of gross indignities. Remember: this isn’t your house.

-You will be told to be grateful for what you have, as though you haven’t earned it with your own merit. You are lucky to even be here. Never forget that.

-You will be made to explain to your children why their skin color puts them at a disadvantage, and you will need to deal with the inevitable aftermath of the first time your child is called the N word. And it will happen before they reach double digits.

8. Being black in America means understanding your place in this country for what it truly is. It means being uncomfortable in a house that doesn’t belong to you, but finding a way to live your life anyway. It means fighting for meaningful change but not expecting it any time soon, though you keep pushing. It means not giving up.

Image Source

White Folks, Calling You ‘White’ is Not Divisive

by Leave a Comment

I’m just going to be real with you, white America, y’all don’t seem very comfortable with being called what you are: white.

I get it. Being white in this country is the default, so you never have to think about yourself in terms of race. You just are.

For POCs, it’s the opposite. Race is intertwined in every interaction, all day, every day, until the day we die. Just think about the word race for a moment. What are you picturing? Black folks. Hispanic folks. Asian folks. Indigenous folks. Non-white folks.

Why is that, you ask? Because white is the default. The standard. The norm.

The only time we notice race is when people are not white. That’s the foundation upon which systemic racism has managed to flourish for hundreds of years in this country. And it’s why you get so damned itchy when a POC calls you white.

Recently, an Asian friend of mine posted something on Facebook about an incident involving a lot of racist bullshit when she was just trying to enjoy herself one evening. She included an article that explained Asian fetishization and white supremacy (which she absolutely did not have to do, but POCs are forever hoping they’ll be able to educate, even when they are the ones constantly barraged with inappropriate and racist crap). I read the article and, as is my way because I am Queen Word Nerd, I quoted a particularly moving sentence that started along the lines of: ‘The confusion of my white friends…’

One woman took immediate issue with the quote, because of the word white. It was divisive, she claimed, and then continued to advise that my friend educate these friends and if they refused to be educated, they were not friends at all (she seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the incident mentioned in the original post did not involve a friend at all, but a stranger).

Hmmm. Okay. So the onus is on the POC to breakout a comprehensive lesson plan whenever a white person does some racist bullshit? Funnily enough, my friend had already done just that by providing the article that accompanied her story of racist fuckery one fine spring evening. Yet the white woman (yeah, I said it; I’ll shout it from the rooftops: WHITE WOMAN) insisted on making the narrative one in which my friend (or, rather, me since I quoted that portion of the article) was being divisive. As y’all know from one of my earlier blog posts, when a white person uses the word divisive when talking to a POC, that actually means STFU.

Listen, y’all, there’s nothing wrong with the skin you’re in, be it white, black, brown, or whatever. Just own it. Don’t be afraid of it. And acknowledge the way you’re able to move through the world because of it.

Call me black, because that’s what I am, and it’s what I call myself. And I’m going to call you white if that’s what you are. If that makes you uncomfortable, you have some serious shit to process on your own time. I can’t imagine the discomfort that would have to be simmering inside in order to make me flinch at someone calling me black.

The history of this country is ugly in so many places, and we see it reflected in the way we’re treated–good or bad–due to the color of our skin. The dialectic of oppressor vs. oppressed is everywhere apparent. It issues forth in all kinds of fucked up situations that make us question just how far we’ve come as a nation.

Is that why the woman went nutso at the use of an appropriate adjective in a quote that was not even about her?

POCs don’t have the luxury of forgetting what we look like. We are acutely aware of what color we are, mostly because of the way white folks treat us. If that reality makes you uncomfortable, I honestly can’t find a single fuck to give. But if you really want to have a tough conversation that doesn’t devolve into you calling me divisive the minute you’re made to feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, I’m usually in a talking mood…

Image Source

 

Hair Hatred is Real When You’re Black and Female

by Leave a Comment

I’ve hated my hair for years, maybe even forever.

I grew up watching shampoo commercials featuring white women with silky smooth sheets of golden, brunette, and auburn hair, and I had plenty of white friends with hair that looked similar to what I saw on television. They flipped their rippling tresses over their shoulders or giggled as they batted it out of their faces in a high wind. My hair, on the other hand, is a thick and nearly impenetrable afro. Running my hands through it isn’t an option, and in its natural state–the very opposite of silky smooth–even hurricane force winds wouldn’t move it.

As a little kid, I rocked braids. I recall sitting on the ground in front of my mother’s chair every Sunday as she tugged my hair into intricate patterns, the braids so tight, my scalp burned. But they lasted the entire week, and we got to watch the Wonderful World of Disney, which I counted as a win.

For several years in the mid to late 80s, I had a jheri curl, which made my hair manageable, but I hated it. Touching my hair meant coming away with a dripping wet hand that needed to be scrubbed clean with soap. Forget about leaning against a wall or a car window. And it took hours in the salon to achieve the finished product. I still shudder when I see a bottle of curl activator…

When the 80s disaster that was the jheri curl finally went out of fashion, I switched to what us black folks call creamy crack. This product is a tub of white chemicals applied directly to the scalp that literally burns the hair straight. I’m not fucking joking, white readers. You leave it on until your entire scalp is on fire, because the longer you can soldier through, the straighter your hair is at the end, and that is the goal. As you can imagine, this isn’t great for your hair. But I did it anyway because it was easy to take care of, though I hated the 2 to 5 hours spent in the beauty salon every 8 to 12 weeks. This chemical process is expensive, time consuming, and shitty for your hair. It also feeds into the narrative that black hair looks best when it resembles white hair. I bought it, hook, line, sinker…

Then last week, I cut all of my hair off and went natural.

And I absolutely love it.

Okay, maybe this new haircut was born more from laziness and my overall just don’t give a fuck attitude concerning hair and makeup, but I have to admit that I bought into the beauty standards presented to me from cradle to the present day: glossy straight hair that’s manageable and floats on the breeze.

Fuck that.

I can love my hair too, even if society says I’m not supposed to.

The narrative is tilting these days, slowly but surely.

Remember the Sesame Street character Segi singing about how much she loves her hair?

Or every black woman in Black Panther?

Absolutely no hate, judgment, or disrespect to those still using chemicals to make their hair bone straight. I’ve done it myself for decades. But since I already love the skin I was born with, why not love the hair I was given, in all its kinky, dense, non-drifting-on-the-breeze glory? Part of doing better and growing as a person involves accepting myself for who and what I am.

I’m bound to stumble into old ways of thinking about standards of beauty, but I think dealing with my hair hatred is a great place to start…

Image Source

‘The Talk’ is Different for Parents of Black Kids

by Leave a Comment

Everyone has the talk with their children. No parent looks forward to sitting their kids down for a conversation about sex, but it’s a necessity. My greatest fear was that I’d wait too long to talk to my daughter about menstruation and she’d end up living out that fucked up scene from Carrie. So, I dropped the knowledge onto her innocent little 9 year old head. She didn’t seem to appreciate it (or look forward to it), but at least she knew what a period was when she got hers many years later. We talked about sex too, though not super in depth at that time. The talk is actually more like a running conversation that goes on for a few years, ramping up into more adult territory the older the kid gets. Starting with birds plus bees and ending with STDs, pregnancy, and how to be safe rather than sorry.

I’ve never met a parent that enjoyed this part of child rearing. You suck it up, though, and make sure your kids have the skills to navigate puberty, dating, and all of the embarrassingly banal things that will eventually lead to the wonders and terrors of adulthood.

But if you’re the parent of a black or brown kid, you don’t get to stop with the sex talk. You have another talk too, and this one rips your heart out.

I waited as long as I could to have this other talk with my daughter, because it felt like I’d be taking something precious away from her that she could never get back. My job had always been to protect her, but the more she grew and pulled away from me, the less I’d be able to do that, and it was my responsibility to prepare her for what the world had to offer, not just in the way of pleasures, but pitfalls too.

When she was within range of getting her driver’s license, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I sat her down and we talked about the color of her skin and how that could equate to real trouble if she was stopped by a police officer. She was 16 and old enough to understand the basic mechanics of racism, but she’d lived a moderately sheltered life surrounded by folks of all colors. She’d also grown up being told that if she was ever in trouble or separated from me in public, she should find a police officer in uniform (preferably a female because, pedophiles) and ask for help. Now I was flipping the narrative by telling her that she might not be safe in the presence of a cop. She didn’t understand how deep the roots of systemic racism stretched, that they were intertwined with the very foundation of this nation. That was part of what we talked about that day.

My daughter and I have the same wry, often inappropriate sense of humor. Even when we’re talking about something serious, we’re likely to throw in an irreverent joke or two. It’s just our way. But there was no joking during this conversation. She could tell I was dead serious and she took the hint that she needed to follow suit.

I told her that there were rules for dealing with the police. That she was to say yes, sir and no, sir instead of arguing, even if she was in the right. She was to give over her ID even if it wasn’t warranted. She was to stay in her car during a traffic stop, with her hands on the steering wheel. I warned her not to go digging around in her pockets, her purse, the rest of the car. She was to tell the officer what she was planning to do before she did it–I’m reaching for my license; I’m going to lean over for my registration.

She asked me, “What if I didn’t do anything wrong?” and my heart grew almost too heavy to bear.

My answer: “It doesn’t matter what you did. Just do what the police officer tells you. It could mean your life.”

She blinked, nodded, and didn’t argue.

Over the next few months and years, I reiterated all of these points ad nauseam. And when the news reported on another unarmed person of color who was brutalized or killed during an encounter with a police officer, I made sure to hit all of my points again.

Comply no mater what you did or didn’t do. Your life is at stake. Do you understand?

White parents don’t have to have these conversations with their children. They don’t have to stress that digging around in a purse or pocket for a license could literally cost that child his or her life. Smarting off could become a reason to shoot. Having a cell phone or a wallet. Approaching the officer for help could be a reason to shoot. Simply being black could be a reason to shoot.

Do you understand?

I don’t. I really don’t.

But this is the world we live in.

So, I hit my points. Again. Again. Again.

My dear sweet child, I want desperately for you to outlive me.

Please comply.

Please say yes, sir and no, sir.

Please keep your hands where they can be seen at all times.

Please come home alive.

Image Source