The Peaceful Negro and the Insanity of Racism

For all intents and purposes, I hope for this blog to take a perspective on racial relations that has yet to be discussed that all may feel but none may talk about.

As a black man, I experience a certain type of racism (I understand that every non-white person does to an extent). The pathologies that African Americans develop as a result of racism has a profound effect on how we interact with unknown white Americans, especially in formal settings. An experience I recently had opened my eyes to a few things.

I enjoy playing basketball. On this one day in particular, I was coming from work and before going to a basketball gym I decided to stop at this bank to deposit this check. It had been a check I received quite a long time ago and finally decided to do something with it. Anyways, as with most days I dress professionally—I wear slacks and button down shirts every day.

The bank has quite a significant distance from the entrance to the teller’s counter—approximately 20 yards. As soon as I walk in I notice how all eyes lock in on me, and I am receiving a hard stare for approximately 2 or 3 seconds before some greets me. They welcome me to the bank while looking at my profile more-so than my face. As I continued to the teller’s desk I mentioned that I am going to deposit the check. I have never been to this bank before, so none of the tellers recognize me, I get that.

What is frustrating is that their suspicion has distracted them from being courteous, which is very important for local banks, which this bank happens to be. Instead of looking at me in the eyes when I arrive at the counter I notice them looking at my lips, my hair and my brow. And after looking at my ID extensively and getting a superior to check the validity of the check that happens to also be a check from the same bank, they finally deposit the check and I exit the store.

While the experience itself is not horrific, my intention is to make this a larger caricature of an everyday experience for black males around the country. Those criminally persecuted for being black, while significant, are in the minority; the vast majority of black men (I’d argue 99%) experience the nuances of racism. It’s the most routine experiences with racism that create insanity. The particulars of my story are what make it pertinent.

Before I walk into the bank, I am aware of how I will be perceived. And that’s the thing about the pathology of racism with many African Americans; many of us feel as if there are things that we personally can do to decrease our chances of being treated poorly. What is even crazier is that African Americans are sympathetic to whites who criminalize us on sight. I certainly was. I was thinking “how I could I blame her for being suspect of me? After all the things she’s seen on TV and how we allow ourselves to be portrayed, I would be suspicious if a strange black man walked into my bank too.” I even double checked my appearance in the window’s reflection. I wear glasses and I am between haircuts so I am not the freshest I could be up top, and I am between shaves too, but I have already mentioned how I am dressed. I was trying to disarm her perceptions.

It does not stop at appearances, either. There are certain mannerisms that black men develop in order to become less threatening to others in hopes of being treated a little more fairly. In this instance, a mannerism I often use is lightening the pitch of my voice. I take much of the base out of it and insert what I perceive to a less aggressive, more accommodating voice. I smile more than I normally would, I hand gesture less and create more small talk than normal as well. These are not conscious adaptations. These are psychological mannerism changes I make whenever I encounter whites (or those in position to afford me opportunities). All of these things are happening whilst I deposit a damn check.

And despite all of my efforts to put myself in the mind of this white woman, despite my inclination to be accommodating to her own stupid ass assumptions about who I might be and what I might do, I still received no different treatment. I might as well have gone inside the bank with loud headphones, chewing gum, skittles and a hoodie. To make matters worse, I had even told my friend-who had been wearing a hoodie and sweatpants- to remain in my car as I went into the bank. At that moment, as she avoids eye contact and excessive investigation of a check that belongs to the bank, I almost snapped. I began to wish that I was indeed there to rob the store. I longed to become the nightmare she assumed I was.

I felt foolish in the end. I felt like an Uncle Tom, a “bitch” (as my friends would just call it), a sell-out and a disgrace. All of my own racial maneuvering was supposed to make this as easy an experience as possible even though I was ready for the worst. I went through this entire mental process in hopes that I would be treated like anyone else.

I began to get angrier because I experience things like this every day. For the most part, however, black men have come to expect racial profiling and coded dehumanation as part of the norm. It is one of the things you learn to accept and adapt. I further got to thinking: how much of my personality is a response to that type of racism? Are there things that I do- even around my black friends- that are internalized from experiences with white people that I have forgotten to code-switch from? How much of this bullshit is actually a functional part of my personality?

You begin to feel foolish for accepting these kinds of things in the first place. You begin feeling foolish for taking this type of routine treatment in stride. But feel powerless because you feel that all of your worldly desires and opportunities are dependent upon taking racism as if it was a talent you list on a resume.

As I exited that bank, I had never been more driven to scare the shit out of some white folk. I am 6’3” 170 pounds. I am lanky with small hands and feet and I wear nothing but snug dress clothes. In my community, I am one the least threatening brothers you will find. Yet in another context, all these dress clothes, smiles and bowties makes you scary. I left feeling angry, menacing, and maniacal. And once again, Powerless, because I realized the following:

Fear is the one power we have over white people. Nevertheless, it is a power they give us. Aint that black folk in America? Even when we try to change the variable, they control the experiment.