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.
