Hiding While Black

Keep quiet and don’t be seen.

The earliest memories I have of some in the white community trying to keep me from living my life are of growing up in the Boston suburbs. As many teens do, traveling in packs like a gang was standard practice, only without the weaponry, the intimidation, cool colors, or crime (sometimes).

Confidence in the rank and file soared knowing your posse had your back at all times. It was great to be young and uninhibited, acting older than you were and thinking you could take on the world, but in reality, being immature and gullible beyond measure.

My neighborhood wasn’t any different from the neighborhoods that blanketed the Northeast — typical ranch-style homes strategically spaced apart and well-kept by a respectable level of house care. Kids milling about, families occupying public areas, and a general sense of security placed upon those residents who did not upset the apple cart — this was quintessential suburban living.

As a kid, I spent little time concerning myself with the dynamics of adolescent drama, though it would find me now and again. It was never important to me to “get into” anything serious. My primary goal was to have fun, in any way possible. More often than not, I enjoyed being on the periphery of larger groups. On occasion, however, I found myself attached to a crew for more grandiose teenage activities.

The “something to do” list was thin in those days, consisting mainly of congregating at a local pizza shop or riding around town looking for places to exercise our horseplay. There were exceptions of course, like if someone were to score a “case” from an older sibling. Then off to the park we went. Until night fell, this would be the prime spot for underage tomfoolery.

You’re (not) welcome

Every so often, I would be reminded of how unwelcome I was when visiting a friend’s house. Cast above my invitation to someone’s home would inevitably be a veil of stipulations - an unspoken set of rules by which only I was to follow. In fact, this was quite common and, over time, became a bit of a joke: “within whose house will I have to hide or go out the back door to leave.”

I always knew of potential complications that could arise when socializing with certain friends (acquaintances) and their families — especially fathers.

On more than one occasion, the alarm would be sounded when a parent would come home early. “Quick, hide in the closet, and keep quiet.” Or, “go out the back and stay near the fence until they leave.” Instructions were regularly provided early and repeated upon entering a house.

I must confess, the thoughts in my teenage brain of being caught somehow ignited a risk factor that was intriguing, more specifically, exciting. There is no logic behind this of course when you consider the potential ramifications of being caught somewhere you shouldn’t be. It was the danger element, I suppose.

This was understood surprisingly, amongst the kids I hung out with. It became second nature knowing an uncomfortable interaction with a family member (specifically a father) could happen if caught while being Black in their house.

Yes, there were a few kids who were allies and “down for the cause” — but there were also those who shared in their parents’ hateful beliefs of people who did not look like them. These kids didn’t often mingle with the larger groups, certainly not diverse groups, and mostly stayed to themselves, probably so they could build their future Hitler youth chapter.

Let’s play hide and hunt

On one particular “made for TV movie” day, a group of friends was looking for something to do when one of the girls in the group offered to host at her house for the afternoon. Eagerly and desperate for a place to unwind, the collective agreed to take her up on her offer.

The six of us made council in her living room, engaging in the immature banter being tossed about. It wasn’t long before we heard a car door slam shut just outside in the driveway. Suddenly the demeanor of our hostess shifted from welcoming to an anxious and frenetic state. Visibly, she appeared worried, almost concerned.

Were we staying too long?

Hopefully, her uneasiness wasn’t the result of someone in the group who felt empowered to grab something from her parents’ “private stash” in the back of the fridge. That wouldn’t be good.

“Oh shit,” exclaimed the hostess. “Quick, hide.” A command any teen knows all too well — hide whatever contraband sits before you for fear of incrimination. Only this was not a “hide the empties,” but a command just for me. Only me, not for my white counterparts.

She wanted me to hide, as she knew her father, who had come home early, would not approve of someone who looked like me — a Black kid — being in his house. Apparently, she did not get the memo beforehand of acceptable Black guest hospitality.

Give a brotha a “heads up.”

The overabundance of anxiety was not out of concern for me mind you, but for herself. She didn’t want to disappoint her father, get grounded for having people over, or whatever ridiculous misdirected emotion plagued her white teenage “daddy’s girl” mind. The others, who sat silently waiting for a potential ruckus, seemed indifferent. After all, they were in no danger of being excommunicated by the patriarch. This was not their problem.

Social injustice wasn’t exactly top of mind for many kids back then and thus the awareness of the perils some of us faced bordered on non-existent.

Quickly, I found the backdoor to the kitchen — on my own — with no help from the hostess or anyone else for that matter. Typical. I managed to escape by way of the backyard and tree line to the front part of the house, all the while keeping my presence incognito as much as possible. Unfortunately, through the window that overlooked the driveway, I was spotted running toward the street.

After a brief shouting match in the house in front of the small captive audience, the father and older brother of the hostess decided to go on a little “hunt.” By this point, I had gotten a head start and was now a few streets away.

I was unaware of them looking for me at the time, but past experiences lingered heavily in my subconscious. The proper “elusive technique,” cultivated over time, brought me home that afternoon undetected and unscathed.

In the days that followed, a witness to the exchange between the father and hostess told me the father exclaimed emphatically that I was never allowed in the house again, and if he found out I was, he would “hang that Black bastard” and “beat” her.

Needless to say any future association with “the hostess” ended there. Over time, that day became just a faint memory and yet another addition to a growing list of racially charged experiences.

An interesting dichotomy to the forbidden association with certain friends was the full embrace of a handful of parents who accepted me in their homes. Perhaps there was a comfort knowing I wasn’t dating their daughters. Maybe it was my presence as the only member of a larger group of “lighter” kids that removed any sense, in their eyes, of threat or suspicion and, in turn, warranted acceptance.

This might be a rather tame example of the musings of a typical American teen, but given where we currently are as a society, the parallels of the racist overtones cannot be ignored.

In plain sight

Racial injustice isn’t much of a factor when you are young and wanting to be part of a group. Even if your identity — or life — is being threatened, for a teen, the acceptance and inclusion from your peers are difficult to set aside.

After a while the prison breaks got old and constantly having to create escape plans became too much of a mental drain. Friends would come and go, relationships would have their moments, and group hangouts would fade, but uncomfortable scenarios of racial discrimination remained consistent throughout my formative years.

The days of minor teen entanglements might be a distant memory, but the hateful sentiment still finds its way into every day, casting its will upon those trying to do nothing but live their life.

Black life is like an obstacle course, constantly having to overcome whatever roadblock or distraction gets in your way and keeps you from advancing.

It doesn’t help when white supremacy eagerly awaits opportunities to stifle progress and keep silent the voice of the oppressed. This is our plight as the Black community. This has always been our plight since the days of displacement and slavery.

My hiding days are long gone, well, except when my wife is upset with me for leaving dirty dishes in the sink, or when my son is looking for some money. You can’t hide your color, but why would you want to? Our charge as the Black community is to rise above the inequality and raise our voices in opposition to those who want to keep us in the shadows.

The time is now, the hiding is over.

Thank you for reading!