I’m Not a Black Boogeyman, I’m Just Me
Taking the moral high ground isn’t always easy when confronted with racial discrimination.
Throughout my life, I have encountered many instances of racism. Many! Yet somehow, someway, this would-be trauma has surprisingly allowed me to build the inner strength needed to continue the battle against white supremacy.
Every so often, less-than-ideal encounters with members of the white community still find their way into my day, reminding me that even while on the back nine, I am not immune to the ugliness of discrimination. It follows you like a relentless shadow waiting to seep into your soul.
Shhh, be quiet
During the shitshow that is this pandemic, taking a short drive to the local library provides a brief but necessary escape from the grip of an isolated day. Making this frequent trek even if for a quick 20 minute round trip, is something I typically look forward to.
Earlier, however, this “taste of freedom” experience left me with, well, a slap of reality.
My strategy is simple when I arrive at the library — get in and get out. No need to screw around. Just getting out of the house for a bit is the real thrill.
Greeting me outside of the entrance (COVID style) to the reading room was a small three-shelf cart. Upon close inspection, my “holds” were nowhere to be found. “They must be inside,” I thought. Immediately, upon opening the door, I was met by a set of tables positioned in a horseshoe shape filling most of the small room. Lined up on the tables were a number of paper bags with small signs stapled on the front displaying the names of library members. Slowly I scanned the bags looking for my name.
Four bags in, and it was “Goodnight Irene.” Mission accomplished.
As I turned toward the exit, I noticed standing at the apex of the inverted “U” a middle-aged woman speaking with a librarian. Their conversation, though loud enough to hear from the entrance door, was subtle and unintelligible. I remember thinking the one-way aisle between the inside of the “U” and the inner rope guide was a bit narrow and would require some strategic maneuvering to get past the conversing women.
Once I approached the middle section of the tables, the woman closest to me moved abruptly, and with haste, through a slight opening between two tables to where the librarian was (and no, this wasn’t a social distancing situation). Reinforcements? Within a second their conversation came to a screeching halt and both sets of eyes remained fixated on my every move. There were no other people in the room so the silence was deafening and the awkwardness… thick as motionless molasses.
What do I see when I look in the mirror… me. But not everyone sees what I see.
I did notice the sudden change in their demeanor but was more concerned about continuing my roundabout and getting to that exit as quickly as possible. You never know what agenda someone might have. As I passed the “rally,” I turned and gave the ole acknowledgment “head nod” — just to let them know I knew what they were doing and that I escaped their microaggression-laden treatment unscathed.
Their eyes of suspicion immediately went from being glued to my back to aggressively eye f*cking the floor. I could sense an air of relief as I exited.
It had been a while since I last encountered discrimination such as this. Perhaps the pandemic is actually good for one thing — not venturing out as much these days where you will experience the ever-present prejudice at the hands of those who wish you didn’t share their airspace.
When I got to the car, I couldn’t help but just sit there for a moment, collecting my thoughts. Yep… that just happened. Thinking of what had transpired moments earlier and the level of discomfort experienced by all the actors involved, my mind quickly went to not being concerned for the feelings of those two women but to the absurdness of their behavior. This is what it’s like “librarying” while Black in a white space.
Here we go again
This wasn’t one of those instances when I was met with a free-flying n-word or physical threat, an accusation of a crime, or told I was somewhere I didn’t belong. This encounter was more subtle, almost perverse in its precision of cunningness. The behavior these two women displayed was not overt yet nonetheless, destructive.
A mild experience to be sure. One I would not rank up there with being terminated because of the color of my skin, being harassed by the po-po, or told I would be hanged if I continued to see a white girl. This experience at the library was just another reminder of how unwarranted fear can, and does, consistently run rampant in the minds of many in the white community.
Have you ever taken a look at the faces of those who seem to be put out by your presence — as if you were invading “their” space, had the audacity to approach “them” when in conversation, or to simply share the same air they breathe? SMH!
This is what many Black people have to live with every day. Truly astonishing.
Though these women didn’t say anything to me, accuse me of stealing or chastise me for exhibiting behavior they deemed inappropriate, their deliberate actions were nothing more than a common practice by those unable to accept Black people in shared spaces.
The interpretation of this experience may be a bit extreme in its retelling but so is the behavior toward the Black community in everyday life. No matter how insignificant the action may seem, the effect is always the same — a racial injustice perpetrated upon an innocent person of color.
Of course, I could have taken issue with those women, and I did think about it, but let’s be honest… what’s the likelihood that this scenario would have ended in my favor? It just takes one call. Frequent experiences akin to the one at the library are like death by 1000 cuts. Over time each slice makes the injury much worse and creates more irreparable internal damage.
Looks as though that old-school Funkadelic CD I’ll have to do without. I guess being cooped up in the house isn’t that bad after all.
Thank you for reading!
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