Klan Rally Or Family Reunion

Is this all I have to wear?

What is an acceptable amount of time before you agree to accompany someone you just started seeing to a family function? 50? 100? 150 years?

A young woman I was dating for three months asked if I would go with her to a family reunion photo shoot. It was early in the courtship so the need to keep my reluctance to go was subdued. I ended up responding with a poorly convincing “Sure.”

It was purely a survival call.

For reasons unknown, she desperately wanted me to join her in this congregation of awkwardness. Perhaps to show off her new toy or flaunt her ability to rub it in the faces of those family members who doubted her ability to snag a partner, whatever the reason, her excitement for the pending event seemed to be her own coming-out party.

The shoot was set at an old mill, almost an hour away, and hidden from even the scantest of civilization. The perfect setting for what would be a gathering of unquestionable discomfort, disguised as family frivolity. We pulled into the parking lot where an overflow of pickup trucks and a few minivans were spread about. Dressed in her finest non-color, the new lady friend exited the car in an untamed excited state, the likes of which I hadn’t seen from her before.

This was her day and I was not about to piss on her parade.

Even though I was an afterthought and my presence was anything but needed at this affair, with a smile on my face, I accompanied her as she eagerly made haste down the path toward her people.

As we rounded the corner of the main mill building, off in the distance, I could see the bright sunlight cascading off the trees, finding a final resting place on what appeared to be a ground-level halo in a small field. What I saw next took me completely by surprise, leaving me confused and a bit concerned at the same time.

My field of view widened to a vast number of white people ALL wearing head-to-toe white.

I don’t know about you but I had never been in the presence of so many white folks before all wearing the same uniform — that is if you don’t count the times being interrogated by the po-po.

I never understood the need many families had to dress alike (especially in all white) for photos, I guess in an effort to display their purity, and unity, or create an illusion of “we are all the same and perfect.” And why white? The color palette is limitless, and let’s be honest… more appealing. Perhaps this gang-like visual creates a sense of inclusion and “strength in numbers” in the minds of some who want to feel safe and empowered. To each his/her own.

Reflecting on the day’s unpleasantness, you can’t blame the average passerby who might mistake what they see for an impromptu pagan ritual about to commence. I know I was certainly taken aback when I first saw this sea of white coaxing the sunlight to join in on a dance of blindness.

The only thing missing was the faint yelp of a goat on a slab.

A walk to forget

In an accelerated frenzy, the girlfriend made a b-line for her mother and aunt who she spotted holding court at the end of the path. I, steps behind, collected the dust from her wake while keeping my pace unintentional. Hugs abound and an exchange of pleasantries swept the crowd. As I got closer to the ceremony, I could hear her mother say… “he’ll need to wait over there until we are done.”

After hearing this firm directive, I took it upon myself to continue my trek but in the opposite direction. The girlfriend seconds later came up behind me and asked if I would wait underneath a nearby tree until the photo shoot was over. I agreed (of course) but did ask how long she thought it might be. Still, in her euphoric high, it was as though my words never stuck the landing in her consciousness. A whimsical turn away and off she went to join her Klan.

Up until this point, I had little, if any, interaction with these people and was less than eager to engage in a meet-and-greet. It was clear by what was said moments earlier that at least a few participants of this collective were not happy I was there during their “family time” and should keep my distance.

A month earlier, the mother got wind that her daughter was seeing a Black man — the threads of their bond began to strain, but only briefly. I recall being told by the girlfriend that her mother made it unequivocally clear of her disappointment and would “disown” the daughter if she continued seeing me.

Beginning of the end thankfully.

Similar to past experiences of dating outside my race and having the “pleasure” of first meetings with parents, I was a pro in this field.

Two and a half hours later and we were ready to go. The plan was for everyone to meet back at one of the aunt’s homes for a belated birthday celebration. I couldn’t take much more of this third-wheeling and was hours past my acceptable tolerance level. But again, life sometimes presents occasions where you must take one for the team.

Den of sheets

Once the 25-plus people flooded the living room and side nook of this rural house, a birthday cake quickly appeared. The singing was loud and exuberant and without apology, a wave of communal energy took over. The fervor in the atmosphere was frightening.

Taking up the perimeter of this pagan-like circle of white walkers was where I needed to be, and where I was EXPECTED to stay.

Soon the celebration died down and the cake coma began to take effect. Eventually, smaller groups broke off and found their way to the adjacent rooms, fostering side conversations of many flavors. I would not be a part of any of these — not voluntarily that is. I was there just to take up space and be the recipient of an occasional stare.

In the room to my right was the mother and aunt section, ripe with recipe exchanges and reminiscing about the previous few hours. In the hall, the teenage cousins were discussing what illegal tomfoolery would transpire for later that night. Across from me on the other side of the den were the uncles talking trash about anything and everything under the sun; casting judgment on unsuspecting subject matters that were unwilling participants.

For a half-hour or so I sat silently in my out-of-the-way corner chair trying not to create any distraction or cause more attention than my skin tone would allow.

I would bear witness to a conversation between the former girlfriend’s stepfather and one of her uncles — a conversation that bore fruit later becoming the catalyst of things to come. They were discussing a popular local beach many in the state frequented in the summer months — one of the larger beaches in the area. It attracted many families and young people who couldn’t seem to live through a summer without getting sand caught in their nether regions.

Her stepfather, making no bones about his distaste for anything in life he did not agree with, continued his observation of why, in his mind, today’s beaches were not like they were 30 years prior. Odd subject to discuss I remember thinking — that is until he followed his amuse-bouche with… “You know, the reason why the beach has gone to shit is because of the Blacks and Sp*cs.” “It’s because of them, our beaches are dirty.” “They shouldn’t be allowed there.”

Just then, as those words hung wildly above me waiting to attack, a knot the size of a baseball started to form in the pit of my stomach. I could feel a level of increasing fear wash over my personal space and at that moment, I felt sick and wanted nothing more than to vacate as fast as possible. The uncomfortable nature of sitting in that chair listening to people who hate you without even knowing you is that “fly on the wall” moment no one should have to experience.

I looked around the room for reinforcements, careful not to acknowledge the bigotry that was now sitting comfortably between myself and the “Beach Review Team.” Nothing from this crowd. Over in the corner, I saw the girlfriend, in her element, having the time of her life and clearly more concerned about gossiping with family than about a potential lynching of her boyfriend.

Finally, my side-eye caught hers and I motioned for her to join me in a quiet area. Begrudgingly she followed me to the front of the house out of earshot from the others. I expressed my discomfort and asked her if we could leave. She of course was not ready to go, and by all accounts wouldn’t be for hours to come. I again pleaded my case and presented a more dire need to head out. Eventually, after a few minutes of pleading, she gave in.

Know your place

On the ride back I explained to her what I had heard — how much I felt uncomfortable and that I was concerned the air in the room could turn unpleasant if time went on and we stayed. The reaction I received did not shock me, surprisingly. Her defense came in spurts, wielding its denial all the while making it seem like what I heard was all in my head.

Funny how this response is a standard go-to for those who reject the reality of the injustice many have to deal with in today’s world.

This was more than 20 years ago yet the stench of that day still rings true in what we are facing today.

When something seems a bit off, or doesn’t fly right, it is usually your conscious telling you, you’re not crazy — in fact, that you are astute in what you are experiencing at the time. I have been the recipient of many of these less-than-optimal encounters and thus long ago formed an internal “uncomfortable task force” by which to identify a situation that could potentially get difficult.

Had we not left when we did, I’m not sure what would have happened. What if those trustees of intellectual synergy thought I overheard what they were talking about? Would they double down? What if I decided to make a stink? This would be an unlikely scenario given the atmosphere. My only option was to convince the former half I wasn’t feeling well. I was uncomfortable. I left the iron on. My dog ate my homework. It didn’t matter — I just needed to go!

It’s not far off to see the parallels between being an outsider in a place where you are clearly not welcome, with Jordan Peele’s movie Get Out — minus the auction and lobotomies. Even if both parties try to suppress an unspoken acknowledgment of an unwanted guest, dealing with an uncomfortable situation doesn’t get any easier. The things we do for “like.”

It didn’t help much that the visual on this day began with a mass of people wearing (white) garb frolicking about in a determined state with no worry or care in the world. The few overheard conversations of those freely expressing hatred for others — blaming the ills of society on anyone who they felt was beneath them, or for those who choose to wear different colors just added extra spice to the dish.

If you are Black and live in the United States, this is something you grow up with, the uncomfortable reality of being a minority in a country that was built on racism and practices atrocities on its citizens every day.

I never enjoyed big crowds. Going to sporting events, concerts, festivals, etc — all had their place in my history. When I was young and engaged in certain peer-approved activities my intolerance was easier to mask. As I got older, the allure of large crowds (less diverse crowds) became a reminder of past experiences that were especially difficult to erase from memory.

Assigning a reason as to why I was invited that day, at best is perplexing. It certainly wasn’t so we could leave early. Maybe bringing along an outsider, for the purpose of raising an eyebrow, was to prove the independence of this former girlfriend. Unlikely, as her presence at this event painted the uncontested picture of wanting desperately to be included and accepted. Either way, being invited to a Klan rally was not what I had envisioned for that afternoon.

Looking back, I should have declined the invite and stayed home to wash a load of whites.

Thank you for reading!