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Abstract

this isn’t as ominous as it might sound.Deep in the heart of the grounds, we congregated in an open space that provided the best light. It was perfect for an impromptu game of night cemetery tag. At the time, night tag seemed a better option than driving around aimlessly playing mailbox baseball. That activity was reserved for the next weekend.After a few failed attempts by others to locate a hide-and-seeker, it was my turn to head up the search. Even without the assistance of a flashlight, it didn’t take long for me to claim my first victim. Most were inebriated and had little control over their lack of “hiding ability.”On my next go around, I noticed, off in the distance, crouched behind Mrs. Alice Rose Devereux (1908–1973), a slight shadowy figure teasing the outline of the gravestone. As I approached, it became clear who it was — let’s call him Matt M., because well, that’s his name.No need to protect the guilty.“Bagged” I yelled. I remember not being in the mood to formally make contact with the found — acknowledgment alone was sufficient — the rules were a bit lax in those days, especially when you had one too many.I turned to continue on with my next seek and destroy mission when I was met with a voice from behind, “you didn’t get me.” Ignoring this pathetic denial, I continued walking, and that’s when I heard “it.” Slightly muffled but distinct enough to cause me to stop dead in my tracks, look back, and take stock of what I just heard. “Fcking n***r.”At sixteen, I hadn’t heard this word used before out in the open, flying free with no restraint. I was confused at first, but quickly came to and said what any teen brimming with confidence would say when faced with such aggression from another teen: “say that again asshole.” As I moved toward Matt M. to end the situation he turned away and started walking in the opposite direction while mumbling other choice words cherry-picked from his limited vocabulary.Punk Ass.I was never a fan of Matt M. but I tolerated him in group settings as he was a friend of one of my closest childhood friends. I did not, however, expect to hear this verbal bomb hurled my way, especially not at this age. Naïve perhaps, but growing up, I thought these types of encounters with racism would only surface once I became an adult. In retrospect, if someone were to utter such barbarity, it wouldn’t shock me if the culprit was Matt M.<h1 id="84e9">Wolf in a sheep suit</h1>Never ignorant of the dynamics of my environment, my approach to dealing with racial discrimination was usually to laugh it off or to look at the absurdness of a situation.A strategy I still practice today.I was never one to engage in a tense exchange but rather stand my ground showing my aggressor their verbal assaults wouldn’t

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land. This bravado, this, “take on the world” or “invincible” swagger, is what drove our young minds back in the day, but in many ways, we were unprepared to deal with the inevitables in life. These days, fortunately, similar questionable interactions are few and far between.I have no doubt that in the quiet corners of the room out of earshot, I have been referred to, or called the n-word. By co-workers, former friends, classmates — anyone who harbors disdain, not just for me personally, but for Black people in general.I’m under no delusion this behavior is a unicorn.I have been passed up on jobs because of my race. Had uncomfortable interactions with folks because my mere presence seemed to bother them. Harassed by the po-po, and even had the threat of being hanged by the father of a girl I was seeing. But I can’t recall anyone since “that day” calling me the n-word to my face. That dubious distinction is reserved for Matt M.<h1 id="6e71">The new normal</h1>I look at it this way: if you are a through and through, to the core racist… own it. Have the plums to wear it like a badge. If your puffed-out chest is riding high, let someone know you don’t like them because of their skin color — that they are beneath you and don’t deserve the same rights as you. See what will happen.I come from the belief that words alone cannot hurt me. I always consider the source and deliver my responses, if warranted, accordingly. I can’t place a particular point in time when this strategy took root — probably May of ‘87. What I have learned since is someone’s insecurity masked by the words they hurl at me isn’t something I need to get upset about.Actions on the other hand… that’s a different story.Words are one thing. People deliberately taking steps to cause me harm, discomfort, or threaten my way of life — I take issue with. Let’s go. I know this might not be an appropriate position to take but it’s one with a no return policy. Admittedly, this hardened shell is a byproduct of more than enough experiences of racism accumulated over the years.Be the solution, not the problem.Those who disrespect others, in turn, will see no respect from me. I choose to be a crusader for people who are the recipients of such hate. We all have a responsibility to uphold the universal commitment we made to abide by the laws under which we live, to respect those who live in our neighborhoods, and to live and let live.For those Matt M’s out there who challenge this agreement, who are satisfied with their archaic principles, unevolved perspectives, and who couldn’t care less about how their actions affect others, let me know what time you want to meet at Mrs. Devereux’s headstone.Bye, Felicia!Thank you for reading!</article></body>

The First Time I Heard Someone Call Me the N-word

Are you talking to me?

The revolution will be televised

Everyone remembers their first time. How could you not? Rites of passage in life shape us and provide lasting memories — like the first time you saw Star Wars or heard Miles Davis… or, the obvious. We stockpile these memories in the recesses of our psyche so as we get older, we may call upon them to further influence who we are. Admit it, you were floored the first time you realized you could go back to the salad bar for more.

Of course, I can’t forget the day I first discovered Caramel Coconut Macadamia at Lappert’s in Sausalito — a first to end all firsts.

I also remember the first time I heard someone call me the n-word. This “first” will forever stay with me. Such an experience gets burned in your brain whether you want it to or not. Not a happy memory to say the least, but one that reminds me of the world I live in and how quickly it can descend on you like a ton of bricks.

I think we can all agree, the past 17 months have been a bit of a dumpster fire, and that’s putting it mildly. With all the recent social upheaval and downright nastiness plaguing our society, and frankly, all over the world, it would be a challenge for even the most cynical or denial-ridden person to not be affected by what’s going on.

We are once again knocking on the door of “hope,” this time as a reaction to the current state of affairs, and moreover, out of our duty to right the wrongs of the country’s past. The uprising was inevitable. We couldn’t continue living this lie or constantly be kicked in the face any longer.

What is refreshing to see are the many walks of life coming together to fight the injustices of this world. I am confident in the pursuit of positive change that is occurring. It gives me hope, but there is still much work to be done.

This won’t be easy.

Tag, you’re it

Growing up in the suburbs of Boston in the mid-‘80s left much to be desired. The climate was rife with nondescript identities and a total lack of purposeful inclusion, but it was all I knew. There was a certain attachment that kept me close while also pushing me away.

A sense of comfort existed.

A sense of separation was evident.

A sense of aspiration, overwhelming.

It was May of ‘87 when I began my foray into the reality of my surroundings. A group of friends and I, and a couple of non-friends, were out one night carousing, engaging in typical teen shenanigans. We ended up at Forest Glade Cemetery. Stay with me — this isn’t as ominous as it might sound.

Deep in the heart of the grounds, we congregated in an open space that provided the best light. It was perfect for an impromptu game of night cemetery tag. At the time, night tag seemed a better option than driving around aimlessly playing mailbox baseball. That activity was reserved for the next weekend.

After a few failed attempts by others to locate a hide-and-seeker, it was my turn to head up the search. Even without the assistance of a flashlight, it didn’t take long for me to claim my first victim. Most were inebriated and had little control over their lack of “hiding ability.”

On my next go around, I noticed, off in the distance, crouched behind Mrs. Alice Rose Devereux (1908–1973), a slight shadowy figure teasing the outline of the gravestone. As I approached, it became clear who it was — let’s call him Matt M., because well, that’s his name.

No need to protect the guilty.

“Bagged” I yelled. I remember not being in the mood to formally make contact with the found — acknowledgment alone was sufficient — the rules were a bit lax in those days, especially when you had one too many.

I turned to continue on with my next seek and destroy mission when I was met with a voice from behind, “you didn’t get me.” Ignoring this pathetic denial, I continued walking, and that’s when I heard “it.” Slightly muffled but distinct enough to cause me to stop dead in my tracks, look back, and take stock of what I just heard. “F*cking n****r.”

At sixteen, I hadn’t heard this word used before out in the open, flying free with no restraint. I was confused at first, but quickly came to and said what any teen brimming with confidence would say when faced with such aggression from another teen: “say that again asshole.” As I moved toward Matt M. to end the situation he turned away and started walking in the opposite direction while mumbling other choice words cherry-picked from his limited vocabulary.

Punk Ass.

I was never a fan of Matt M. but I tolerated him in group settings as he was a friend of one of my closest childhood friends. I did not, however, expect to hear this verbal bomb hurled my way, especially not at this age. Naïve perhaps, but growing up, I thought these types of encounters with racism would only surface once I became an adult. In retrospect, if someone were to utter such barbarity, it wouldn’t shock me if the culprit was Matt M.

Wolf in a sheep suit

Never ignorant of the dynamics of my environment, my approach to dealing with racial discrimination was usually to laugh it off or to look at the absurdness of a situation.

A strategy I still practice today.

I was never one to engage in a tense exchange but rather stand my ground showing my aggressor their verbal assaults wouldn’t land. This bravado, this, “take on the world” or “invincible” swagger, is what drove our young minds back in the day, but in many ways, we were unprepared to deal with the inevitables in life. These days, fortunately, similar questionable interactions are few and far between.

I have no doubt that in the quiet corners of the room out of earshot, I have been referred to, or called the n-word. By co-workers, former friends, classmates — anyone who harbors disdain, not just for me personally, but for Black people in general.

I’m under no delusion this behavior is a unicorn.

I have been passed up on jobs because of my race. Had uncomfortable interactions with folks because my mere presence seemed to bother them. Harassed by the po-po, and even had the threat of being hanged by the father of a girl I was seeing. But I can’t recall anyone since “that day” calling me the n-word to my face. That dubious distinction is reserved for Matt M.

The new normal

I look at it this way: if you are a through and through, to the core racist… own it. Have the plums to wear it like a badge. If your puffed-out chest is riding high, let someone know you don’t like them because of their skin color — that they are beneath you and don’t deserve the same rights as you. See what will happen.

I come from the belief that words alone cannot hurt me. I always consider the source and deliver my responses, if warranted, accordingly. I can’t place a particular point in time when this strategy took root — probably May of ‘87. What I have learned since is someone’s insecurity masked by the words they hurl at me isn’t something I need to get upset about.

Actions on the other hand… that’s a different story.

Words are one thing. People deliberately taking steps to cause me harm, discomfort, or threaten my way of life — I take issue with. Let’s go. I know this might not be an appropriate position to take but it’s one with a no return policy. Admittedly, this hardened shell is a byproduct of more than enough experiences of racism accumulated over the years.

Be the solution, not the problem.

Those who disrespect others, in turn, will see no respect from me. I choose to be a crusader for people who are the recipients of such hate. We all have a responsibility to uphold the universal commitment we made to abide by the laws under which we live, to respect those who live in our neighborhoods, and to live and let live.

For those Matt M’s out there who challenge this agreement, who are satisfied with their archaic principles, unevolved perspectives, and who couldn’t care less about how their actions affect others, let me know what time you want to meet at Mrs. Devereux’s headstone.

Bye, Felicia!

Thank you for reading!