When You Are Black In a White Space Every Day Can Seem Like Going Into Battle

Living life under cloak and dagger.

As of late, my childhood memories have increasingly become more crystallized, providing unfiltered glimpses of a time long forgotten. With assistance from my father in stringing together moments that impacted our family (more specifically, me), we dove into the dark corners of discomfort rooted in Boston’s history of segregation.

When reflecting on years past, especially those that made up my younger days, I routinely direct my thoughts to the gray areas; hopefully in an effort to shed light on those fragmented memories.

Even if clouded by misery or disenchantment, having a clear depiction of a life once lived can be beneficial in understanding those experiences that form who you are.

Chasing normalcy, finding intolerance

The early ’70s was an ugly time in Boston, especially if you were a Black child adopted by white parents. There was no manner in which fairness and compassion ever came knocking at your door. If there was a knock, however, it was usually preceded by a rock being thrown, or the rapid-fire of racial epithets hurled in your direction.

This was, is, the life I knew, and over time I learned how to pivot accordingly.

A similar approach to dealing with the harsh surroundings was adopted by my parents who, with a new multiracial family to protect often felt the sting of intolerance and non-acceptance.

Growing up in the all-white neighborhoods of Boston in the ’50s and ’60s, and later adopting a Black child, my parent’s environment was not kind, notably because they dared to go against the norm — the norm being segregation.

My mother, who was relatively distant from her family, found comfort in the only aunt who embraced her. Often, in an attempt to wind the family bonds tighter, she would visit this favorite aunt who lived across the street from the now-infamous South Boston High School — the very school that became the focal point of the “Boston busing crisis” and hosted the historic social upheaval of the time. The climate there, at the time receiving national attention, would capitalize on the anger and fear already thickly spread throughout the white communities leaving a wake of unimaginable violence toward those innocent benefactors of a newly integrated institution of learning.

For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right. — Kofi Annan

With everything that is currently going on in the US at the moment, it’s not difficult to reflect on the country’s past when the seeds of hate grew with impunity and flourished unchecked.

95 G Street, South Boston

In expected fashion, the brutality was reaching its fever pitch with each day trying to outdo the previous one, and 95 G Street South Boston would be the scene ravaged by deliberate acts of hate.

The visits to my mother’s aunt’s house had to be strategically and carefully planned as to not draw attention to the obvious — a white couple escorting a Black child by the hand, painting a picture of unconditional parental love and care. This no one wanted, especially those filled with hate who felt it their duty to obstruct innocent Black children from trying to get an education. With extra precautions taken, it was crucial that constant awareness came along for the ride; not doing so could result in the worst that could happen — targeted violence would be almost a certainty.

Keeping a toddler quiet and from reaching out the car window proved to be a challenge akin to wrestling a greased pig — impossible. What young child wouldn’t be intrigued by large groups of people carousing and yelling? Even if a barrage of derogatory words hurled by an angry mob failed to land with comprehension, the visual was enough to excite a young mind. The reality… I had to keep my head down covered by a blanket, shielding me from any curious racist eyes.

Dry runs were made to assess the hordes of heated protestors; where they were congregating, if they had weapons (most did), and what the general pulse of the crowd was. For the most part, parking on G Street was non-existent so our only option was to park a street away and walk.

If we were fortunate enough to find a parking space a few blocks away this would afford my parents time to form a game plan, create appropriate camouflage for hiding in plain sight, and construct an exit strategy in case the mission went south. Once we left the security of the car, the true test would be upon us. Making it to the house was an exercise in running for cover.

On a few occasions, my parents abandoned the kid carrier altogether and opted for more inconvenient (and less visible) means of transport— completely wrapping me from head to toe and tucked underneath one of their arms — as if it was shopping day and groceries were being carried, or if a small child was being smuggled past angry racists.

I remember riding the buses to protect the kids going up to South Boston High School. And the bricks through the window. Signs hanging out those buildings, ‘N****r Go Home.’ Pictures of monkeys. The words. The spit. People just felt it was all right to attack children. — Jean McGuire, Bus Safety Monitor

Hurried, yet calm enough not to arouse suspicion, we would round the corner onto G Street. The house was now in sight as was the angry mob; yelling, waving signs, throwing whatever would fit into a hand, and filling any visible foot space at the entrance to the school. The sidewalks were dense with raging hatred waiting to explode at the first sign of difference.

The displays of bloodlust went on around the clock and did not allow for casual or impromptu pop-ins. Each visit bore unique challenges and decisions on how to execute an effective, and perhaps life-saving strategy.

For an extra layer of protection, each time we went for a visit, my mother’s aunt would wait on the porch to greet us. Standing beside her, almost as a self-appointed bodyguard, was her husband — one of the few Boston cops not willing to subjugate a member of his family (regardless of color) to a frenzied crowd usurping the neighboring lawns and edge walls.

Though the visits were infrequent, they were common enough to have caused a lasting impression and help springboard my parent's decision to leave Boston in pursuit of a safer environment in which to raise a Black child.

My how things have (not) changed

I have experienced many close calls growing up Black in a white space: from narrowly escaping being hit by a speeding car targeting me when I was a toddler to being chased by angry racists wanting to hang me. At the tail end of the civil rights movement, Boston was rife with controversy and, some would argue, the air is still pungent from the stench of the city’s racist history that refuses to make amends for its ugly past.

Having lived most of my life in the northeast, I know that racism can, and does, rear its ugly head from time to time. I have come to believe racism is easier to address when it’s out in the open as opposed to being hidden away where it can pull the levers. Knowing where people stand, how they operate, and how they view others, can indisputably provide an unobstructed look into a horrific world that wants to keep POC from existing. In this regard, at least I know who to stay away from and who might be considered an ally.

I wish I could be ignorant of all of this. It’s exhausting. The trauma that comes with being Black and living your life in America is tiring and a constant head check on your mental fortitude. I wish all I had to worry about was which flavor of ice cream to get on Saturday but unfortunately, treks outside come with the possibility (or probability) of getting pulled over while Black or being the target of racial injustice.

We owe our children, the most vulnerable citizens in our society, a life free of violence and fear. — Nelson Mandela

With the acceleration of overt racism poisoning the atmosphere, there is little doubt where people stand on the issues affecting underrepresented groups. Though it might seem we are allotted enough time (although metered) to make necessary societal change, to hold people accountable for the atrocities they inflict on certain communities… this is not the case.

The time is now and each day we don’t take action we lose our freedoms, and in some cases, our lives.

Is this any way to live?

No, but I was never afforded an option.

Thank you for reading!