I met my new flat mates on Craigslist. Two white, one Chinese. Together we spoke to Portland, Florida, China and (with me) D.C., and as we moved into our loft in Bed-Stuy the previous fall, I was energized for the capability of culturally diverse exchange.We had a become more acquainted with you conference on the housetop. We discussed ourselves, what conveyed us to New York. It was a warm night in September, two or three weeks after Michael Brown was shot, and some place in the blend I raised Ferguson, wanting to start a “cognizant discussion.” Then it happened. The nightmarish reaction.
“What’s occurring in Ferguson?” one of my white flat mates inquired. “I heard some child got shot or something to that effect.”
The words clamored in my ears. How might he be able to not know? Weren’t his Twitter, Instagram and Facebook bolsters overwhelmed with feelings and hashtags? I’m certain he doesn’t mean anything by his announcement. We’re all badly educated every once in a while. Be that as it may, as I remained there, clumsily not letting out the slightest peep — while many words went through my mind — it was an indication of the amount I would need to stifle keeping in mind the end goal to coexist with my white male flat mates in our small four-room loft. This spot I would call my home for a year.
It hasn’t generally been similar to this for me. I’m a young lady with a fro, brought up in the spot once known as “Chocolate City.” I grew up part of a Black atomic family, was self-taught, then turned out to be a piece of the small Historic Black College Experience at Temple University. In the wake of landing in New York, I turned into an understudy at Essence, a magazine so sheltered I compared my supervisor to a close relative. Those settings were as agreeable as my grandmother’s cooking on any given Sunday.
I yearned to slither back to my little Black universe. A spot where I could make a feeling of peace, character and acknowledgment, a spot where I could stay there, attempting to unravel my ‘fro and comprehend being an African-American lady in this nation, reiterating our history while confronting present agony. Be that as it may, life happens, and the greater part of us can’t stay in our own utopias until the end of time.
Now I faced a new reality. The brief conversation on the roof that hot September night lasted much longer in my head. I sent myself into a 200-year-old tizzy, reckoning with outdated ideas on race, tampering with prejudice and stereotypes. I became enslaved by my emotions.
I started to worry about all the other things I might have to explain: My hair, the food I eat, why I like Miles Davis, Nina Simone and Marvin Gaye. Maybe I should have considered it a teaching opportunity. But I wasn’t feeling generous. I was all twisted up inside, ablaze over racial dynamics and anxious what other minefields my roommate might stumble upon. I hoped he wouldn’t say something really ignorant, causing me to just snap and go off on an angry rant. Then I’d have to make my living situation salvageable by pocketing my Black rage, putting on my best smile and telling him, it’s all love.
I wanted my home to be a refuge, a place where I could be wretched when I wanted, walk around in my bonnet, fry chicken and sing real loud to Aretha Franklin’s R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Suppressing my Blackness every day is exhausting. Back at Essence, we used “sister girl language,” but since then, I’d faced tougher environments. I briefly worked at a (now-defunct) women’s fashion website, where I was one of the only Black people. I would pitch ideas that mattered to me, like how to do natural hair, only to see them ignored, shuffled to the side or diluted like apple juice in order to be made palatable to mainstream “whiteness.”
I was tired of catering to everyone else’s comforts. How much of my day-to-day experiences as a Black woman do I have to filter? I replace “hey girl” with boring hellos. I eat my leftover fried chicken outside the office. In order to have some common point of identifiable communication, I pretend to care about Taylor Swift, or white movie stars on their I’ve-lost-count remarriages and those other white pop stars I could not care less about. “Oh yeah, she’s cute,” I tell them. “Yeah, that’s cool.”
As summer turned to fall and then winter, I continued to be dumbfounded at the way, for some white people, the killing of Michael Brown just didn’t resonate. They didn’t feel the need to pay attention. I guess some white people do act “real vanilla” and only understand the realities of their own universe. Like running around drunk in Santa costumes in the name of SantaCon while “The Millions March NYC” launches in response to the non-indictment verdicts. That’s real.
In December, when the Eric Garner verdict came out, I became loaded down with more emotional baggage than I could conceal. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t care if I wasn’t mixing with others. I found my little Black planet at work. I went over to my Black boss and talked real low and real brief about how disturbing this all was. I grabbed one of my home girls I work with. We took to the streets to protest right outside my job. I hoped no one would see me and think something misguided.
Walking home that night, I unleashed all my tears. I wanted to reach out and hug a Black man. Before I arrived at my apartment, I dried off my face as though nothing happened. My white male roommate asked me about the protest; I gave him a non-detailed response. I said something like, “I’m really upset, but it was a good way for me to get those feelings out.” I couldn’t handle revealing too much; I wanted to avoid a loaded conversation. I took a deep breath and exhaled, closed my bedroom door, picked up the phone, and spoke in whispers about how racist these non-indictments were to my parents, and to my socially conscious white and Black friends.
These non-indictments reiterated what I’m up against every single day: the unintentional ignorance of white people. But I was also aware of my willingness to put away my justified “Black rage” in order to ensure that my interactions with white people remain comfortable. And the more I hid it, the more crazed I became. By the time my birthday rolled around, in December, I was cooped up in my bed, without an appetite, my ‘fro needing a good, deep conditioner. I was making myself sick.
I know this needs to change. I understand that for my own growth, and in order to forge honest relationships with white people I meet — whether it’s my roommates, or my co-workers, or anyone else — I need to reveal myself more. I need to start sharing about my history and my culture and how it plays out in my everyday life as an African-American woman. I don’t want this rage to fester into bitterness, or infect the very close white friendships I already have. I don’t want to ignore my rage, but I don’t want to be controlled by it either. Concealing my emotions has made me feel like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off.
Things are calm right now at the apartment. I don’t bring up these sorts of conversations. I don’t talk about what happens every 28 hours — a Black person is killed. My white male roommate and I, we just don’t go there. It makes things easier. Instead, our conversations shuffle between our day-to-day experiences at work, dating and the nuances of the city. I keep those “forbidden” conversations behind closed doors, and even when I’m alone I speak in code. I don’t say “white.” I use “they” instead.
But I want to stop tiptoeing around race. My Blackness is not a secret I have to keep. I want to be able to publicly express my honest admiration for being Black, outside of my little Black planet. I don’t want to feel marginalized, like I can’t speak hard truths about myself. Having honest and challenging conversations with people of another race will hopefully disrupt other people’s ignorance. But it will also help me. I need to stop with my mental temper tantrums. I want to get free.