This is America

There’s not very much that surprises me. I’m not what you would call naïve, nor am I the most optimistic person you’ll interact with. My deadpan delivery is something new friends have to get used to because my dry humor is often an acquired taste. So unless I’m in a particularly entertaining & animated mood, you have to work hard to shock me. I’m always ready with a comeback, which I’ve learned is both a gift and a curse.

When the 6 year old and his sister got off the bus on Tuesday I figured he’d had a less than stellar day as his face was longer than usual and he lacked his natural pep. I offered my standard, “How was your day?” and continued walking ahead of them.

“[A friend] said something hurtful,” he responded.

“Oh yeah,” I questioned still not turning, I waited for his explanation that perhaps she’d declined to call Black Panther the best movie ever made or had challenged his artistic prowess (both MAJOR offenses in Roman’s book).

“She said she didn’t want to be my friend because I’m black,” he said.

I stopped, “Oh.”

“So I told her she hurt my feelings. But she didn’t say anything else.”

I held my breath, but didn’t immediately speak, I knew there was something smart to say here. I was the mom of brown children, this happens, there was a comeback I was certain. Why couldn’t I think of anything. His steps were leading him further away from me at this point and my brain freeze didn’t seem to be giving way so I simply caught up and said something to the effect of ignoring stupid people who said stupid things. He nodded and then went on to play.

I sat in the kitchen and thought briefly, “Well at least she didn’t call him a nigga.” Because I honestly knew that was a possibility too. Racism isn’t reserved for backwoods and dim bars, it isn’t necessarily a noose or getting spat at walking down the street. It’s stuff you’re slowly de-sensitized to when everyone is urging you to let all the little transgressions roll off your back.

It’s like some sort of sick game, Black in America: The New Millennium Edition - Now with More Levels and Obstacles for the Whole Family! Followed around a store? That’s a point. Ignored in a restaurant while other patrons are served? That’s a point. Complimented on how articulate you are as an adult? Double points. Upheld as the lone example of blackness in a school setting and expected to explain the African American experience to a classroom of “well intentioned” doe eyed white folks? Definitely multiple points. Called a nigger by a complete stranger? Hell, that’s at least 10.

People of color are always racking up these points, carrying them around on our backs. But we can’t redeem ‘em, not for anything fun at least. I’d much rather a stuffed bear over high blood pressure and anxiety. I’d gotten so used to carrying my own burden that I didn’t respond outright to most of the “little” things that happened to me. We’re conditioned to believe we’re making a mountain of a molehill most times. That we’re reading more into the situation than is necessary. So mostly, I keep my complaints to myself and roll my eyes when the dumb shit happens, because hey, this is America right?

But it felt different seeing the pain on Roman’s face. It was a new game in that instant. I eventually called him over and asked for more details, but it turned out his “friend’s” announcement had come unsolicited as she simply wanted to speak with the student who was already talking to him and didn’t want extra company. “I wasn’t mean to her,” he went on. I assured him that he’d done nothing wrong. You can’t cause someone to dislike you for the color of your skin.

We spoke more, with the conversation ending when I told him I’d help fix it. And I did, contacting the school right away. I could help, this time, because he’s 6 and these kids listen to parents and authority figures mostly. On the other hand, these kids are 6 and so they listen to parents and authority figures mostly…and 6 year olds don’t dislike the color brown all on their own.

It’s easier to relay this here. This comfortable medium of anonymity and I figured as I typed, an amusing but redeeming anecdote would flow from my fingers and I could end it neatly for my readers. But I’m still kinda floored, to be honest. Friends I’ve confided in shared their rage and I’d like to be mad too but I can’t because my kids are little and here they are already playing this heavily fucked up game that seems to still have the power to leave me speechless. One where they will have to learn the twists and turns as they go. Where obstacles pop up for no reason and without warning and they’re still expected to finish on time. This stupid game that they’ll eventually get used to, same as me. Because it seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same. So as tired and frustrated and sad as I am, I know anger will come, but I’ll still have to figure out a way to help them play the game as best I can. 

Because what can I do, this is the America we live in, right?

#Wrong