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Shame on You for Making Me Hide My Blackness
For a single day, I needed that sense of security
I’m Black and 6'4" every day, and I’m 210 pounds most days.
Today I awoke with the single objective. Today I would not be Black. As proud as I am and as ironic as it may be, I needed, if only for this day, to be free of the burden I wear that can often be damn near enslaving.
I woke up in the comfort of my safe bed, and I worked in the comfort of my safe home. I exercised in the comfort of my garage and cooked in the comfort of my kitchen. I ate in the comfort of my own chair. And it felt great.
Yet, every time I leave my home, I am Black — and my comfort escapes me.
When I left my house yesterday morning, for a fleeting moment I almost forgot I was Black. I wanted to go for a jog in my new neighborhood, when I realized I probably shouldn’t. Instead, I went to a local park and ran on its empty track, where I felt safe — because there was no one there I could possibly make feel unsafe. My Blackness anchored me, kept me from moving freely.
Who am I to have the unmitigated gall to believe I can jog mere steps from my front door? That right is not reserved for me. My life may depend on “others” feeling safe around me — on me not diminishing their serenity with my Black presence. Sometimes I smile more broadly or walk more slowly in parking lots. When stopped by the police, I keep my hands on the steering wheel and humbly say “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir” to those in blue.
Who am I to have the unmitigated gall to believe I can jog mere steps from my front door? That right is not reserved for me.
Yesterday evening, my wife and I went for a walk, and for another fleeting moment, I almost forgot I was Black. She is 5'3", so I felt safe; surely with her I could not be mistaken as threatening. As we strolled, she wanted to venture into the common area behind our new neighbors’ homes so I could see how they decorated their yards — but again, my Blackness…
