This is problematic. I’m a teacher in the South, and I look at my Black students and I see the way that they are pushed this way and that way; but the most shocking part is how they can’t and won’t acknowledge that it’s happening. Then again, it’s not that surprising. I’m also gay, and in the obvious way, and when people ask if I am treated any differently, I always say “no.” I don’t even understand why I do that sometimes. Of course, I’m treated differently. I’m gay and a teacher… in the South. When I meet parents for the first time, I can see the “natural” recoil, especially from the dads. They fight through it, and so do I, but the point (the point of this article) is that it’s there, and nobody wants to talk about it. Nobody mentions it to me, and I don’t talk about it with others. I’m supposed to be funny, cool, and have that “Black-girl” sass that gay guys are supposed to have. Otherwise, shut up. Don’t mention how people automatically assume that I’m weaker or stranger than the average White male: defective in some way. That’s not to be said aloud. If it’s not said, it doesn’t exist. They are not categorizing me, and I am not being categorized. If nothing is said, they get to be progressive. I get to keep my job. I teach on an all White staff, and the Black students love me: not because I’m great, or Black, but (if I had to guess) because they know that I know what it’s like to be boxed from the second you walk in the room. Their skin and hair is like an alarm of thugishness, and my walk has the tinge of deviant. They have nobody else. I have nobody else. People assume that my Black students are my favorite because I grew up in a Black area, which is true, but I also remember that Black people rarely, if ever, pointed out how different I was; a quality that I cannot equate with my White classmates, and if I bring that up in conversation (the chokings, the beatings, the letters that I am going to burn in Hell), well, I’m just bitter and need to get over it. Because that’s something a person can just get over, especially when I see that “knowing” look in the eyes of every new person that I meet (who isn’t like me). No, my Black students and I don’t get along because I grew up in a Black area; we get along because they look around and see the eyes of those who automatically box them: Tyrone is just a thug, but Mashera is actually ok. She won’t cause you any trouble. Still, they don’t mention their Blackness because that opens door to conversations, conversations that nobody wants to have because then we would have to talk about how we are talking about race. The students like me because they have no other options. At least in me they see a person who knows what it’s like to be politely pushed outside while the door quietly clicks behind him.