What Woke Feels Like

My left leg shook violently as I waited for it to be over. Anger and disbelief swirled around in my cheeks and my chest, and the blood within them reached its boiling point. The ever-present pounding in my ears grew more audible; the drummer in my chest had upped the tempo and exchanged his sticks for a gavel. That got me thinking about justice and the lack thereof as I became increasingly aware of myself in the room. I licked my lips as I’m wont to do when I feel some type of way. He* kept talking. They were laughing. It was funny to them.

I looked around, but my sister wasn’t there. Neither were any of my woke friends. I had no one to engage in black-telepathy with. It was just me and them. Me versus them. I wasn’t the only black person in the room by any means; we actually outnumbered them. Looking back on it, I think he was the only white person there. There was a bad vibe, but nobody else caught it. They didn’t feel what I felt. I didn’t laugh, but I also held my tongue. Instead, my foot searched the floor for weak spots through which I could escape the ignorance before me. I lifted my trembling hand away from my pocket and towards my face and thought about how that very motion could get me killed in a different setting. I touched the hot coals that were my cheeks. Glancing around the room, I realized that I was invisible in that moment. I was thinking about Tamir Rice and John Crawford III. And they were laughing.

Blushing While Black

Some background information:

The Black Blush does not result from embarrassment. It is the byproduct of an environment in which black people have to remain alert to the point where everything makes our ears perk up, and rightfully so. White people accuse us of being hypersensitive, but the fact of the matter is that it is impossible to read too far into something when you are systematically forced to examine every drop of ink on every page of the book. One cannot attribute false meaning when one’s life could eventually depend on one’s ability to detect alternate meanings of comments that may seem innocent at the surface level. We need to be able to tell when yes really means no. The Black Blush is a real-life active reading technique, a survival mechanism. It goes unnoticed by the white man, it’s an awareness that saves lives.

The Black Blush is what woke feels like, hot cheeks tingling and fire growing in your chest. I feel it as I type these words. It’s when everything we have to deal with as black people in the United States stirs up inside us. It’s when dead people speak to us. J. Cole just about sums it up on “Love Yourz”:

“Heart beatin’ fast, let a nigga know that he alive”

For Fun

Back to the story:

We had some down time before the day would officially start. So he* decided to fill the silence with a story about how he got shot by his friend once. With an airsoft gun.

Apparently people play with these guns for fun, they are toys after all. That’s what he said. Toys.

I wanted to yell. I want to yell right now.

Wasn’t Tamir Rice playing with a toy? What was John Crawford III holding, again?

They’re dead.

There I was, teeth and fists clenched, wondering how someone could be so inattentive. Even given the most recent incidents of violence against black bodies, the white man does not choose his words carefully. He doesn’t have to, for his rights to speak are not bound by the bad things going on around him. He is in his own world where anything goes. We are in his world, too, quite honestly. But that is about to change, because we will not condone reckless talk.

In this particular case, I know for a fact it wasn’t malicious; he was more oblivious than anything. But what I experienced today highlights the fact that white people don’t have dead people in their heads. Maybe they have fallen soldiers or family members, but that’s different — we have those, too. We also carry our murdered brothers and sisters with us at all times, and their restless souls rouse our deepest feelings at every instance of insensitive language. Not in a way that prevents us from doing everyday things, just enough to make us aware of racially unfavorable situations. That is not to say that black people are constantly in their feelings. In fact, that we are able to function normally and go on to be excellent in all that we do proves the exact opposite.

He kept talking about how much it hurt and how much it was bleeding. He wasn’t wearing a vest when his friend did it; he was taken by surprise. Which of our slain brothers and sisters had the luxury of a vest? Did they expect to be shot and killed, or was it a surprise? I couldn’t help but think, “What a luxury, what a life” — that’s the way I’m wired. I mean, think about it. The whole story reaked of white privilege and political insensitivity. They play with airsoft guns for fun. I had never even heard of an airsoft gun until today, but that’s something they get to do. They get to shoot bottle caps and do target practice. For fun.

I wonder what the dead people in my head liked to do for fun.

*This is a true story, but I want to keep my job

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