Incognegro in America Part 1: Setting the Scene
America is Burning
LA is burning and fear is driving a massive tanker fueled by mob mentality. Saturday was the first night I’ve had a curfew since high school. I had a friend from college check in on me Thursday asking if I was okay with all that was going on. She was in pain and could only imagine that as a Black American I must really be feeling it. Her ability for understanding cannot be underestimated. As a Bosnian (Muslim) refugee who lived through a brutal civil war and ethnic cleansing, she has been through pain in ways most Americans couldn’t fathom. Even after her text, I’m ashamed to admit that being consumed with preparing for an office move the following day meant I wasn’t in touch with what was going on beyond glancing at headlines for the week. When my phone started blowing up Saturday afternoon I finally caught up and realized that the Fairfax protests, that had escalated into rioting, were mere blocks away from my home; the nation was in upheaval. I thought, maybe it’s time I stop setting up the new office and get home as soon as possible. The ignorance of it all was bliss but that time had ended.
As I drove up Fairfax Ave, I could see nearby helicopters circling the smoke filled air. I made a left and a cop car was blocking the street. As I assessed if I could squeeze through, a cop motioned with his hand to guide me. I slowed down and unconsciously mouthed “thank you” to the officer helping me through. Only a few blocks away, police were attacking civilians and vice-versa, yet somehow this man and I managed to have a human interaction amidst the chaos.
Tears streamed down my face that night as I watched what was going on on TV; some of it was close enough to walk to if I still lived in New York City. A neighbor called after midnight, shaken from observing one of the mob caravans parked in the gas station across from our building for over thirty minutes. I put myself to bed late that night and wondered what Sunday would look like. I felt I needed to cut myself some slack and not obsess with work (default coping mechanism). I needed to acknowledge the pain and stress I was feeling. Finishing a newsletter for face masks seemed tone deaf and inconsequential. I was supposed to photograph a friend on Sunday, but who knew how we would be feeling. When we touched base Saturday evening, we were both fine with rescheduling.
I woke up Sunday to see a beautifully written, honest post from him on Facebook, aptly titled I’m Not Fine. Without revealing that I’d seen his post I texted him to ask how he was feeling about shooting. As the phone stayed silent I lay in bed thinking about it all and anticipating a postponement. I wanted so badly to share that even if we didn’t shoot, some company would be priceless. A few minutes later, he hit me back saying he was still down and could be there in an hour. I snapped out of my mood, hopped out of bed with newfound motivation, and started to prepare.
I could not have anticipated that what would emerge from this shoot would be much more than some photos. The connections and discussions of the day in conjunction with the political climate reawakened a fire in me. A journey back to myself and my history. A recollection of growing up as the only Black girl in an all White school system, a remembrance of my family history that I never see represented in history books, a connection to humanity, and the stories that need to be shared. I began to channel the 17 year old in me who won a speech contest on “The Impact of Racism on Black Students” and the freshman at Brown who wasn’t afraid to speak out as an Afro-American Studies major in a prestigious 8-year medical program.
There is what is written in school history books and then there are our stories. Without being connected to another human, compassion and empathy become little more than intellectual ideas in our head. There is a shared human experience that weaves through us and connects us all and it is too often obscured by stereotypes and misunderstanding, even within the same ethnic and racial groups.
I often describe my experiences as incognegro - an individual who is not necessarily perceived as Black in the outside world, but not necessarily seen as White either. These are my stories and the stories of family and friends who have walked these lines in a country with a history of one-drop rules on being Black. But incognegro also describes the challenges that Black Americans, of all varying skin tones, face. It is the challenge of not being seen and witnessed as human with an equally valid experience; a similar plight of Black Americans described by Ralph Waldo Emerson in The Invisible Man in 1952.
The backdrop of a city burning, senseless murders of Black Americans, a world demanding change, and a camera in my hand capturing humanity one afternoon, reminded me of who I was and the power we all have in bearing witness to another.
