That Time(s) I Was Mistaken For the Big Black Brute

I am afraid of being alone with white women in public.

Recently, I’ve become even more hyperaware about the publicity of my Blackness. And I’m tired of it.

It was late spring in Boston and I was meeting a few classmates at a restaurant for Sunday Brunch. The spot was about a 15-minute walk from the T, but the snow was starting to melt so I was actually looking forward to being outside. After getting off the train, I walked up to the street and set off towards the restaurant. As I got farther away from the T stop, people walking on the sidewalks began to take different lefts, and different rights, each going to their different destinations. There was one exception. 15 feet ahead of me was a white woman in her mid-20s who seemed to be going in the same direction as I. We were the only two left walking in sight, my excitement for sangria and eggs gave way to an instant anxiety.

At this point, you are either confused or you just said, “ah damn…” in understanding. Let me explain.

I went into hyperawareness.

“When is she going to turn?” “Is there anyone watching me?” “Should I walk faster and pass or slow down?” “Maybe I should just cross the street.” These thoughts flew through my mind, all the while hoping she wouldn’t turn around and notice I was the only one on the street and decide I was walking “suspiciously” close.

Regardless of how uncomfortable I was, I refused to alter my path. For centuries, Black men have been demonized as violent and oversexualized Brutes whose desire for white women and blood is unsatisfiable. It was perpetuated throughout Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and used as an excuse by Darren Wilson in the murder of Michael Brown.

It was used to justify the extreme violence required for the European colonization of Africa. It was used to justify the extreme violence required to enslave Africans by Americans. It was used to justify the extreme violence required to prevent freed Blacks from voting. It is still used today to justify the extreme violence required to exclude Blacks from white society.

Eventually, our paths separated. The anxiety faded and I went back to thinking about Brunch.

Until recently, I thought nothing of my pre-Brunch anxiety attack. It wasn’t the first time I felt like that and I would not be the last. But I began to question whether or not my anxiety was an appropriate reaction. Whether it was normal for me to feel the way I felt and the way I continue to feel. I began to realize that it was more than just the historical narrative of the Black Brute that influenced me, but that it was also a combination of micro-aggressions and overt prejudice that I encounter on a daily basis.

I immediately thought back to an incident that occurred earlier in the year, before the Brunch issue. One evening after class my roommates and I decided to go to a Redsox game. It was dark out, like it always is in Boston, and we walked a half-mile from the house to the T stop. Once at the train station, my roommates stopped at the ticket kiosk to buy fare tickets. I stood back behind them and waited.

My roommates are white. And Women. And in their 20s.

A strange woman behind me began yelling “Hey! Hey!” Instinctively, I thought she was asking for spare change and I dug my hand into my pocket to hand over a few bucks.

“Hey, stop that! He’s stalking you! He’s been stalking you!” she continued to shout running towards me waving her hands. She wasn’t asking for change.

I turned around and was absolutely speechless; unable to even spit out one of those snarky anti-racist comebacks you think about in your head all the time. At this point, the woman, still flailing her arms, was so close I was sure she was trying to hit me. On cue, Nikki, my roommate, began shouting back, “He’s our roommate! Leave us alone!” (SN: Thank you, Nikki, for speaking up)

The woman calmed down saying, “Well, you know I had to say something.” But what she really meant was: “I know that what I did was not socially acceptable, but I’ll sacrifice the humanity of Black men and women any day to protect the sanctity of whiteness.”

For me, one of the most harmful things about white supremacy is how it alters my thoughts and my actions long after direct experiences of overt prejudice occur. The ignorant voices and faces of the human manifestations of racism stay seared to the back of my mind. They serve as a warning message, reminding me that I’m different, that I’m other, that I’m dangerous. Knowing that the woman in the subway has altered the way I think and feel is sickening. It makes me feel weak and unwhole. And that’s exactly what racism is intended to do.

Don’t allow the hatred of others to fester in you. By ignoring even the smallest of micro-aggressions, we normalize demoralizing and unacceptable behavior. Calling out the racist bullshit that is spewed into our lives like oil from a broken rig is an important part in taking back the power. Stay Black. Stay Proud. Stay Mad. Stay Loud.