Don’t Ask Me About
‘Driving While Black’
Since August, almost every week has brought a new hashtag to commemorate another life cut short by the people sworn to protect #AllLives…
With each fresh murder, there are a chorus of people shouting down the outrage, saying that #AllLivesMatter more than #BlackLivesMatter. On the other side, there are “allies” jumping in to identify with a persecution that is overwhelmingly localized on black communities across the country. And usually when the conversation turns to discrimination — depending on the company — people look to me as an Indian and person of color to weigh in.
—
I hate talking about race
It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. Probably because being “brown,” my relationship with it has been inconsistent. Granted, I was picked on in school where a surprising amount of the abuse was tinted with an Apu accent. Jokes about cow worship or “dirty” skin, and the less inventive slurs … add something about the desert to an anti-black slur, and you’re pretty much there. Sometimes I was mistaken for Latino, which unlocked a whole expansion pack of insults but that wasn’t really aimed at me.
Dating back to before Bhagat Singh Thind argued that Indians are “technically” Caucasian, aka White, South Asians have inhabited a weird loophole in American race relations.
We are portrayed better than most minorities in media.
We are generally higher earning.
We are a ‘model minority.’
Yet almost all of us have memorized and recited at least one story about being mistreated because of our skin color. This is mine:
—
The summer I got my 1st speeding ticket
Racial profiling was in the news, that’s when I first heard the term, “Driving While Black.” I read about how certain counties in my town — the largely white western suburbs of St. Louis— were juking the stats to hide racial biases. I thought about this as I drove my brother’s car, singing along to Rage Against the Machine.
“These people ain’t seen a brown-skinned man
since their grandparents bought one”
At some point I noticed the lights flashing in my rear view mirror. When the officer handed me the papers to sign, I took a quick look over the information.
28mph in a 20mph zone
Race — White
I looked again.
Race — White … ?
—
“This isn’t right, officer.”
“What did you say?”
“I said there’s a mistake. I’m not white.”
He stopped. I think he chewed his lip.
“You’re not black, are you?”
I responded so quickly I surprised myself.
“No, sir.”
Even then, on some level, part of me knew that African-American is the worst thing I could have been in this situation.
I signed the ticket. He gave me a copy and drove off. I went home, inexplicably whiter than when I had left. I was trans-racial before it became a thing.
If my family noticed my new racial identity, they didn’t let on.
I went to school the next week.
—
The next fall, in 2001, I went to college. Some things changed, but mostly things stayed the same. People threw rocks at my car. I still got weird questions. I still got called the wrong name.
I don’t want to belittle the very real attacks on Sikh men or the gurdwara in Michigan, or the Muslims across this country and others whose families and homes and places of worship are no longer safe.
But I also understand that any “danger” the rest of us face hinges on being mistaken for a member of these other, less ‘desirable’ groups.
Being mistaken for a persecuted minority
is not the same as being persecuted.
Our stories about mistreatment take place in arenas of vast privilege.
At our office jobs, we were called the wrong names.
At parties where strangers asked us weird questions about Bollywood.
At airports, where the price of entry is hundreds of dollars, TSA agents patted us down a little too long.
In nearly every case, we get away with our lives intact. But we keep these stories to prove our mettle. We keep them because “me too” is an easier narrative, a safe way to sidestep our own status in the eyes of the law.
No matter what psychological impact those ‘micro-aggressions’ have had on me, I’m safe in my day to day existence — I will never become a hashtag. I won’t have to record a living will “If I die in police custody.” I have no deep-seated fear that a routine interaction with police will turn violent.
So when people ask for my opinions on #BlackLivesMatter, I try to remember where I stand. I remember that when push really comes to shove, all I have to do is sign the ticket and I can go home safely.
This is not my story to tell. It’s not even our story. Not by a long shot. There are plenty of intelligent, passionate black women and men — community leaders, neighbors, and family members— who understand the facts and the reality of the situation better than I ever could.
We encourage you to add your voice and in the coming days, Absurdist will publish responses to Driving While Black from the black community.
Listen to them. I’m just a supporter. And sometimes the best way to support is by sharing other voices, and taking a minute to hear what they say.
