Behind The Bars Of Covert Racism
Reflecting on the corrosive effect of trauma and how writing is key to unlocking pain long ago imprisoned inside my mind.
Simply by virtue of my genetic packaging, all who consider themselves superior, based on the categories of gender, race, wealth, education, and title, routinely talk down to me.
Before retiring in 2022, I’d been exposed to decades of toxic talk. Even though I’d repeatedly risen to the rigors of the most challenging business situations, the assumption of intellectual inferiority never dissipated.
Regardless of the trauma inflicted, I did not indulge the impulse to respond. Instead, I closed my mouth, kept my head down, and did my work. I kept my feelings locked inside.
As years mounted, unprocessed pain retrofitted an area of my brain into a prison cell. Reading this, you might wonder why I chose to remain silent. The answer is straightforward. When you work for yourself, speaking truth to power paves a path to the poor house.
Decades Of…
Choking down frustration, humiliation, and heartache added 50 pounds to my frame. Summarily, eating my feelings was the way I avoided giving anyone a reason to associate me with the Angry Black Woman trope.
Working on client sites offered ample opportunity for covert bias to repeatedly rear its ugly head. When it emerged, I swallowed my pride along with the word vomit that crept up my throat.
Often, I sucked my lips into my teeth to hold in the words that were on the verge of spewing. All who are othered understand the sting of slights tied to the randomness of the way you arrived at birth.
What I Know For Sure
The fastest way to get canceled in the American business arena is to be labeled an “Angry Black Woman.”
Those words guarantee that no one will take your calls. Moreover, the label effectively bars entry to the rooms where business deals are closed.
Case in Point
Near the end of my career, a client conversation reeked of covert racism. The disrespect that transpired in our brief verbal exchange was the epitome of an insult.
Client: You know what I like most about you?
Me: Thinking creative problem-solvability.
But I said: What?
Client: You’re not an angry Black Woman.
Me: How do you expect me to respond to that?
Client: Say thank you.
Me: That was not a compliment.
His comment silently spoke volumes about a stereotype anchored in his subconscious belief system.
I assumed that he was waiting for sister Souljah to emerge. When that never happened. He was delightfully surprised.
I could feel words rising in my throat. So, I swallowed them. Why end on a bad note? Responding negatively, even though I would have been justified, would only confirm his bias.
The Biggest Problem in America is Optics.
It stems from an unofficial national caste system. It casts Black women on the lowest rung of society. It’s intertwined with the narrative and nature of covert racism.
Empathetic expression is a component that advances race relations. Healing happens whenever marginalized people are heard. Healing supplied the motivation to unmute myself and write this post.
I have no idea what the situation is for Black women who own businesses outside of America. Here in the US, the entrepreneurial landscape presents a slippery slope. Maintaining a business long-term took a combination of grit and skill treading across treacherous terrain littered with isms.
Navigating the intersections where sexism, racism, ageism, and classism collide is downright dangerous. I was always on guard. I always kept my eyes and ears open. I always stepped carefully. I was always strategic. I was always exhausted! The best part of retirement is letting go of the fear that one misstep could blow my business to smithereens.
In Retrospect
The weight of avoiding covert bias equipped me with an unhealthy set of coping mechanisms that weighed me down. No matter what’s on the menu of your life, you’ll get served a shit sandwich. I discovered this term between the pages of Liz Gilbert’s brilliant book, Big Magic.
The term shit sandwich was coined by f-word-loving author Mark Manson. He’s the provocateur of the eponymous book, The Subtle Art of Not Giving A F*ck. The idea is that anything worthwhile comes with its flavor of shit sandwich. That goes for every relationship, every place you may live, and every job you take. In a nutshell, every choice in life has a downside.
Manson’s term applies to everyone because a shit sandwich will eventually land on your plate. So, the question you must ask yourself whenever you face a rough patch is, “Do I swallow it now or push it away for later?
Post Retirement
I harbored the unrealistic belief that my days of eating those sandwiches were over. I was wrong. From my experience, finishing one does not prevent you from having to eat another. That’s because life finds ways to serve bottomless portions.
The consolation was knowing my mind would adapt. Over time, I became adept at swallowing shit sandwiches. Yet they remain undigested in my gut.
I cried a river, built a bridge, and crossed over it… Or did I?
Dr. Greg Wurgurlitz, a former priest turned psychiatrist stated, “Acknowledging pain is the first step on the long healing journey.”
before i could release
the weight of my sadness
and pain, i first had
to honor its existence
- Yung Pueblo (Inward)
My Shit Sandwich Story
I ate, to keep my mouth shut. I ate to anesthetize my mind. I ate to soothe the sting of slights. I ate… and ate… and ate… because situational trauma triggers consumption.
I’m figuratively lugging around the weight of past pain in my own private Pandora’s box. The benefit of retirement is having time to exhume old hurts.
I write to lighten the load that continues to weigh me down. Because some things are better left unsaid, I’m hesitant about the effect of dredging up old demons.
When I Was Working
It was easy to leave problems in the past unresolved. Not having the luxury to stop and think wasn’t all bad. More often than not, focusing on moving forward was a blessing in disguise.
My concern, back then, was finding ways to mute myself. No matter how egregious the injustice, I was accommodating. I did what was necessary to avoid being labeled an “Angry Black Woman.” Now, I couldn’t care less. I’m not angry. I’m tired.
I’m still not comfortable putting my problems in the public domain. Yet, I don’t want to carry things that happened in the past with me to my grave.
Insult to Injury
One offensive situation unfolded in November of 2012. The perpetrator was a rat bastard. It happened in San Antonio, Texas at a convention hosted by the International Society of Caricature Artists.
The big draw (pun intended) was ballroom access. Caricature artists from across the globe stay up all night drawing each other. My company specializes in custom crafting caricature maps. I’m also an extrovert in the most extreme sense of the word. Interacting with talented individuals is my thing.
Attending the conference was like waking up in a dream. I’m confident in my skin and have never had a problem approaching people. I floated across the ballroom floor admiring the work being created right before my eyes.
All was well until I reached the table where a man sized me up. He noticed that I was not wearing conference credentials. So he must have decided that I did not belong in the room.
When I approached his table, the friendly caricature artist sitting next to the man asked to draw me. In those glorious moments, I became more of a motor mouth than usual.
Meanwhile, the man pulled out his cell phone and walked away. Soon, I’d learn who he called.
Backstory
Though I owned a caricature map business, I was reticent about attending the ISCA conference. Many members are renowned caricature artists.
Low key: I struggled with imposter syndrome big time. The problem was in comparison. I allowed it to become a thief that stole my joy.
Though I’d been in the caricature art business since 1996, I didn’t join ISCA until 2012. I didn’t feel competent enough to be counted among this elite professional collaborative.
As the date drew near, my excitement was palpable. I’d paid in advance and confirmed the details with Tracey, the conference contact.
Anyone who knows me understands how thorough I am.
I explained to her that I’d be flying in late. I was wrapping up a consulting project and found a red-eye to San Antonio, that got in around midnight.
Though I would miss the first day’s presentations, I emailed her to ensure access to the ballroom. I’d read that caricature artists stay up all night drawing.
I asked Tracey to leave my credentials at the hotel front desk. The day before my arrival, I emailed her to confirm access, so it wouldn’t be a problem.
Long Story Short
Tracey did not leave my credentials at the front desk. I blew it off, thinking it wouldn’t matter. Feeling like the belle of the ball, I entered the room at the stroke of midnight.
I’d been in the room less than an hour when I got kicked out. Two men flanked me. One asked for my credentials. I tried to explain. The other cut me off and told me I had to leave.
I was stunned. I stood and was escorted out of the room. Hot tears welled up and ran down my cheeks.
Conversation in the animated ballroom went silent. I felt every eye in the room on me.
For the Record: Of the estimated 300 caricature artists in attendance, I was the only Black woman.
Here’s the kicker. I wasn’t apprehensive about it. Now, I routinely advise Black women who dare integrate white-only, male-dominated spaces to expect pushback from at least one or more of the men.
The Drama in Trauma
Face burning from embarrassment, I told them that Tracey did not leave my credentials.
When we stepped out into the hall, I shut down. I glared at them both and choked down the words I wanted to say. Instead, I took the elevator to my hotel room and called my father.
Side Note: Whoever they were, when I said Tracey’s name, the look in their eyes said they’d messed up. From what I could piece together, they woke her, and she woke the President of the ISCA board.
Dad was a night owl. He was wide awake when I called sobbing. For the record, I was 48 years old. I remember feeling 40 years younger.
Dad said, “This is what Martin died for. Go back downstairs. Get a chair. Put it in the center of the room. Stand on it. Tell the men who threw you out to lick the cherry red side of your Black ass!” I’ll be on the next plane.
I laughed and regained my composure. The incident strengthened my resolve to never again let my guard down. I vowed that no one would eject me from a room I’d paid to be in. I vividly recall the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I will never forget the shock, surprise, and embarrassment.
Dad died in 2017 and was my guardian angel on earth. He called the situation out for what it was. Covert Racism
Covert racism is racial discrimination that is concealed or subtle rather than obvious or public (Coates & Morrison, 2011).
The Resolution… Sorta
Once I hung up the phone, fresh tears fell. Sleep would not come. I tossed and turned and decided to fly back home the following day.
Folks, who needs that type of stress in their lives? Before the sun came up, the ISCA President, Steve, had left a message.
I was reticent upon re-entering the ballroom, yet Steve appeared sincerely apologetic. Tracey had been in damage control mode.
What I found off-putting was the way he paraphrased the reason for throwing me out. The excuse was that another artist overheard me speaking and thought I was there to poach caricature artists.
Let me unpack this ludicrous statement. Since when did caricature artists become an endangered species?
What galled me, was that Steve placed the blame on Tracey. Then let her off the hook. I was gaslit. Steve insinuated, that I was at fault for asking her to take this extra step. He shifted responsibility for what happened to me.
In fact, upon handing over my credentials, he reiterated the policy of wearing them at all times.
My dumb ass apologized. Stupid, I know. I gave them all a pass. So, I’m writing to forgive myself. I write to release this memory forever.
America
Has a complex, corrosive narrative that makes it extremely difficult for Black women to express anger. For far too many years, I went along to get along. Echoing civil rights crusader Fannie Lou Hamer, “I’m sick and tired and of being sick and tired.”
Covert racism is nearly impossible to prove. It exists in every corner of the not-so-United States. Since it was impossible to travel back in time and change the past, my resolve was steeled to continue entering rooms where no one looked like me.
Good and Bad Experiences Are Co-Joined Twins.
The great news was that allies in the room went out of their way to let me know I was welcome. Beyond the ballroom, the rat bastard’s covertly racist actions lit a fire under me to advocate for entrepreneurial Black women.
I began volunteering as a business mentor for the USA Small Business Association SCORE Organization. Ironically, they led me to this platform. Over the years, I’ve similarly led writers here.
Working from the grassroots was cathartic. Over time, I recruited a diverse group of entrepreneurial peers. We aligned often to host a broad range of education programs.
Post Retirement
The Coalition of 100 Black Women (DC Chapter) tapped me to train a contingent of entrepreneurial women. The opportunity came out of nowhere. Walgreens corporate had given the group grant money.
They found me through word of mouth. I have experience working on both sides of the table. First as a furniture buyer for Montgomery Ward. Secondly, a supplier to Walmart stores nationwide.
The task entailed equipping a product-ready cohort of Black women, with insights to navigate the intricacies of replenishment at scale. That opportunity empowered me to share the wealth of information stored on my mental hard drive.
Keeping It Real
People pretend like they don’t see covert racism. Yet it persists because it exists. Anyone who dares call out covert racism in corporate America is silenced. What happens next is a matter of spin. Conversations, with covert racism at their core, routinely get hijacked and redirected.
Today, I unlock the door of my prison to dispose of a traumatic memory. The malicious intent of one man, who I forever think of as a rat bastard, backfired. His weak attempt to wield influence (from the middle) strengthened my resolve to help Black businesswomen navigate covert racism.
At the end of the day, God was in control. I stayed suited up in spiritual armor and survived a situation seeded by covert racism.
Traveling The High Road
More unaddressed micro-aggressions, mired in pain, remain on lockdown. Swallowing my pride for fear of being denied access to capital came at a high cost. My silence secretly sentenced me to a lifetime stay in a prison of my own making.
In retirement, I boldly unmute myself to address the hidden caste system in America. I follow in the footsteps of Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Isabelle Wilkerson. Her book “Caste,” is a double entendre. It meticulously deconstructs the hierarchical history of a system that casts Black women on the lowest rung of society.
More specifically, the root is buried in the narrative and nature of covert racism. Channeling Oprah, what I know for sure, is that we CAN, rectify this egregious slight. I believe empathetic acknowledgment by the masses, is the second step on the lengthy journey to reach equanimity.
🔹About Me ➖ Toni Greathouse ➖ Toni The Talker retired in 2022, after 26 years of business ownership. She is an entrepreneurial evangelist, who serves as a source of support for entrepreneurial Black women.
