Overly Sensitive to Racial Issues?
The cashier looked to be in her 30s, but that didn’t stop an elderly white woman from repeatedly calling the black cashier ‘girl’. The woman was trying to return an item bought on her daughter’s credit card, without the card or the receipt. Hell, the item wasn’t even in a box. Yet, she was outraged that the cashier was questioning her; outraged that the cashier was calmly explaining the return policies. Her face was turning red as she kept calling this grown woman ‘girl,’ even calling her daughter on the phone to tell her that the ‘girl’ wanted a receipt as if that was something completely unheard of. I might have dismissed this as just another rude customer, but the word ‘girl’ dripped off her lips with disdain. It made me wonder, after the election of Trump, am I overly sensitive or are racists popping up like a giant whack-a-mole game?
I’m not completely naïve. I grew up in the south. My grandmother and mother worked as maids. I was bused to an all-white elementary school. I have seen my share of racism. Not marching across the bridge, getting attacked with clubs and dogs racism, but the kind of racism that leave scars and makes you question the motives of white people. So I will admit that I have always been a little suspicious, but the Trump election has turned me into a CSI detective. Did the lady in the elevator clutch her bag as I stepped in? Why are they discussing inner city schools at the office Christmas party when I’m the only black person at the table? More importantly, why did my supervisor say, “that’s why he home schools his kids”? And if my neighbors want to take the country back, where exactly do they want to go back to, and where does that leave me?
It’s as if overnight, everywhere I turn, racism pops up and I am standing at a fork in the road deciding which way to go. Go right and just ignore it or go left and speak up as a woman of color.
In my 20s, this was never a question. I was the hammer in the whack-a-mole game, jumping on anyone who said anything. I wore it as a badge of honor, calling out anyone who I perceived (rightfully so or not) as racist. I was ready to fight. I didn’t care about being labeled the angry black woman, I was angry.
Now in my 40s, I spend more time worrying about white peoples’ feelings and trying not to confirm their stereotypes. In meetings, I can’t be too passionate about my opinions, or else I intimidate people. I also can’t be too excited or too moody. It’s a balancing act and it is unbelievably tiring. So I said nothing at the Christmas luncheon, nothing to my co-workers, nothing to my neighbors, and said nothing in line, watching the look of defeat on the cashier’s face.
When Trump met with African American leaders in his attempt to recognize black history month, he was offensive and ignorant (did he really not know who Frederick Douglas was?). And while he talked about his crowd size and himself, the black people at the table sat quietly too. They were at that same fork in the road, and choose to go right.
