Some Unpleasantness
Originally published at Welcome To The Dollhouse. You can comment here or there.
onight was a tough night for me. It was not only tough because I went out running in 20 degree weather without my gloves. It was tough because of the conversation I had afterwards with Luda.
You all know that Luda has been an amazing find in my life. Her approach to my fitness and health has been exactly what I needed. We’ve really been working well together these past 3 or so months. I’ve got the dropping clothing size to prove it.
Tonight’s session started out simply enough. She in her motherly way, chided me for running at night. I countered that I liked running at night. I live in a little neighborhood complex of about 100 homes, so there isn’t much traffic. I also wear a reflective vest and leg wraps.
“Something could happen to you,” she continued to scold.
I then told her that my best friend Lisa also used to chastise me for running at night. In my old neighborhood, there was a lot of farmland and no sidewalks and that made nighttime running a little dicier.
“You live out there with all those ‘Deliverance’ folks. They could come up and grab you. None of us would hear from you again!” she often complained. (Lisa hated the suburbs with a passion.)
I then told Luda about the night I got home from work around 9:30 PM and decided that I needed a good run. So I put on my gear and went to jog my usual route. In short order, I was passed by a Mount Laurel police cruiser. The cruiser pulled over about half a mile ahead of me. I jogged on past him, and before I got very far, he pulled out and drove past me again and pulled over.
Yeah, I know what this is, I thought. He’s waiting to see what house I’m going to break into. This pattern went on throughout most of my 4 mile run. Finally at my last leg uphill on the shoulder against traffic, he went off to do some real police business I guess secure in the fact that there were no longer any houses I was in danger of robbing. So I jogged on home.
It actually was kinda cool. I had a police escort, though not for a good reason. Yet at least someone was keeping an eye on me that night.
After hearing my tale, Luda said, “maybe it was for a good reason.”
“As a black woman in America, I just can’t buy that. Paranoia is my middle name.”
Then Luda made the statement that would be the downfall of my evening.
“I believe that black people have it easier than white people here,” she said matter-of-factly.
Hello? I was a little taken aback. “How do you figure, Luda?” I asked evenly.
“Well my son was beaten up by black boys who wanted him to sell drugs. He’s a good boy and they attacked him.”
“I don’t know if you realize this, but drug dealers and gang members routinely attack any color kid who is not part of their set.”
“But no, we lived in a nice neighborhood in Philadelphia, and then when the blacks and Spanish moved in, they stole our lawn furniture and my son’s bike. How do you explain that?”
“So you think that blacks are obvious criminals and thugs?” I tried to keep my tone modulated, but inside that pain and hurt that came from having to defend my race so often throughout my life came to the fore.
“That is my experience. You see it on TV. If it wasn’t the case, then why would they show it? More blacks and Spanish are criminals….”
I tried to stay patient and Zen, mostly because I really like Luda, but she was really pushing my buttons.
“Next you’re going to tell me that there are more blacks on welfare than whites.”
“That’s true! It is so hard for whites to get on welfare but easy for blacks.”
“Wrong,” I said loudly. “There are more whites on welfare than blacks for the simple reason that there are more WHITES in this country than blacks! You want the data, I can show you the data. You only think there are more blacks on welfare because of the media propaganda!”
I knew I had to calm down. I was starting to have trouble breathing. Luda then went into her, I don’t prejudge people spiel, but it was clear that she did have prejudices.
“So what about me? Am I a criminal? Have I stolen anything from you, my neighbor, anyone?”
“No, you are a nice person. But most of the black people I meet are not like you.
And there we had it. The message I had fought against for most of my sentient life: you’re not like other black people. Other blacks are criminals, vandals, and ignorant fools, but you’re different.
I wanted to just drop to the floor and cry right then and there. But I didn’t. I tried to explain about bias and prejudice. “What do you think it’s like,” I asked her, “to have people assume that I’m some thieving welfare queen right when I walk in the door? Do you have any understanding what it feels like for people to make negative assumptions about you just based on the color of your skin? Can you imagine how hard it is to raise a black child with people believing that s/he is stupid, ghetto, criminal, slutty, or lazy? Can you imagine how painful that is? I’m about to adopt a black child (biracial is de facto black in the minds of most bigots). Can you get how much I am already worried about what s/he will face?”
I thought maybe she was getting it. Yet she came up with a simplistic solution.
“Why don’t you adopt a white baby?”
“I will never adopt a white baby,” I hissed. “I’m not white. The only thing people would think if I adopted a white baby was that I’m the nanny. I am an intelligent, successful, conscious black woman. Who better to adopt a black child? Who better?!”
“Well then you adopt one and raise the baby good.”
I realized at that point that I needed to move away from this subject. Far, far, away. This was a place that we hadn’t needed to go. Our easy conversation had led us to a very troublesome area, more troublesome for me than for her. For now that I know how she feels about my people, my feelings for her are in a way tainted. I want to be able to compartmentalize that area away from the way we normally chat and have fun during my workouts. But I don’t know if I can.
I do know that tonight I feel off-balance and triggered. I don’t know how to get my mind around all this. Every negative black stereotype is flying through my head. All I want to do is scream, “I’m not the exception. I, my family, my black friends, and my black patients are the fucking norm and not the exception!”
It kills me to be thought of as an accepted exception of a hated race.
Help me with this one, people.