I've been Black all of my life. And today, I can say without any hesitation, is the most dangerous time to be black I've ever seen.
I would say a dog whistle has been blown but it's actually the sound of a steam whistle and that sound tells me that I'm not safe.
Now this is not some theoretical nonsense about how I don't feel safe. I'm a New Yorker. Feelings are not my part in parcel. I'm not safe. I know I'm not safe. Because I've experienced it.
I live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Yes, that Manhattan. I'm not talking about small town Georgia here or a backward suburb of Florida. I'm talking about New York City where Tom Collichio doesn't just appear on Top Chef but appears in his restaurant fifteen minutes away. I'm talking about the New York where two towers were razed and six more were raised in their place. I'm talking about a city where I've seen a rat will fight a dog. And win.
My city is an urban hydra which doesn't die, it endures and adapts. And curiously enough, it's children, it's citizens, particularly it's native born sons and daughters, are the same. One time I was driving through a small town in North Carolina in the early hours of the morning and I saw a neon sign lit up bright that said "Bagel Land! Boiled Hand Rolled Bagels Made Fresh Every Morning at 5 AM!". It was 4:30. My only thought: Those are my people.
And as a child of the hydra I can tell you for the first time I don't feel safe. In this recent environment I have gone to restaurants, seen people sitting and been told, we're closed. The only difference between me and the patrons, I looked like the coffee, and they the cream. I thought Jim Crow was dead. To my chagrin he simply calls himself James now and spells his last name with an E.
I have been riding in a shared ride, pre-pandemic, and been punched in the face repeatedly for requesting to be left alone. I have been attacked by multiple people and sneered at outside my own door by government officials suspicious, in a society where black is assumed to mean poor, how I could afford to live there? Surely I had traveled there to cause trouble.
And yet, a curious thing happened to me the other day. I was going to work out at my gym, Planet Fitness. Yes, I could afford Equinox but there are many brown people there and a brown staff and I enjoy brown spaces. But PF is in Spanish Harlem so I have to travel there. On this particular day I took an Electric Citibike. As I stopped at a red light I noticed the hard suspicious stare of the NYPD. I could feel it. I've felt it before. It's a predator's stare. Now I refuse to think of myself as prey but I know when something is hunting me. All humans do. It's in the DNA. And I was being observed for signs of fear.
And then just like that it let up. The razor's edge in the air suddenly let up and it became light again. And I became confused. Happy. But confused. Why? Why did this happen? Why did they not continue to silently pressure me until the flow of traffic forced them forward?
It happened again three days later. Silent threat followed by a sudden click and then normalcy, an immediate lifting of menace, and once again all being right with the world.
Then I looked at my clothing and it dawned on me. It wasn't my Fly Knit Nikes or my Addidas Warm Ups. It was my Lululemon Track jacket.
I wish I could tell my fellow Negros that Lululemon will keep you safe. But it won't. But a corporate logo will.
A few years ago my company, flush with profits, gave everyone a choice of gifts: a jacket, a bag, or a wallet. (Who would pick the wallet?) I picked the jacket. It was sleek and sharp and fitting. Think Kenneth Cole meets SpaceX. But I never knew the most important part on it was the little corporate logo.
I was safe, not because I was doing nothing wrong, not because I was a citizen, but because I was a corporately branded Negro.
This brand said "taxpayer". This brand said "this Negro belongs to somebody". Worst yet, this brand said "if you hurt him people will notice, people who matter will notice".
I was thrown into a twilight zone. I was safe. But was I safe because I was 'owned'? Was I safe, and free from harrassment because I was part of a group? No. I was safe because I was part of a protected class.
Like babies in Japan black full time Corporate Americans are rare and necessary. Not only do we provide valuable work product but we are a buffer between the Upper Management and the Politicians. 95% of the time we are left to do our jobs and are held to the same standard as everyone else. But we all understand that 5% of the time we may be called upon to be diversity incarnate. "Hey Curtis, can we use your picture on this website?" I always reply 'Yes". It's part of the game. As Avon says, "It's either play or get played."
We don't live in a perfect world. I'm a Child of the Hydra. I understood that when I was seven. But I never thought that my employers logo would actually keep me safe.
I was always curious. I hear stories all the time about Black people killed in an extra-judicial fashion. And these stories are always followed up with this narrative about the perfect black person. Victim Jenkins was an athlete, entering college, played football, loved staying in shape, didn't drink, didn't do drugs, never had, was cared for by his community, had a girlfriend of years (they were engaged!), attended church, volunteered, and when he shat his fecal matter was speckled in gold leaf.
But I'm not perfect. I drink. I have a sharp tongue. I can be arrogant. I laugh loudly. I post questionable things on social media. I sleep with random women, engaged women, married women. I challenge racism where I see it in real time. I challenge Patriots fans where I see them in real time. I'm a mathematically enabled coder with a flair for conversation and a devil-may-care attitude. I can be contrarian. I can also be charming. Stylistically I'm not Harry Belafonte. I'm substance free Bobby Brown.
I'm not the perfect black person because I'm not perfect. My faults are multitude. I often wondered what would happen if I were killed. Would they find my treasure chest of flaws and blame me? Then I wore my jacket. Thank God I have a corporate logo to protect me. Thank God a corporate citizen in good standing vouches for me. I used to feel like 3/5ths of a man. Thank God my company gave me a 40% raise.
Excuse me now. I'm going to call my little brother. I'm scared for him. He has the same personality as me. He laughs like me. He talks like me. He lives like me. But he works for Wendy's. God, I'm so scared. On second thought, let me call a friend from my company. Maybe we have a couple of extra jackets.
