Milk and Oreos
Two things happen every Leap Year, a US Presidential Election and an extra day of Black History Month. Let’s discuss some occurrences from the latter.
I am a black woman.
I don’t know if I explicitly state this anywhere on my little website outside of photographs of myself. However, I do know it is a fact I am reminded of from time-to-time but even more so every February. I grew up in predominately white neighborhoods, I went to predominately white schools, lived in a very gentrified Washington, DC, and now live in a very white Denver. All this to say, I have always had a weird relationship with Black History Month and I don’t know if it will ever change. So, for this post I’m going to share a couple anecdotes from my month that I think will give you a bit of perspective into what it means to be reminded of who you are.
Oreo
“oreo 5) A insulting termed often used by blacks to derogate other blacks as “Black on the outside, white on the inside.” White on the inside meaning anything from speaking proper english, getting good grades, liking music that isn’t hip hop, rap or R&B and having a diverse group of friends.”
At the end of January I went on a ski trip with some friends from Virginia. On day two, I was getting ready to make breakfast but realized only two of the six others were actually awake and opted to wait. I turned to one friend and said, “I want to wait until I see the eyes of a couple more whites to start cooking.” We both realized what I’d just said at the exact same moment. I was trying to quote the poetic William Prescott and instead drew attention to the truth, I was a black lady cooking for a group of my white friends. I don’t know if I was subconsciously aware of the fact that we were a couple of days from February 1st, the start of Black History Month, or that we were at one of Colorado’s bougie-er ski resorts surrounded by a whole lot of white people - but I suddenly became hyper-aware of my circumstances. The next night at dinner there was a discussion about who’d eaten all the Oreos in the kitchen. I volunteered that I don’t like Oreos because I don’t believe in cannibalism. This time it wasn’t a case of verbal dyslexia, I was just leaning all the way into raising awareness that I was a black person blending into another white room.
White male disposition
In the week prior to my trip, I had two instances of unrelated white male friends making very obtuse and ignorant statements.
In the first instance, the conversation around the table was about communities being closed off to racial diversity and integration. My friend started what was on the verge of being a very intellectual argument. He began by saying that in building racial boundaries, white communities would not be able to realize the contributions minorities bring to economic development. He then went on to expand upon what other attributes people of color bring to the table beginning with athletic prowess, followed by an awkward pause, and concluding with a rapid rambling of professions and talents beyond physical strength. We were at a bar, we’d been drinking, we were crashing a mutual friend’s birthday party and thus were among a large group of strangers. At this moment, I opted to pretend like I hadn’t been listening at all so as to avoid embracing the total buzzkill that had just befallen my ears. A few minutes later he turned me and asked if he was wrong for what he’d just said, if he’d been insensitive. Partially because I pretended like I hadn’t heard to begin with and partially because I wanted him to hear himself repeat it, I asked him to run it back for me. I knew he knew he was wrong - I knew it in that momentary self-imposed awkward silence - but I wanted him to determine what was so wrong about it on his own. I could do that with this particular friend because I could count the number of times he’d said something ignorant in my presence in almost 20 years of friendship on one hand. Once he worked it out and swallowed his own embarrassment, I assured him that despite his poor choice that I was proud of him for coming to the realization on his own and making an effort to rectify it.
The second incident was a little less refined, if you will. Actually, I should mention despite my worldliness I am a huge fan of all things Bravo TV. I’m also wholly unashamed about this, I don’t believe in having guilt about my pleasures. Now that you know, here’s the story: after a quick dive on the rumored new cast members of the of the impending Real Housewives of Salt Lake City I was surprised to see a few women of color sprinkled in with the anticipated Mormon and LDS wives. I made a comment about this perhaps being the most diverse cast in a franchise series premiere (no, I did not fact check this first, it’s Bravo after all) to the friends in my Bravo group text. The only [white] male in the group was quick to reply, “What about Atlanta?” (Should you require context: Atlanta’s first season featured an all-black cast with one white mistress [Kim was no one’s wife].)
Aside from his ignorance, my friend was an English major. He certainly must have known “diverse” does not mean all of one thing, creed, race, etc., right? I simply sent a screenshot of the the definition of diverse.
“DIVERSE
/dəˈvərs,dīˈvərs/
adjective
showing a great deal of variety; very different.”
The Census Bureau bro
So, it’s my first Saturday back in Denver after a weekend in Portland and I’m meeting friends at one of my favorite breweries for its annual Mardi Gras Rumpus. I love all things New Orleans and take every opportunity to celebrate its unique culture whenever I can. I donned a purple button down and my bright yellow puffer vest (cause, Colorado) and made my way to the festivities. Stepping out of my Lyft my ears tickled at the sounds of a big brass band playing all the best Zydeco hits. I strutted through the entrance and was immediately stopped by a woman who complimented me on my colors, I assured her “I tried” and kept it moving. My friends were at a table in the back corner so I stopped at the bar to grab myself a beer first. I placed my order and then felt an arm around my shoulder - I looked to my left to see a total stranger. This man is easily 30 years my senior and very, very drunk - like can’t do much more than smile at me, drunk - and has zero intention of letting me go. I look him dead in his face and say, “HELLO! May I help you??” to which he just smiles. As I’m trying to figure out how to wriggle myself from his grip, another older white man flanks me on my right side. I look to him hoping he might be an ally and instead he compliments me on my outfit. Great. Thankfully, the bartender delivered my beer and I was able to duck out and go find my friends. About 10 minutes later we’ve relocated to a different table and the aforementioned right-side flanker approaches. Thankfully, I’d already told my friends about the earlier assault on my personal space and was attempting to signal that this man was one of the offenders.
“You make 4!” said Flanker.
“I’m sorry, what?” I replied to the man wearing his sunglasses INSIDE.
“You’re the 4th black person here!”
“Oh?!” I retorted, not quite over the trauma endured when I was simply trying to order a beer.
“Yeah, I mean it’s all cool, my wife is one of the others.” he said with such confidence.
Beyond the point of having run out of patience I replied, “I don’t know what to tell you, you’re in Denver.”
“Oh, well, you see, that’s the thing! I’m from New York City, this is so foreign to me, man!”
“Cool, yeah, it’s Denver.”
“Well yeah, but like, ya know, my wife, and. . .” Honest to goodness, I straight up stopped listening. I blacked out. I cannot tell you what I said in response, but whatever it was it was pleasant enough to convince ol’ sunglasses to keep it moving without alarming him to the point of siccing his wife on me.
As soon as he walked away my friend turned and asked me if this sort of thing happened to me often. She was obviously far more offended than I had the energy to exert for myself. It brought me a sense of relief to tell her it really wasn’t a common occurrence in Denver, but it’s definitely something I’ve dealt with in the past. We both agreed that despite the “you make 4” lead-off, this man - whose eyes we could not see - really didn’t mean as much harm as he inflicted.
On Being A Black WOman
So, I guess all this is to say that a month that is supposed to be about celebrating the historical achievements and contributions Black Americans have made on our country seems to often end up being a battle for me. Every year I have to decide if I am going to set out on a mission to educate as a remedy to ignorance or if I can just celebrate my blackness unapologetically. And every year, no matter what decision I’ve made for myself I am met with some circumstance that tests my patience and tries my exhaustion.
The difference is I simply can’t be unapologetically black and educate the ignorant at the same time - I’m not afforded that luxury as a black woman. I have to deploy the decades of lessons learned navigating white spaces to deliver messaging in a way that doesn’t alienate the offender by skirting the “angry black woman” trope. Thankfully, I have the ability to do this but frustratingly I wish I didn’t have to stifle my true emotional response to be heard.
Until next February. . .
