Playing While Black

People were shouting. I was laying flat on my stomach in the shopping plaza parking lot. My glasses had been ripped off and all I could see was a blur moving toward me. It was either a cop or a security guard. His hands griped the belt holster. I couldn't tell whether it was a gun, a taser, or pepper spray he was about to bring out. I spun around and rolled onto my back with my hands in the air. I wanted him to see my eyes. It was amazing how quickly something could be misinterpreted in public. As I lay on the ground thinking about this, I felt a strange rush overtake me and a smirk of fear and excitement spread across my lips. Over the chaos, I shouted "no no no!"

In high school I was on the wrestling team. It was like having 12 little brothers. We would slap, smack, flick, kick, punch, and trip each other for entertainment. Our aggressive affection would come out in practice and flow out into our daily interactions. Our coaches were like our parents trying to calm down their hyper-active kids. Road trips were great opportunities for our teenage selves to get outside of North Miami Beach, staying in hotel room like adults, while competing with other schools from around the state.

When traveling, the roughhousing would start in the van. It was minor stuff, flicking the ear of the passenger in front of us, shoving each other for the best seat. At the rest stops the action would turn into tripping each other on the way to the bathroom, slap fights, chasing each other. On more than more occasion the chasing would flow out of the rest stop parking lots and on to the interstate highway while our coaches faces flushed with anger and fear at our demise at the hands of a 18-wheeler. When we arrived at the hotel, we would get put in our respective rooms and then the real fighting would start. Body slamming, hurling each other on to beds, rolling around on the floor while choking each other into submission. The coaches would bang on the walls from their room while drinking Coronas and smoking cigars.

Our wrestling team was North Miami Beach diverse: Haitian, Caribbean, Latin American, Jewish, and even the occasional WASP. When we would venture into Central and Northern Florida -which is the equivalent of the deep south, our crew would definitely draw attention. When strolling into one tournament in Central Florida, the rural coaches shouted 'uh-oh, here come the thugs! They're gonna rob us!' There was laughter as the insults went back and forth with us hurling claims of them screwing their cousins and tipping cows as they wanted to know how much crack-cocaine we had shoved up our ass. The wrestling locker room humor was drenched in competitive hatred, bigotry, prejudice, and tribalism as teenagers stripped down for weigh-ins and were placed in their respective tournament brackets.

We were in rural Florida on another wrestling trip, when our coaches decided to go shopping. They pulled the van into one of those non-descript Florida shopping plazas that litter I-95 corridor. We got out of the van and started tripping and slapping each other as we walked from store to store. A clerk in one stores suggested we leave and we sulked out into the plaza sidewalk, where the roughhousing continued.

In this particular we had a new member on the NMB traveling team: a Haitian teenager who was muscular, dark-skinned, and short. Now in many of these group rumbles it was me vs. everyone else. I enjoyed the battle of me against the world. The challenge made me feel like Bruce Lee dispatching of a fleet of adversaries. I would grab one of the smaller wrestlers and use him as a bludgeoning tool, swinging them around by their legs to take out a new wave of challengers in one blow (yes, we had no regard for concussions back then). We would never try to intentionally hurt or injure each other, as we would burst into delirious fits of laughter during the rumbling.

Usually I had no problem holding my own in these friendly battles. The new member of these games threw off the power dynamic. Muscular and squat in stature, the other guys decided to try a new tactic and use the Haitian teenager's strength in the first wave of attack while laying back. He lunged at me first and wrapped himself around one of my legs. Planted into the ground, the second wave of wrestlers came and attacked my free leg and took control. And then the final wrestler jumped on my back and wrapped himself around my shoulders trying to take me down. I did my best Terminator impersonation as I roared and swung my legs around while people grappled on.

My glasses were smacked off and I heard someone apologize while my glasses were pocketed for safekeeping. They took me down and we rolled around on the asphalt. My face was pushed down into the ground and all of sudden I heard shouting. Suddenly my legs and arms were free. All my friends had scattered. I looked up and saw a blurry figure running toward me as my savior. A stranger, a concerned store clerk? It was some kind of law enforcement officer or security guard. But when the officer started to reach for his holster, I realized that maybe he wasn't there to save me.

I wondered whether he had a gun, taser, or pepper spray on his belt. Whatever it was, I didn't want to get hit with 10,000 volts of electricity, chemical spray, or a warning shot, while lying on my stomach with the top part of my head exposed. Using my wrestling dexterity, I spun and flipped myself on to my back in one smooth motion while throwing my hands up near my ears. A bizarre smile appeared on my face as the officer realized that he wasn't breaking up a fight but teenage boy roughhousing.

I became aware of the picture we just created in that public space. This horde of black, brown, and yellow masculine bodies tossing each other around in a Central Florida parking lot. Unfortunately the victim in question (me) wasn't a blonde damsel in distress. As he got closer, I identified the blur as a the security guard, who was now extremely disappointed that he wouldn't be able to unsheathe his holster.

We all ended up laughing about the misunderstanding. My glasses were handed back to me and we spent the rest of our shopping time walking around the parking lot, trying to look as non-threatening and peaceful as possible.

Back in the van, we told our coaches about what had just happened while laughing. They didn't find it funny. In fact, they were horrified and reminded us that someone could have been shot by some 'redneck' cop. One of the wrestlers reminded the coach that the cop would have only shot the Haitian guy or me. The laughter faded away and into an uncomfortable silence on the ride back to the hotel.

From that day forward, I didn't participate in any roughhousing in public. My coaches praised me for this change, seeing it as a sign of maturity. When my other teammates would try to goad me into a fight at a convenience store or on the street, I reminded them that I was the one who could get in trouble. They usually backed off with a quiet understanding. 

White Privilege Among Friends and Facebook

In the midst of Zimmerman trial, a few 'friends' approached me. Apparently I talked too much about race. It wasn't appreciated. It made them uncomfortable. I thought about this for a while and resisted the urge to explain the sociological and historical terms of why Trayvon Martin is indicative of a larger problem. I became aware that I was dealing with White privilege and then I did something I should not have done: I stayed silent. I censored myself because the issue that endangered my actual ability to live...made them squirm. They would rather not talk about it. Some of these friends were spiritual, others were atheist, but I did notice one common trait: they were all White men.

I noticed that other people of color were experiencing the same thing in person or on social media sites. I would look at the Facebook newsfeed and notice the occasional comment of weariness: did we have to always make this about race? Once again, these were almost always White men. In one incident there was a questioning of why the news was only showing the young picture of Trayvon. Why was the news not showing the much larger and I guess scary, threatening Black man who was still gunned down for walking back home. When I explained the protocol of how the news media defers to the family to ask for pictures, his suspicion remained. Why was the media still running this picture, as if there was some conspiracy involved to show a murdered Black teenage boy as innocent victim of an overzealous neighbor with documented past incidents of racism, rather than acknowledging that the only conspiracy involved was one of facts aligning with our previous experiences of racism in America.

It's a blessing to have so many friends of different colors, ethnicities, and religions. But the issue of White privilege has to be addressed. For people of color to be told by their White 'friends' that they talk about race too much, the scenario should be flipped. In the midst of inequality, how can their counterpart be so silent?

Willful blindness and silence doesn't make one more Christian or Buddhist or spiritual. Quite the opposite. To allow systematic injustice to go on and to not even speak of it because it's messy or not your family, is a sign of weakness and privilege. It makes you a part of the problem.

The concepts of karma and emptiness do not mean we ignore the world and injustice. But we use the world to work through our own stuff. Activism on and off the cushion is a must. But there can be no work done when the inequalities of the day are ignored. Having a friend of color doesn't mean you've escaped the matrix of White privilege or have 'figured it out.'

This morning I saw a story about a Black man in Florida who was beaten up by a cop, arrested, thrown in jail for a night, and brought to court for walking on the wrong side of the road (the story can be read here). This is something that all people should be aware of; not because it highlights an isolated incident. The reason why this is news is because it's symbolic of systemic inequality. Although these societal problem appears to flares up every once in a while in outrageous crimes, they exists on a subtle level in the lives of millions every day.

When I walked down the street yesterday and hear the car doors lock, I am aware of the small, everyday things. I can't knock on the car window and explain to this person that I just came from a workshop at Juilliard. I can't explain to the cop who wants to frisk me that I'm actually an award-winning writer on a fellowship to the best arts school in the country. I can't explain to the women on the Upper West Side who scrunch up their faces in anguish/anger/contempt when I walk into a subway car, that I would no sooner ask them for money, than I would own a gun, or smoke crack, or do any of those things they may associate with someone who looks like me. None of these things can be said. Instead, people of color walk around with those everyday slights, with a feeling of anxiety and low-level paranoia.  It's not helpful to be told to bottle this up until the next riot or crisis, at which point people of color will be forced into another artificial dialogue, contrived to assuage the immediate fears of violence but not to address the actual problem of racism.

As a nation, we have to do better. As friends, we have to talk about what concerns us. There is no such thing as 'talking too much' about an issue if it's in the news and directly affects the your friends. Instead of willfully creating a wall of ignorance, we can use social media to actually break down those old barriers and listen to each other.

That is all. Namaste. 

Trayvon Martin and Walking While Black

Keep moving. 

Don't stop. 

Don't make eye contact. 

I have felt like Trayvon Martin. Many many times while walking at night, being pulled over by police, being told that I'm not supposed to 'be.' My 'being' in a space has caused questions, concerns, suspicions. In the back of my mind I always wondered if there would be a reckoning. If my 'being' would become so intolerable to someone that they would try to end my existence, rather than engage in a conversation.  The only difference between me and Trayvon is that I am still here and he is not.  Still, the question lurks around the subconscious when I walk home every night from the subway and a police car slows down alongside me. The squad car slows down. Eyeballs examine my 'being' noticing any signs of anger, insanity, guilt. I continue walking, pretending to be oblivious. In most cases this is the best sign of innocence: by pretending to not notice.

Unlike myself, Trayvon physically noticed the accusation. He noticed the suspicion and dared to walk toward it. Stare at it, as he spoke with his girlfriend over the phone. Curious, as to who could be staring at him so intently he took a step in Zimmerman's direction. Staring directly at George Zimmerman before quickly walking away.

When I am walking in strange or dark surroundings I try to keep it moving. No time to stop. I hear my parents' voice of survival.

You don't know where this person is coming from.

You don't know what they want or what they're trying to get.

They could be trying to get into a fight. They could be trying to rob you. It could be a trap.

Keep it moving. 

 A few years ago I was headed home from the library. Two figures came out of a building and began pursuing me. From the corner of my eye, I saw that they were two tall football-muscular men in their 20s. They happened to be White. I keep my eyes on the path. They seemed to be trying to catch me.

I flipped up my collar and continued walking briskly. One of the men came alongside me.



Dude, do you have a lighter?



No, I don't smoke.


Stupid nigger.


I continued walking very quickly. This felt like a trap of some sort. I was supposed to react to it. Turn around and get in a fight with two bigger stronger men who seemed worked up about something. I was supposed to turn and scream 'murder' or swing at one of them. I was supposed to react and give them something. I picked up my pace and kept walking. I made sure not to run, but I never made eye contact. The goal was to get home. I was not going to be swayed by a 'word' that was intended to arouse my rage. 

The two men eventually trailed off, seeing that I was unwilling to take the bait. Perhaps they found a Mexican, Asian, or another Black man that night. I wasn't going to be 'their one.'

On another occasion a cab driver seemed to go out of his way just so he could spit on my path and give me a murderous look. I was walking down the street carrying my airport luggage.

I could name other incidents of walking while Black: the police slow-downs, pull-overs, suspicious looks. It's all the same because my reaction has to be measured and numb. I pretend not to notice and keep eyes fixed straight ahead.  Hands out of pockets and swinging along my side. Maybe I'll start singing. A guilty man wouldn't sing, would he?

More and more the last few years when I find myself WWB, a sad smile comes across my face.After all these years, you're still looking for that sign of suspicion. It's not here. I'm innocent. There is nothing wrong with me. I'm just a Black man out for a walk.