True Left

I'm Black But Look White. Here Are The Horrible Things White People Feel Safe Telling Me.

I was outside my house gardening a few weekends ago when a neighbor, whom I had known for almost 30 years, stopped by so I could pet his large, fluffy dogs. I took my gloves off, squatted down to give the dogs a really good scratching around their ears and felt the sun on my back. What could be better? And then my neighbor said: “Why do you have a ‘Black Lives Matter’ sign on your front lawn when all those people do is kill each other?”

My lovely day screeched to a halt.

“You know I’m Black, right?” I said, standing up as tall as my 5’4” frame would allow, the sun shining on my blond hair. I continued to pet his dogs, because I needed the comfort of petting dogs at that moment, and because I needed to keep my hands busy so they didn’t slap that man’s face.

After the usual back and forth of him saying “No!” and me saying “Yes!” and then him trying to gauge exactly “how Black I was” by asking which of my parents was Black and me replying “Both,” we had a very uncomfortable conversation about racism.

I told him about my father’s struggles to get an education because guidance counselors and admissions agents would not accept Black people into community colleges or SUNY programs in the 1950s and ’60s. I told him that even though my father was a veteran, he could not be approved to use the GI Bill for college or buy a house, since no one would process his paperwork because he was a Black man. I told him that people painted “Go Home ****” on the back of our home when my parents finally saved enough money to build a house in the suburbs of Syracuse, New York. And I told him how “Black Lives Matter” calls attention to the fact that Black people are considered less than white people ― and that needs to stop.

I also told him if people don’t understand that Black lives matter, Black people will continue to be murdered by the police and denied opportunities by the establishment. We will not be allowed to participate in the “American Dream,” and we will be made to feel that this is somehow our fault, when it is in fact the fault of a racist society with the full support of our government.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to have this conversation. Encounters like this have been going on for a very long time for me.
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There is also the story of a great-aunt, Annie Mother, who would pass as white to purchase properties and then sell or rent them to Black family members and other Black families who could not find decent, affordable housing. I wanted to be like Annie Mother, so I pursued a career in social justice, specifically issues related to housing.

My parents originally tried to purchase a home in Syracuse in the 1960s. Most of the houses they made offers on had deed restrictions that stated the home could not be “sold to Negros.” Determined to own their own home, they decided to build a house, and found some land in a subdivision in Liverpool, New York, where the builder was happy to sell to them. Despite this good news, they soon learned they couldn’t get approved for a mortgage. My dad had a good job at General Electric and my parents had savings, but none of this was enough, because they were Black.

My dad accepted a transfer to a position in Alaska, because he could earn double what he’d make in Syracuse. My mom and I moved in with my grandmother for a year and my mom banked all of my dad’s checks. When he returned, my parents paid cash to have their house built in Liverpool.

This was the same house on which people painted “Go Home ****.” They did this when we already were home ― there was no other “home” to go to. We lived in a white neighborhood, and I went to a school where all the other students were white. Before I started kindergarten, my parents had “the talk” with me. If you don’t know about “the talk,” let me explain it to you. “The talk” is about race. It’s about being Black in a world run by white people, where white people make the rules.
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I didn’t look Black, but I am Black, so we figured I could and would be subjected to racist actions by my peers. We were prepared for groups of white parents to gather at the school to shout at me. Or spit on me. My parents needed me to understand that if this happened, it didn’t mean I was bad. It meant the adults were bad
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In high school, one student came dressed as a klansman for Halloween, carrying a noose. Another student, wearing blackface and a loincloth, ran around in front of him. When the few Black students and a number of our white classmates complained to the principal about it, we were told we needed to “develop a sense of humor.”
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White people think I am white too, and therefore feel safe saying all kinds of horrible things they might not say publicly. I’ve had people tell me it “disgusts” them to see interracial couples. They’ve told me they don’t understand why Black neighborhoods look so “ghetto,” and that Black people are “animals” or “thugs.” Many of these people are educated, and hold jobs or positions that give them some form of power or influence over Black people. They are doctors, judges, lawyers, social workers and politicians. That’s frightening.
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Living as a Black woman who looks white has allowed me to experience white privilege firsthand. Because people assume I am white, it is assumed I am honest, smart and trustworthy. Many times I have thought to myself: If I looked Black, how would these people treat me? And I have known, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would be treated with disdain or suspicion, or as a criminal. I know in many instances that if I looked Black, the police would have been called to question me. And this sickens and angers me. How many of our Black brothers and sisters have had the police called on them simply for the act of living their lives?