This story is…every day. I will never know what it feels like to be a black man (or woman) in America. The only thing I know is that at best, I can sympathize. But never–ok, rarely–empathize. Like when I have a beard and people call me “Saddam” or “Osama”…or tell me while crossing the streets of Manhattan that this isn’t my country. Those things hurt. But they don’t happen every day.
I view them as exceptional circumstances driven by idiocy, ignorance, or a delusion (sometimes borne of never having traveled beyond one’s own comfort zone geographically.) But … this isn’t every day. There are moments in time when I forget my skin has color. Even when authority figures are nearby.
Sometimes I need a mirror, in the form of glass or ignorance, to remind me that I am a minority. But as a black man or woman in America, are there ever moments you aren’t acutely aware of your skin? With this example, shouldn’t you always be aware so you can then diffuse and manage wearing a quilted hat as if it is a life and death situation? Because it is? Holy f*cl I can’t believe it is.
But it is.
Today, for this humble story to serve as a reminder of the work we have to do as a populace, I take note. And I am grateful it was shared. I am thankful I read it. And I am sorry, Professor. I’d have stuck around and granted you a hug too. Thanks for sharing Sam DeBrule. #Iamgrateful. #Iamthankful. I got to read this and be reminded…