The Black Friend

by Frederick Joseph

  There are only a few people whom I personally admire when it comes to conversations about these intersections and privilege, and one of them is Saira Rao.

  SAIRA: White men, without a doubt, are the most powerful group in America. But white women enjoy as much white privilege as white men. White men are rightfully always on the hook. White women wouldn’t argue that white men aren’t racist, right? We just all assume that white men are racist. But white women have been let off the hook for that entire thing all this time until recently. Susan B. Anthony was one of the most racist people on the planet. And she is a white feminist icon; she’s a god, right?

  There were a few times while writing this book that I had to stand back in awe of something that was said to me in an interview, and Saira’s first two sentences were one of those times. In just a few words, she was able to capture the essence of how white people who aren’t straight men exist within and benefit from white supremacy.

  SAIRA: White women have not only been let off scot-free, they are heralded for their innate goodness. For being NICE.

  Saira next shared her thoughts on how privilege and power work in situations where you have white minorities (like women or members of the LGBTQ community) who believe they are more oppressed than someone who is Black or another racial minority.

  SAIRA: We just erase history and create new stuff, and then everyone pretends like that’s the reality. It’s white women who get Black men killed all the time. Let’s not forget Emmett Till. It’s white women who are picking up the phone and calling 911 on Black people sitting and standing and breathing and having coffee at Starbucks. If you are a white woman, you are on the receiving end of oppression, being a woman, but can be on the giving end of oppression because you are white. As an Asian woman, I am on the receiving end of oppression, being brown and being a woman, but can be on the giving end of anti-Black racism.

  It’s not complicated.

  Saira then shared a story that speaks to how powerful white supremacy and racism are and the generational impact of oppression.

  SAIRA: When I was nine, a white boy in my class asked me to go out with him, and I said yes. And the next day, he came to school and asked me to meet him in the library, and I was, like, “Oh my God, so psyched, he’s brought me Skittles or something.” And I met him in the library, and he told me he couldn’t go with me anymore because his mom said he couldn’t go with a Black girl. [Sidenote: Saira is Indian, not Black.] And so I literally remember thinking to myself, His mom is right; she’s doing what’s best for him, as if telling him, “Eat your vegetables and get some exercise; don’t associate yourself with Saira.” And I got home—and I didn’t cry all day—but I sat on my front stoop, weeping, and I took a rock and started rubbing my arm, trying to rub the brown off of my skin. And my mom came home from work in her sari—and she was called all sorts of things by people there, who then she had to give rectal exams to.

  So I just think about the humiliation she had to live through. And she said on her death bed to me six, seven, years ago, one of the worst memories of her life was arriving home that day and seeing me on the stairs, bleeding, saying to her—and I said to her—“This is your fault.” And I pointed at my skin, and I was like, “This is your fault.” And you know what she said to me? “You’re right.” And that was the end. She didn’t try to tell me to love myself or that guy was wrong, because she had self-loathing, because she was internally oppressed. You’ll recall the British colonialism of India. Okay? So, that’s in the ’80s in Richmond, Virginia.

  In 2016, in Denver, in super-liberal Denver, Colorado, I come down the stairs, and my son, who at the time was seven, six or seven, is standing in my kitchen, and he has unleashed two tubes of sunscreen all over his body, rubbed it all over his body. And I was, like, “What are you doing?” And he goes, “Mom, look, I’m finally white.” And I was, like, “Oh my God, nothing has changed. Nothing has changed.”

  Saira’s points and quotes help frame not only the impact of generations of trauma from white supremacy but also why it’s crucial that we understand the intersections of privilege and power among white people.

  It’s a difficult conversation, and one that people like Abbie and Parker are often not prepared to have. It’s a conversation that forces white people to reflect on identity, which is something that isn’t easy for anyone.

  As a cis heterosexual Black man, I have to assess the privilege and power I have compared with women and people in the LGBTQ community, while also assessing the other aspects of their identity. Because, while I face more oppression than Abbie because she’s a white woman, I face less oppression than Black women. The same way Abbie faces more oppression than Parker because he is a white man, still a part of the group that ultimately has a great deal of power. Only a straight white man would deal with less oppression, because that group holds the most power.

  And Abbie, Parker, and I each face far less discrimination than Black transgender women, who have to deal with the oppression of white supremacy, transphobia, and the patriarchy.

  In one way or another, we all have some type of privilege or power in relation to someone else, but most of us aren’t reflecting on that. Most of us aren’t thinking about how we may be hurting someone else, how we may be ignoring someone else, how we may be oppressing someone else.

  It’s a difficult conversation because it requires us not only to treat others better but to hold ourselves accountable.

  It’s hard to see the role we play in someone else’s struggle while we are busy fighting for ourselves or our people.

  But we have to learn to see with new eyes, hear with new ears, and find new ways to trust other people’s words when they tell us and show us how we’re hurting them. Because doing the right thing sometimes means putting the pain of others before our own, especially if we are part of creating it.

  I love music. I know a lot of people say that, but I really love music, and I have ever since I was a child.

  My earliest memories are of me feeling the vibrations of the music that people would play around me. I can still remember being a child and understanding the energy in the room based on what people were listening to. Their joy, their pain, or their loneliness.

  But my favorite energy was and always will be pride. It’s a feeling that’s always been important to me as a Black person, because when we haven’t had anything else, we’ve had our pride. As James Brown put it so perfectly, “Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud.”

  It’s the pride in songs like Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright” that helps me keep faith that one day the world will be better for Black people.

  Google the lyrics and stream the song; I think you’ll understand.

  I find the same pride in Solange’s song “F.U.B.U.,” which is short for “For Us, By Us.” The title is very direct, and so is the song itself.

  But none of the other lyrics of that song have ever made me feel as strongly as one line, repeated at various points: “Some sh*t is for us.”

  It’s a simple statement, but it has so much meaning behind it. It’s a direct response to so many moments in the lives of people—moments when people do things because they don’t understand why they can’t do them. Even when no one asked them to understand, we just asked them not to do it. Sometimes things shouldn’t be done because they’re just not meant for you.

  The summer before college started, a few friends and I decided to take a road trip upstate to drop off our friend Cynthia (yes, the same Cynthia from earlier), who was starting school early.

  It was me, Cynthia, my friend and Cynthia’s boyfriend, Carlos (isn’t love grand?), our friend Jamel, our friend Dante, and Dante’s girlfriend, Tabitha. This was our first time meeting Tabitha, and she seemed nice. She was a young Chinese American woman who met Dante while they were both doing an internship for City Hall.

  Like us, Dante was from a poor neighborhood in our city, and he went to school with Carlos. Tabitha went to private school and was not from a neighborhood
like ours. But one of the things Dante told us he enjoyed about her was that she never made him feel like they were different.

  Since he liked her, we liked her, plus, as soon as we met her, she seemed down-to-earth.

  The drive up to Cynthia’s school was about four hours one way, so we took Carlos’s dad’s SUV because it could comfortably fit all of us and had an amazing speaker system.

  When we got in the truck, each of us pulled out our iPod to show off our music libraries and decide who would get the aux (be the DJ).

  This was before the age of car Bluetooth and streaming. To play music, you either needed CDs or you had an iPod that stored music that you downloaded. This was when curating music meant a lot, because even those with iPods that could hold a lot of songs were still limited. So music taste really meant something.

  After comparing who had the best music selection, it came down to me versus Tabitha to see who was going to have the aux. She had a ton of great music that was very similar to mine, so we decided to let her have it on the way up, since she was the new one in the group.

  The pressure was on. We all took having the aux very seriously (and still do). It’s not just about putting on a playlist; it’s about setting the tone and keeping it. You have to make sure you set the mood and build on that. Everyone has to be consistently happy and excited, or before you know it, your aux privileges are revoked for months.

  I’m happy to say that this has never happened to me. Whether it was on an iPod or now on Spotify, I keep a crowd pleased when I have the aux. If you need someone on the aux for your next event, let me know. I do proms, bar/bat mitzvahs, graduation parties—you name it.

  Tabitha didn’t fail. She started the road trip strong by playing “Party Like a Rockstar” by the Shop Boyz, which at the time was one of the top songs out. A hit is always a good place to start.

  She had the aux for hours, and we heard a mix of everything in that time. Tabitha played new hits and hits we hadn’t heard in years that took us back to elementary school with some 98 Degrees. (I already told you my stance on them.) She was rocking.

  We were about three hours into the trip when Dante asked Tabitha, “Where’s the real rap?” Up to that point, Tabitha had played songs from various genres, many of which were top radio hits, though a few weren’t. But when it came to hip-hop and rap, she had played only songs that were on the radio.

  She told us she didn’t have a lot of non-radio rap songs, but I did. So she gave the aux to me. After playing a few songs by artists like A Tribe Called Quest, Jadakiss, and Mos Def, I realized she didn’t know many, if any, of the songs.

  If you don’t know these artists, go on whatever streaming service you have and get familiar. This was a different era of rap and hip-hop. For additional recommendations, head on to the back of the book, where I’ve listed songs in the Black Friend Playlist.

  Tabitha sat silently in the car and smiled as we bounced around and listened to some of the rap we had grown up on and knew by heart. She looked on, as if wishing she could be involved.

  After the rest of us had fun and rapped along for a while, I decided to ask Tabitha if there was a rapper or song she liked that was similar to what I was playing. Before she could respond, Dante said, “Dipset or the Game.”

  Tabitha responded, “Oh, yeah! All of those guys are cute. I love them.”

  Dante responded, “Honestly, she knows more of their music than me. We listen to them in her car and she raps along. Watch.”

  So I picked a song that I figured would be perfect, because it had both Dipset and the Game featured on it (it was also a favorite of mine): “Certified Gangstas.”

  As the song started, Dante, Jamel, and I rapped along to the Game’s first verse. After the verse, Dante urged Tabitha to rap along. “Watch. Watch. Get ’em, babe!”

  Jamel and I stayed silent as the next verse came up so Tabitha could rap along with Jim Jones. She looked at us nervously and then began.

  Tabitha rapped along with the swagger of someone performing in front of thousands. We all watched and cheered her on. “Okay! Get ’em, Tabitha!” Jamel yelled.

  At a certain point, Jamel and I jumped in to rap as well, because we knew the n-word was coming up in the song and she wouldn’t be able to say it.

  Again, white readers, I expect you not to say it, either. Especially as it comes up quite a bit in the rest of the story.

  A few moments later, the line happened. Jamel and I looked at each other in surprise and confusion. It wasn’t just the two of us who had said the line. Tabitha said it as well.

  As Tabitha continued rapping and Dante hyped her on as if nothing had happened, Cynthia turned the music down.

  “What did you just say?” Cynthia asked.

  “What do you mean?” Tabitha responded.

  “You just said ‘nigga,’” I said.

  “So?” Tabitha asked.

  Cynthia, Jamel, and I responded at basically the same time.

  “The hell?” said Cynthia.

  “Oh, nah,” said Jamel.

  “Get your girl, Dante,” I said.

  “What’s the problem? Dante doesn’t care when I say it, and he’s Black,” Tabitha responded.

  We all looked at Dante. Carlos could barely keep his eyes on the road at this point, so he pulled over.

  “Dante, you let her say the n-word?” responded Cynthia.

  “I mean, yeah. She doesn’t call me a nigger with an ‘er’ or anything. She says it if it’s in a song. That’s not a big deal,” Dante replied.

  “It is a big deal,” Jamel said.

  “Why? She’s not even white,” Dante argued.

  “I’m not white, and neither is Cynthia, but we don’t say it,” Carlos responded.

  “But I wouldn’t care if you did,” Dante said.

  “I would care if they did, and I’m Black, too,” I said.

  “So would I,” Jamel said.

  We sat there on the side of the road for a few minutes, and no one said anything. Eventually Cynthia asked Carlos to turn the car around so we could go back home. She said she didn’t want to “bring this type of energy to her new school.”

  Cynthia was always like that. She really didn’t take any garbage from anyone, as you probably recall from the Halloween brawl we got into the year before.

  Carlos turned the car around, and we headed back home. Everyone was still silent for the most part, until Jamel asked Tabitha a question.

  “How would you feel if people just wore a bunch of Chinese clothes and took things from Chinese culture but weren’t Chinese?” Jamel asked.

  “I wouldn’t care, and that happens all of the time. Doesn’t make any difference,” Tabitha responded.

  “That’s weird,” Jamel said. “This white girl in my middle school tried to throw a Mulan-themed birthday party at school, and she asked everyone to come wearing ‘Chinese fashion.’ This Japanese girl in my class got offended, even though it wasn’t her specific culture. It turned into a big thing, and the girl had to cancel the party.”

  “Like I said, that wouldn’t make a difference to me. Who cares?” Tabitha said.

  “But it should make a difference,” Cynthia responded. “It’s your culture and your community. You shouldn’t just give it away. I don’t mind people who are not Latino learning about our cultures, but I don’t want people thinking they can just do anything with it.”

  “We say it, so other people can, too,” Dante argued. “It’s not that serious.”

  “We say it because it’s ours to say. It’s a Black word, and Black people can choose to say it or not,” I responded.

  Jamel followed my comment by yelling at Dante in frustration, “Yes, it is that serious! Because I don’t care if you want to let people disrespect you. But I’m not letting just anyone say ‘nigga’ around me. If you’re not Black, don’t say it.”

  “We can have Carlos pull over the car if you want,” Dante responded, clearly ready to take this argument to the next level.

&nbs
p; “It’s whatever to me,” Jamel responded.

  They took off their seat belts and began moving as if they were ready to fight in the car before it could pull over. I quickly jumped in and told them both to stop.

  The last thing we needed was a car full of young people of color fighting on the highway. It would have been like Christmas morning for some racist police officer.

  Everyone stayed absolutely silent for the rest of the ride. We got back, and Carlos dropped Tabitha and Dante off. Before the two got out of the car, Jamel took a quick shot at Dante by saying, “Not all skinfolk are kinfolk.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and Dante walked off with Tabitha. It was the last time any of us saw him.

  “Not all skinfolk are kinfolk” is something I have heard since I was a child. It’s typically used as a slap in the face or to express disappointment in someone. What it basically means is that just because someone looks like you or is part of a community you belong to doesn’t mean you are going to share the same values. Especially of the community.

  Another example of when this phrase could have been used was when Kenneth let those two white guys call me a “nigga.” I’m not sure if you needed another example, or if I just wanted to remind you how bad Kenneth was; either way, I feel good about it.

  That phrase is for those who don’t take pride in their community, whatever that community may be. Those who don’t understand that “some sh*t is for us.”

  It’s not just about disrespecting clothes or saying words that have a history of a community’s pain and struggle. Sometimes “some sh*t is for us” is simply about reflecting, celebrating, hurting, and understanding staying within a community. Because not everything is meant to be shared, especially when some cultures haven’t even received the benefit or profits from their culture, while others have.