On yesterday,
I was pulled over by a Highway Patrolman for driving while black.
I felt it
coming as soon as I passed him. I was
driving at 70 miles per hour headed West on Interstate 70. I wasn’t speeding, but I sensed the worst
when he pulled behind me as I followed a truck in the right lane. The tension
increased as he followed me for what seemed to be too long. I knew it was
coming, but I wasn’t sure why.
The revolving
motion of the blue light confirmed my suspension.
“Driver’s
license and insurance card please,” the tall, lean patrolman requested. Of
course he’s white. “You know you only have one license plate. In Missouri, you
need two.”
In Missouri
you need two – one in the front, one in the back. No big deal.
The mistake wasn’t mine. The attendant at the DMV only gave me one after
I paid the property taxes when I purchased my car last year.
“Where you
from. Where you headed. Where you purchase your car, why do you have a North
Carolina license?” he probed like I’d been sworn in to testify in court. I was
given a warning. End of story, right?
No, it’s the
next page of a never ending saga.
It took me 45
minutes to reach my destination. A lot happens within a mind left alone to
contemplate a series of questions with no more than assumptions to form a
conclusion. Why did he really stop me? Was it because I’m black? Is it just my
imagination, and I’m not talking about a groove from the Temptations?
I hate the
fact that I’m left to ponder these questions
It’s not the
first time I’ve been pulled over for driving at or under the speed limit. It’s not the first time I’ve debated with myself
regarding the meaning of a simple traffic stop.
It’s part of
what I carry as a black man. Or, is that an overstatement? I’m certain white
readers will discount my being stopped as no more than an officer doing his
job. Insert loud sounds in my head coupled with words I was told not to use
when I attended Sunday School.
I searched
for someone to process the moment. Who? Hello! Will someone help me keep from
losing my mind up in here, up in here?
Who understand
the mass of pain that kept my mind glued on queries that many can’t understand?
Each question framed the thesis of a topic that requires a dissertation to
answer. It’s enough to keep me locked on stupid. Welcome to my world. Sadly, I
know I’m not alone.
Once I parked
my car in front of city hall and rushed to the meeting I had with the city
manager, that bone I wanted to pick was too big for me to bite alone.
Do people
understand how it feels to be a black man? That one is easy to answer. Hell no!
the second question simply made me mad. Does anyone care?
The questions
forced deeper scrutiny of the rage in my belly covered by layers of pretension
and avoidance. I envy the privilege carried
by people not stuck on that lingering stupid prompted by years of not understanding
the friction that makes it hard to embrace authentic freedom.
Maybe that awful
feeling, like smoke venting from my head like a message telling people to stay
out of my way, was the result of being single for too long. It could be the angst
of being a big, black man is more onerous because there’s no one to scream at
and hold at the end of the day. Maybe, just maybe, it’s more about me than the
fact it takes people time to figure out I’m not the brother who robbed their
mother last week.
Get out of my
way. I don’t want your wallet. Hello, I said move!
Excuse me for
venting, but it takes a lot to walk around in this body. Can I please get a
witness?
Yes, let me
testify. It’s not just what white people think. Part of the torment is the
result of being forced, and I mean forced in real terms, to carry the
unrealistic expectations of black people.
There, I said
it!
Frantz Fanon
is one of my literary mentors. His book Black Skin, White Mask helps me
understand the divided self-perception black folks carry as a result of losing
their native culture. Their embrace of white culture results in an inferiority
complex that begins a scuffle to overcome the hideous place I call the
middle.
The middle is
the place in between acting white and being too black. The quest for authentic identity
is a battle between conflicting world views – black skin versus the white mask.
You get
attacked for taking white and assimilating to firmly into white culture by obtaining
education and other symbols of white culture. Getting paid, accepting certain
jobs and taking care of yourself and family becomes risky business.
Being a black
man is a constant battle of legitimizing authentic blackness within the context
of seeking normalcy. By normal I mean paying your bills and making a difference
beyond what others define as appropriate.
Being a black
man requires that we always, and I mean always, “keep it real”. By real I mean
not doing too much to question black solidarity. It means being careful not to become a sell-out.
What does that mean?
It means not
taking a job that forces you to sing and dance to a white person’s music. It
means not forfeiting blackness for the sake of some of that white prosperity.
This is the
point that forces the smoke erupting from my head to send those messages.
It’s all a
lie.
I don’t care
how hard a person works at forfeiting their blackness for the sake of embracing
a white identity – it doesn’t work. Black remains black, and no suit, tie and
college education can change any of that. People see my blackness as soon as I walk
in a room, and there is nothing I can do to alter the assumptions in their
heads before I say hello.
What’s the
point?
Give me my
freaking freedom. Isn’t that what all of us want? Don’t we seek the freedom to
function devoid of the labels that limit what we desire to do? Isn’t slavery
about being defined by the supposition people make after boxes are made to keep
others in their assigned places?
I was wearing
a blue tailored suit, silk tie, white shirt with cuff links when stopped by the
highway patrol. I drove my luxury car under the speed limit when others passed
me like I was standing still. I was listening to classic Coltrane – Giant Steps.
Darryl Pinckney’s book Black Deutschland rested on top of my IPad on the
front passenger seat.
I handed the
officer what he requested. Again.
Exhales followed
by old memories. When will I be free to be me?
Too white for
some. Too black for others. Off to my sell-out job to fight to create
opportunities for black people.
Does anyone
understand how it feels to be a black man?
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