The movie “Get Out” has elevated conversations involving
race. Like so many recent movies and documentaries that bare emphasis to the “for
real” experiences of black people in America, “Get Out” uncovers the type of
black folk talk that happens when white people aren’t around to listen.
There are things too painful to confess in the company of
white people. The anguish is entrenched deep in the subconscious of those who
have spent a lifetime doing their best to deal with things on their own. Put
another way, it’s not worth the investment of being heard to confront the
counter punches of white people committed to proving you wrong. Put yet another
way, it’s difficult sharing experiences with people who will never fully
understand."
Nope.
The perception is white people lack the ability to fully
understand what it means to be black, and talking about it too much leads to
conversations that influence typecasting. You become too radical, too
emotional, too sensitive and too unwilling to get over things that happened a
long time ago. In other words, shut your mouth and move on in a way that proves
you’re willing to construct opinions based on credible data.
Insert be a good N-word.
Most black people have dealt with it before. Being in a
place where talking critically about how you feel matters. Feeling the rise of
rapid heartbeats because you’re the only black person in a room and it feels
like everyone is watching you and questioning why you’re there.
Most black people know the dread of being judged and invalidated.
Black people know the challenges of sharing those feelings with white people.
“No, it’s your imagination. It’s just you,” black folks have
heard that before.
Yes, it feels like a horror movie when you’re surrounded by loads
of negative energy.
Which reminds me of that night. It was a painful season. It
was the night black students at the University of Missouri were threatened on
YikYak and other social media.
“I’m going to shoot every black person I see,” the message
later attributed to Hunter M. Park, a 19-year-old sophomore studying computer
science at a sister campus in Rolla, wrote.
It was a tough night. To unwind, I decided to accept an
invitation to meet a woman at a downtown restaurant. It was days after
University of Missouri President Tim Wolfe resigned. I felt conflicted due to
my role in consulting Wolfe while writing columns for the Columbia Missourian. I
was called a traitor by some and a race-baiter by others.
That’s when the horror hit.
She is a white woman. I went to have a meal, engage in
stimulating conversation and to relax. But, given the threat, it was hard not
to share how I felt in that moment.
I shared my angst stirred by experiences growing up in
Columbia, MO. I talked about how race and racism has impacted my life. I
discussed my feelings upon witnessing students confront encounters comparable
to when I was a student at the same university. I talked about being drained by
the hard work involved in overcoming institutional racism.
I needed to vent. I needed to share. I was not happy. I
missed living in a place with a support system to offset the madness I faced. I
needed help to filter through the layers of discomfort that left me feeling
alone. This is home. This is where I graduated. This is where I teach
journalism and work in ministry. I should be happy. I should be celebrating all
of it, but I couldn’t.
It felt like a horror movie, and I needed to escape.
Then it happened.
“You are a fucking racist,” another white woman who joined
us said. “You’re the problem!”
I felt betrayed. I was disappointed in myself for violating
one of those black rules – don’t share with white people. They will never
understand.
I didn’t want to believe it. How could I, given my role as the
co-pastor of a mostly white congregation? How could I continue to be free and
serve in a way that didn’t sacrifice the integrity of things lingering in my
gut?
That moment changed me. I felt trapped and afraid. As much
as I wanted to “Get Out”, I wanted to find reason to stay. Who could I find to
understand the tensions caused by overcoming all that historical pain coupled
with anxiety stirred by feeling nothing has changed?
What are the lessons?
Well, it’s hard for me to trust white women. I know, that’s a sad
admission. A person like me should model life beyond the divides we humans
create. I wish I could witness a different reality, but, when faced with
matters of the heart, sharing too much triggers a desire to run for a safe
place.
You simply want to get out.
I’ve learned there is little patience when a black man
contends with his flaws in public space. I’ve learned to resist the temptation
of exposing vulnerability to those with limited perspective regarding the rage
black men carry. I’ve learned how radically white women shift when the rage
comes to the surface and there is no place to find peace. I’ve discovered what
it means to be trapped between a desire to be affirmed and the need to scream –
set me free.
I’ve discovered the consequences of running to get away when no one is there to protect you from the madness circulating in
your head.
These are tough lessons. Maybe it’s a perspective that
reflects stuff that’s all about me. Maybe, well, maybe there’s more to be
discussed.
I would love to have that conversation, but, for now, I
simply want to “Get Out”.
Is it just me?
