#there are so many layers i wish i had the brain energy to unpack but at present i am just. like. fixated on this one thing

[thebirdandhersong]

day 1 after watching Free Guy. ladies it's safe to say that I have not yet recovered

[catalinda04]

Carried Away Chapter 26: Baby Talk

Masterlist

Lucy and Henry were awakened in the familially traditional way the morning after Thanksgiving. Quinn and Thomas burst in, and jumped on the not quite sleeping pair, having been awakened by the kids clomping down the basement stairs. Having been warned of the tradition, Henry slept in pajama pants and a t-shirt, which was quite different from his usual nothing. Lucy had also switched sides of the bed, so she was closer to the door, and would therefore receive the brunt of the young children’s pounces.

“Auntie, Unca Henry! It’s time to wake up.” Quinn announced, bouncing on the bed.

“Thank you sweetie. We’re up, now go wake-up mommy and daddy.” Lucy said, kissing each of the kids on the cheek.

“You weren’t kidding about the wake-up.” Henry said, sitting-up, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“They’re quite enthusiastic. I don’t know where the energy comes from.”

“Quinn called me Unca Henry.” Henry said, wrapping his arms around Lucy.

“I noticed, how do you feel about that?”

“I think I like it.” He leaned to Lucy, pressing his lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned, until he was flat against the bed her chest pressed to his. Lucy’s tongue plundered Henry’s mouth, her hands resting on his chest. Henry’s hands moved to Lucy’s back and started a slow slide south, but before his hands could reach anywhere interesting, they heard the kids’ feet thundering toward their room. They broke apart just seconds before the door flew open and Quinn came bounding in.

“Auntie, Unca, mommy said to ask you what you want for breakfast, so I could go tell grandma.”

“You tell grandma whatever you want to eat, and we’ll eat the same as you.” Lucy told the little girl.

“Mickey Mouse pancakes, yay!” Quinn yelled and ran out of the room, her steps could be heard pounding up the stairs.

Henry stood, searching through his clothes, finding his workout gear.

“Where are you going?” Lucy asked, watching Henry put on his outdoor clothes.

“If I’m going to eat another big breakfast, I need to go for a run, especially after yesterday. The suit is not forgiving.” He said, dropping a kiss on Lucy’s lips as he exited the room. Lucy slipped on her slippers and followed him.

“Don’t get lost, and be careful, the roads might be icy.” Lucy cautioned, giving Henry one more kiss before he went out into the frigid November weather. She turned to see Anna standing at her own bedroom door.

“Where’s he off to?” She asked.

“For a run, he’s still filming, and wearing a super suit is not holiday binge eating friendly.”

A thoughtful look crossed Anna’s face for a moment before she spoke. “No I don’t suppose it is.”

Henry returned from his run just in time to take a quick shower and join everyone for breakfast. Yesterday he’d eaten whatever he wanted, today, however, he was going to have to limit his calorie intake if he didn’t want his trainer to kill him when he got back to Detroit.

While spending the day with Lucy’s family, Henry realized that all the things he loved most about Lucy came from these people: her sense of humor, her quick wit, her easy way of showing affection. Even her laugh was just like her mother’s.

In the afternoon, the whole family went sledding on a small hill in the yard. Henry was going to suggest to his trainer they add sledding to his training regimen; trudging up a snowy hill in heavy boots, while pulling a sled with 2 kids on it, was wearing him out more than any workout his trainer had devised.

When Quinn and Thomas fell asleep in the living room before supper, Lucy volunteered to run to the grocery store for her mom. She indicated with her head that Henry should “volunteer” to come with. Lucy drove them around the corner from the house before putting the car in park and crawling over the console to straddle Henry’s lap, her mouth attacking his.

“I forgot how little privacy there is in that house.” She moaned as Henry kissed her neck.

“My hands have been itching to touch you all day.” Henry said looking her in the eyes. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply.

“Please tell me we’re not all staying at your parents house for Christmas?”

“No, we, as well as my brothers and their wives, will all be at a hotel. Only the kids stay at the house, so they can be spoiled by Nana and Papa.”

“Thank god!” She sighed, before capturing his mouth again.

The close confines of the car made anything more intimate virtually impossible, but the make-out session was enough to tide them over, until they could be truly alone.

The following morning, after another big family breakfast, Clint and Anna packed up the kids to spend the rest of the holiday weekend with Anna’s family, while Lucy and Henry went back to the quiet and privacy of Lucy’s house. The closer they got to her house, the more nervous Lucy became. The big “kids” conversation loomed on the horizon, and Lucy wasn’t sure how to handle it.

Lucy had barely taken off her coat before Henry attacked her. Apparently their almost 2 days of celibacy had been just too much for him. He carried her to the bedroom and spent the rest of the morning showing her just how much he’d missed touching her.

It was while they laid in their smiling afterglow; Henry running his fingers leisurely up and down Lucy’s back, while she swirled her fingers in his chest hair, that Henry brought up their tabled conversation.

“I know it must have been a shock, and I know you don’t handle stress well initially, but I don’t understand why the thought of being pregnant with my baby would make you sick.” Henry said to the ceiling.

Lucy slid out of bed. “Where are you going?” Henry asked, sitting up concerned.

“I’m just getting my robe,” she said, sliding on the black satin hanging on the closet door. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have naked.” She explained, before coming back to sit cross legged next to him on the bed. She took her pillow and put it in her lap to fidget with while she talked.

“You know I’m a planner?” She asked.

Henry smiled, “Yes, I had noticed that about you.”

“Well that positive result was something I didn’t know how to plan, for all the reasons I already told you. My mind was racing and a thousand different thoughts went through my head all at once: He’s going to think I’m trying to trap him! No he won’t but how’s he going to deal with this? Do we get married? Do we not? That would go over big in my world. And if we do get married, where do we live? What do I do? Would I be able to work? How do I deal with the paparazzi? How do I deal with the paparazzi with a baby? Twins run in mom’s family. That’s 2 babies at once! But those twins haven’t manifested in a few generations, so does that mean I’ll have like quadruplets?! That’s 4 babies! Then I definitely won't be able to work! And we’ll have to hire a nanny! She can’t be a young woman, look how well that worked for Sienna Miller! Then it would have to be an old woman, and she’ll probably judge me! And you’ll resent me for shackling you with 4 kids, and you’d leave me! And I’d be a single mom with 4 kids!” Lucy babbled, her hands flailing about wildly with each new layer added to her stream of consciousness ramble.

“No wonder you vomited, I wanted to vomit hearing that tirade.”

“I tend to go to worst case scenario first, then when I can convince myself that that's not actually going to happen, I can start with more realistic ideas.”

Henry laughed before leaning in to give her a lingering kiss, meant to soothe her overworked nerves.

“Now, let’s unpack that ‘worst case scenario’ as you call it. I know you wouldn’t try to trap me with a pregnancy, but I would want to be married by the time the baby came. We would have to discuss where we would live. As far as the press are concerned, you remember Will, that’s his job to help us handle the press and especially the press around a baby. Remember I have an entire team of people that make my life run smoothly, and as long as you’re in my life, they’re there to make your life smoother as well.” He pulled Lucy into his arms. “I would be thrilled if we had twins. I’m not sure about quadruplets, but I think anyone would panic about 4 babies at the same time.” He laughed. “And nannies are just a way of life, if we had a baby, and if you wanted a nanny, we would decide together.” He pushed Lucy away far enough to look her in the eyes “But you know that I would never be unfaithful to you.” He said seriously.

Lucy threw her arms around his neck, holding him close. “Oh, Henry. I do know that. I don’t think you’d cheat on me. Like I said, my brain goes to the worst case first.”

“I still wish you’d told me at the time. I don’t like the idea that you’re keeping things from me.”

“That’s something I need to work on. I’ve been on my own for so long, I have myself convinced that I don’t need anyone. I can do everything myself. But I’ll make more of an effort to not do everything for myself. There’s two of us in this relationship.”

“Yes there are. Thank god, because through you can do everything for yourself, and that’s something I’d like a front row seat for, I”m really glad you let me help you.” He murmured suggestively in her ear, before tickling her.

When they were a breathless heap on the bed, Lucy asked the question she’d really been wondering since the kids issue arose. “Henry, how many kids do you want?”

“I think I’d be happy having as many as we had, but I grew up in a big family. It always felt like there was never enough time for everyone. I was lucky, Piers is 10 years older than me, so he was already grown and at school when I was really young, but when everyone was home, it was quite chaotic. How many do you want?”

“I think two, maybe three, but no more than three, after that you’re doing less raising, more crowd control.” Henry’s laugh rumbled through the room.

After several quiet minutes, Lucy pondered, “Do you think if we had a boy, he’d have your curls?”

“If we had a girl would she have your eyes?” Henry wondered.

They spent the rest of the day decorating Lucy’s house for Christmas. Periodically one of them would ask aloud, would a baby have your, and insert body part or feature here. Lucy hated seeing him off at the airport the next day. The separation was hard, but she felt closer to him than when he’d arrived. She was counting the days until Christmas, when they would be together again.

Chapter 25           Chapter 27

[joshuabradleyn]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[albertcaldwellne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[ruthellisneda]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[johnclapperne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[neilmillerne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[almajonesnjna]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

[almajonesnjna]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

[neilmillerne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

[albertcaldwellne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

[joshuabradleyn]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

[ruthellisneda]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

[johnclapperne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

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