Our country is burning. People are marching in the streets.
For George Floyd.
For Armaud Arbery.
For Breonna Taylor.
Even for Christian Cooper.
All I can tell you is that it’s about time. It’s not just about George Floyd. How many black people have to die before we make changes?
You don’t really need me to tell you all this, do you? You’ve been watching the news too. I’ve been glued to it. I wanted to leap up and join the people on the streets, but my family is still in the high-risk category for COVID-19. Remember the virus? I still have to think about the virus.
The virus was the awful news last month. It’s still bad news, but despite the risks, people are out protesting. I’ve felt it was important for me to keep watching the news. Sometimes, I think the biggest mistake people make is to stop watching. I’m not black. My home isn’t at risk. It’s quiet on my street. But that’s the whole point: I have the privilege to stop looking when I get tired or annoyed or frightened or angry.
So, I’ve been trying to examine my own racist bias. I hate that. I do. I’d love to tell you that I am completely free from bias.
But I’m not. It’s in there, an ugly wormy thing that I don’t want to recognize as me. I don’t want to tell you it’s there, but it is.
Good God, that’s hard to admit to you. I’d like to think I’d make different choices, but I think I could have been Amy Cooper in that moment in Central Park. I could have been afraid. I could have reacted. I will tell you that when I’m out with Teddy, I always put him back on leash whenever anyone is around in case they’re afraid of dogs or are one of those by-the-rules people. But my reaction to seeing a black man wearing binoculars around his neck in the woods? What would that have been? Honestly?
Years ago, I got lost driving in New York city. You laugh that I was in my car instead of on a bus, but I’d recently moved from Indiana where my baby blue Granada was the symbol of my independence and safety. If I didn’t like what was going on, I could get into my Granada and leave. If I wanted to move across the country or back, that car was the means.
So, my car was the way I felt most comfortable going to an interview I had in Manhattan for a research position. The job was a wash. That guy wasn’t prepared to take me seriously because I was a woman who looked like she was sixteen years old. He refused to ask me about my education at Purdue but instead shoved a simplistic test at me asking me to prove my intelligence. Maybe it was arrogant, but I refused. I’d just finished four years of studying and testing in a challenging area of study and if I couldn’t talk about that experience and prove my readiness for the job that way, I didn’t want anything this man had to offer.
On my way out, I was angry. It felt as if I’d have been taken more seriously if I were a man. I was angry that he didn’t believe I could have graduated from Purdue. I was furious that he said my transcripts could have been forged.
When I got back into my car, I should have taken a moment to look at my map. That was back in the days of the Thomas maps, when you basically carried this book of maps that allowed you to see roads in a couple of counties.
In Indiana, you could use a one-page map to see the roads for the entire state. Moving to the east coast was an entirely different culture. And their maps were huge.
I got lost in Manhattan. Yes, it was too difficult for me to look at the map and drive at the same time and I was lost. I’d learned to drive in Indiana too and this was the next level of driving skill. I went the wrong direction. I ended up completely turned around. I missed the road for the George Washington bridge at least twice as I circled around. It was a hot July day. I didn’t have air conditioning. My interview suit was wrinkled. I began to stink.
Finally, I realized that I’d driven into Harlem. My friend had told me I shouldn’t drive through Harlem or Newark. He’d drawn big circles on the map’s pages all the places where I shouldn’t get off the main roads. But there I was, in Harlem, lost.
I realized I was just one block west of where I wanted to be. One block. I pulled off into a small road that I thought would connect me to the road that went to the bridge.
It turned out to be a narrow alley.
I drove down it anyway hoping I could get through.
It ended at a brick wall.
I stopped to take a breath. I rolled up my windows despite the heat. I realized if I didn’t get moving, I could cook in my car like a forgotten dog. Sweat poured from my forehead and my hair went limp. I was hungry. It’s never good when I get hungry. I pulled a half-melted Snickers bar from my purse and ate it in three bites. It sat like a lump in my stomach.
Finally, I put my car into reverse, reached back, and twisted around to slowly back out of the alley. I wasn’t good at backing. I’d get too close to the brick wall on one side and have to pull forward to straighten out. Over and over.
Suddenly, people blocked the exit to the alley. It was three or four black men. They were tall and wore new sneakers. They stood still, looking in my direction. I couldn’t get out. I was trapped.
I frantically drove my baby blue Granada back and forth making very little progress. I took a breath and twisted around to look back again.
The men burst out laughing.
When I finally got my car to where they stood, they casually moved out of my way. But they were still laughing.
I was so ashamed. I was still nervous, but I was so ashamed at how I’d assumed they would try to get me.
What does the worm of racial bias do when you shine a light on it? There it is, one bit of my racial bias, for you to see.
I’ve never been hurt by a black man. I’ve never been threatened. I’ve never even heard a cross word from a black man. I have seen them laugh at me. At the exit to that alley.
But I have to admit. I looked completely ridiculous.
Thank you for listening, jules