I’ve never been called a "nigger" to my face, but I might as well have been. After graduating from college, I landed a job at a rather large, rather unpopular media organization. About a month into my career, my manager told me that a co-worker said my work ID looked like a "mugshot." My manager refused to tell me who said it, but assured me that she had checked the person, who apparently didn't understand why the comment might not be well received. At the ripe age of 22, a dark cloud of suspicion was cast over my introduction to the work world.
That rigorous lesson in how racism is embedded into corporate America lingers to this day. I still can't help but wonder if people who I interact with regularly exchange racist banter the same way the University of Oklahoma's chapter of Sigma Alpha Epsilon did when they thought they were in a safe place.
The content of Waka Flocka’s lyrics was discussed by the mainstream media this week following his CNN appearance to discuss the SAE incident. In all the nonsense about rap music supposedly influencing white frat boys to recite chants about lynchings, one very human moment was missed: Waka’s feelings of betrayal.
1.
Waka performed for Oklahoma’s SAE chapter last year, hanging out with them and drinking beer in the woods like he was one of their brothers. Hearing that they would rather hang him from one of the trees along the perimeter of that performance than really recognize him as one of their brothers is what hurt him the most. That same feeling of deception is how I felt a month into my first job out of college. More important, I know, just as Waka knows, that blacks are treated as novelty figures. Despite whatever racist shit people do in the dark, they want to be able to say they know a black person or shotgunned beers with the black rapper as proof that they aren't racist. The guise of camaraderie is more important than any legitimate bond.
Folks who email you, "You coming to happy hour with us, bro?" at 5:03 p.m. are telling racist jokes two hours and three shots later.
Black celebrities aren't immune to the "drink a beer with you one moment, joke about your death the next" aspect of behind closed doors racism, and they also play an unwitting role in another part of that sad dance: they often become placeholders for the animosities people feel towards the entire race. Kanye West is arguably the most polarizing artist of his generation, inspiring endless think pieces and water cooler conversations. I can quote some of his most obscure lyrics verbatim, but working in that dry environment was my first experience having those discussions with people who didn’t view him the same way I did. In other words, they didn’t laugh at or understand his brash ridiculousness, they were threatened by it—especially after the Taylor Swift incident. Another vivid memory from my first job is how some co-workers referenced Kanye with absolute disdain, post Swiftgate.
"Ugh, that Kanye West," they’d say in exasperation. To them, he was a derogatory term.
Everything they can't say to their black coworkers, students, neighbors, or boyfriends mom they throw that to Kanye.
— Nikolai (@Judnikki) February 10, 2015Judging from the abhorrence in their tone, they could’ve just as easily swapped his name out with the "N" word. Kanye may be obnoxious, but his assertiveness and willingness to speak his mind terrifies people. Black men who exude confidence are intimidating to the insecure. While I’m not the "international asshole" Kanye branded himself in jest, I am self-assured and quite matter-of-fact. So if certain co-workers viewed him as a menace to society, how did they feel about me? Little things like this made me wary of attending company happy hours that are typically plagued by rampant brown-nosing and inappropriate comments fueled by that good ol' truth serum: alcohol.
Folks who email you, "You coming to happy hour with us, bro?" at 5:03 p.m. are telling racist jokes two hours and three shots later. Or asking if it’s acceptable for them to use the word "nigga" if they drop the dreaded hard "er." Or, worse, completely neglecting to self-censor the word when reciting rap lyrics. I’ve had to firmly explain to white folks that your favorite song isn’t a free pass to use the "N" word, as well as the range of potential consequences for doing so. If you wouldn’t use the word during a sales meeting, why say it in a crowded bar? Once again, it makes me wonder what they’d say if I wasn’t there. Beyond that, there’s a degree of vacancy to any potential apologies because they’re more inspired by obligation than sincerity.
The funny thing about racism among us Section.80 and beyond kids is that there’s a greater focus on not looking racist as opposed to not being racist. No one wants to look racist, because the price can be your career—ask Justine Sacco. As a result, the only "post-racial" anything I believe in is the requisite apology that comes after something racist is uttered. But those apologies are more for getting caught than the action itself. In his apology, ousted SAE member Parker Rice said he was "seeking guidance on how [he] can learn from this and make sure it never happens again." Does he mean he'll make sure he never says "nigger" again, or that he'll never get caught saying it again?
the only "post-racial" anything I believe in is the requisite apology that comes after something racist is uttered.
In the past, after I’ve reprimanded people for their racially insensitive remarks, they’ve taken to apologizing all over themselves. Despite the details of my explanation, I’ve never been completely convinced that they fully understood how them not hating me or other minorities doesn’t mean they didn’t say or do something racist. Killing someone without intent doesn’t automatically vindicate you from the crime. At the same time, I’ve also considered that some might not care. Regardless, it’s difficult to look at people the same way when that trust has been violated.
Despite never being called a "nigger" directly, I’ve experienced my fair share of racism. If it wasn’t a woman of another race clutching her purse when fate placed us in an elevator together, it was someone locking their car door at the sight of me, or crossing the street altogether as I approached. Still, nothing has been more jarring than experiencing it in a professional setting by people who are supposed to be my colleagues. Before my benefits kicked in, I learned that at least one of these colleagues thought that I, someone who graduated summa cum laude from college just months prior, resembled a criminal. That knowledge forced me to ponder the chance that the image of me blasting "Can’t Tell Me Nothing" in my car might horrify some of them. Moreover, I had to wonder if some would acknowledge me at all if they saw me outside of the office wearing a snapback and fatigue jacket.
I know some people are racist as all hell in the company of friends; that’s not surprising at all. But I'd rather they wear it like a scarlet letter than have me find out later that they’re closeted bigots or just flat-out don’t understand racism. I'd rather be in the know up front than have to look at people sideways moving forward. Is that so wrong?
Yeah, Julian Kimble went there. Follow him on Twitter @JRK316.
