No Longer Colorless: Why Don't White People Like Black People?

This week has been crazy with the news and social media blowing up regarding the Michael Brown verdict. My friends and I have been going back on forth about it, too. Some of our conversations have been pretty heated, and I must admit, I’ve been a lot more vocal about it than other similar situations. Then, after viewing this particular piece online, I was livid! I remember having an hour or so long conversation with my brother and close friend two mornings ago. We each expressed our common concern for what the verdict implies to us as ‘black folk’ in America: there’s a target on our young men’s backs, and we all must thus walk circumspectly.

I didn’t realize, as usual, that my little church mouse was within hearing distance, doing her best to understand the reason behind our escalating conversation. I guess in her little mind, she knew we were upset about something, but since she was supposed to be upstairs working on her ABCMouse app, she would get in trouble if she intruded.

At the end of the discussion, we ended up agreeing that we were lucky to live in Arizona, despite the occasional racial profiling. I encouraged my brother to be mindful of what he wears, so he doesn’t, or shouldn’t, appear thuggish (whatever that means). I informed him that even as a black individual, I clutch my purse a little tighter when passing by a black male with sagging pants, unkempt hair, rough or hard-looking face with “shifty eyes”, especially if there are more than one of them and they are talking loudly and walking toward me. I’m not sure what it is, but it makes me uneasy and causes my heart to beat just a little faster until we pass one another or I act like I have a reason to cross the street, if I’m with my children.

I’ve expressed this to others in the past, and it seems it is more of a common feeling than I thought. I’m black, and I’m often scared of my fellow black brothers, much more so than their counterpart Caucasian homeys who don the same attire, even with pants sagging lower, hats cocked to the side, obviously smoking weed, or speaking in slang I totally can’t understand, bumping their rap music with explicit lyrics as loud as if they were having a house party.

Over the years, I guess my church mouse has observed, overheard talks of, and experienced racism. On more than one occasion, she has asked why “the old white people” at the grocery never respond to her greetings or waves. Some smile at her until they see me walk up next to her or call her name and ask for her hand. Others simply look at and ignore her. I’ve explained to her that many of them, being older, lived in a time where they didn’t understand the beauty of black people. After all, how else would I explain it to her at four years old?

I think what stopped me my steps though is when my brother shared that on Wednesday morning, she had asked him why white people don’t like black people. Later on that day, I asked why she would think that, and she simply replied, “I just know, Mommy,” and my heart sunk. I assured her that was not the case, noting that her father’s side of the family loves us, but I guess she had never really placed a color on them in relation to me (the darkest person in the family). In that one moment, with that explanation, I ruined her colorless perspective of them.

Ignorance ≠ Bliss

Last weekend gave me the scare of a lifetime. I purposely never owned a thermometer, because I never wanted to know my temperature or any of my children’s. Ignorant, right? Yes, I guess so. I just figured if I don’t know, then it can’t ever be bad.

Last weekend, however, my ignorance, or stupidity, was called out by my children’s pediatrician. She inquired about my son’s temperature overnight. I told her I had no idea what it was. She asked how he had felt that night, and I told her he was pretty miserable. She asked why his school sent him home, and I told her it was because his temperature was high. She asked if I had known that the night before, and I told her I didn’t, as I squirmed in my seat, unwilling to attempt to give an excuse.

As we were leaving her office, she stressed the importance of checking his temperature throughout the night, which meant that even though it was after 7 pm, I needed to get a thermometer before my husband had to leave for work in an hour.

As he prepared for work, I checked our son’s temperature, and it was almost 105^o. I stood and just looked at the thermometer, while my son stood there looking pitiful and ghostly. All I could manage was, “Babe, you’re gonna have to call in; we have to get him to the ER.”

We took his temperature two more times and it was still over 104^o. I was in shock, and every negative thought possible flooded my head. My husband didn’t realize he worsened it by stating, “We have to hurry. An adult can die from a 106^o temperature, so 105^o is no good for a child. Let’s go!”

No thermometer. No thermometer. No thermometer. That’s all that kept going through my mind. My ignorance could have cost my son his life. No thermometer. No thermometer. No thermometer. Ignorance is NOT bliss. 

Almost Just Lost My Baby

Friday morning, right about 5:40 am, I received a call from my husband, who works the night shift. Barely awake, I asked him what was wrong. In return, he asked me if I was okay, and I assured him I was. He then inquired about our children. I told him I believed they were fine but that I’d check on them.

He asked to remain on the phone as I did so. Checking each child in his/her bed, I was certain all three were just fine. I then walked down the hall, to the laundry room, to ask him what was wrong, as could tell something was wrong but whispering wasn’t really working for me. He told me that he had been feeling an impending doom, as if something bad was going to happen. He told me he had been praying all night but had no idea exactly what to pray about but randomly did so.

When he got home, we prayed together, along with the children, and left it at that. That night, we thanked God for all making it home in one piece.

The next day started well, but we still said some pretty strong prayers over each family member, as well as close friends. My husband went to sleep, one child stayed home sick, while the rest of us went downtown for a conference. As we left, the children and I were walking and talking, as we approached a crosswalk.

“Mommy…” my son called out, so I turned to face him.

“We can cross now…” I heard to my left. As I turned toward the little voice to my left, I noticed my daughter had already entered the crosswalk. I darted across to her, just in time to get her out of the way of a truck she was backing, which came from nowhere and was headed straight for her.

 My heart beat fifty times faster. I felt like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I couldn’t help thinking, “I almost just lost my baby.” I couldn’t help but hold her close for a few minutes, but then I was angry. I started asking her rhetorical questions: “Why did you leave my side? I told you I would tell you when it was safe to go.” “Do you know what could have happened if Mommy didn’t get to you in time?” “Do you realize you could have died? Do you know what that means?”

Shortly after we got to our van, I breathed a sigh of relief and called my husband. I shared what had just happened and told him I believed that something bad was supposed to happen but did not. I thanked him for praying, even when he had no clue why. I thanked him for not ignoring that bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. If he had, it could have cost me my baby.