Blackness Redeemed

Most of my life, I had ignored, denied, and escaped the reality of being black in America. For much of my twenty-nine years, I had convinced myself that articulate speech, wearing boat shoes, and listening to country music would somehow erase my blackness and gift me whiteness. Being labeled an “Oreo” — black on the outside, white on the inside — was a badge of honor I wore with pride. I relished in being the “only black person who would ever be allowed to meet my grandparents,” as I was complimented once by a white friend in our deeply southern college town. Regularly hearing “you’re not really black” was music to my ears. I desperately wanted to be the exception to whatever baseless rule society assigned to black people, and for most of my life, I lived up to that exception. Thankfully, I’ve begun to see life as a black man through a new lens now — I suppose the lens through which I was always meant to see.

Incidents of unarmed blacks being killed by whites is, unfortunately, a staple of my adulthood. I had always been grieved by the unjust killings of blacks at the hands of whites, but I never truly sat with those events as a black man. I was a junior in college when Trayvon Martin was murdered. And then there was Eric Garner, Michael Brown, and Tamir Rice all within the first 18 months of working my first job out of college. Walter Scott was killed just as I accepted a new job in a new city. I was celebrating the Fourth of July with friends when Alton Sterling and Philando Castile were unjustly stripped of their lives. I had just moved to Philadelphia when Stephon Clark was shot and killed in Sacramento. And two years later in 2020, I was fighting boredom in quarantine when more shots were fired.

Early in the month of May, the video of Ahmaud Arbery being hunted, shot, and killed by a group of white men just down the interstate from my hometown broke my Twitter feed. And then we learned of Breonna Taylor’s murder. And then the nation watched a police officer kneel on the neck of George Floyd until he died — another murder. Suddenly, being black in America felt a hell of a lot different for me.

George Floyd pained me. Breonna Taylor shook me. But, it was Ahmaud that absolutely broke me, perhaps because that was the first time I truly thought to myself, “that could have been me” — just a guy out for a run who happens to be black. This sobering revelation forced me to confront the reality that being black in America has messy and painful implications; it was high time that I sat with that reality as a black man.

I wrestled with myself for a long time to figure out why Ahmaud’s death was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back of racism for me. What took me so long to wake up? Why was George Floyd’s death the catalyst for overdue conversations about racial injustice in America? What took America so long to rise up? The simple answer is, “I don’t know.” Here’s what I do know: Ahmaud, Breonna, and George were not martyrs. I believe, given the choice, they would rather be here with us. They did not give their lives for the movement; their lives were taken from them — let’s be clear about that. But, if what I believe about God is true, then I know He can reveal purpose in the most heart-wrenching of suffering. And, God, I hope that is what’s happening.

May was a harrowing month to say the least.

Nearly a week after George Floyd died, a trend began on Instagram called “Blackout Tuesday.” Instagram users were encouraged to post a picture of a black square on Tuesday, June 2nd to represent a digital moment of silence in solidarity for the fight against racial injustice. I had a hard time deciding whether or not I would post. Partly because I wasn’t convinced such an act wasn’t just a performative measure leading to no real action. But, mostly because I wasn’t sure I was ready for my friends to really see that I’m black. That racism is real to me. And that I acknowledge the pain that sometimes comes with the territory of being black in America. As I labored over the decision to participate or stay on the sidelines, I ultimately decided to post the black square on my page. I was soon to discover how much that simple black square would mean to me. Here’s a text I sent to a white friend the day after Blackout Tuesday explaining just that.

There was a week-long span after that post where friends continued texting to check on me, what felt like, hourly. Some messages I responded to, some I read and failed to respond, some I just left as notifications because, although I was thankful, it all felt overwhelming. There was one friend who called and, to my surprise, I answered. He asked, “How are you?” That question had never felt so loaded. I was exhausted. I was sad. I was angry. I was confused. I was numb. I was drained. I wanted to ignore, deny, escape the reality of being black in America as I had conditioned myself to do all those years leading up to this, but for the first time, I couldn’t. The mask was off. And it was uncomfortable.

I began to notice a pattern in the conversations I was having with friends. They each had similar questions for me. And, each question caused reflection that slowly and painfully peeled back the mask.

You seem to only date white girls. What kind of racism have you experienced in those relationships?

Did your parents have “the talk” with you when you started driving?

How do you feel about the Confederate flag? Confederate statues?

Do you think “white privilege” is real?

I had never even asked myself those questions, so being asked by my white friends was incredibly foreign, but also freeing. Risky, but also rewarding. For the first time, I was having real conversations about race. And while having those conversations was unbelievably taxing, it led to deeper insight for myself and my friends. Deeper understanding. Deeper compassion. I started reading books and listening to podcasts and watching documentaries to learn more about the history of blacks in America — my history. And I had friends that were reading, listening, and watching right along with me. Being black started to feel less of a burden for me and more of a blessing. And, man, that felt good.

June began as a heavy month. A month wrought with deep grief and sorrow as I watched death take over life and hate rule over grace. A month filled with painful reflection as I pondered how my black identity fits into America’s black story that began 400 years ago when the first enslaved Africans were brought to this land. But, at some point during the month of June, the heaviness turned into hopefulness. Light crept into the darkness and brought redemption with it, as Light tends to do. What started as a heavy month ended as a month of hope. Hope that my white friends will continue leaning in to listen and learn. Hope that I will continue to navigate vulnerability and share my true self more freely. Hope that compassion and grace will reign over hate and fear. Hope that justice will be served and redemption will be found.

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It’s August now and here’s where I’m at: I still listen to country music, but I’ve retired the “Oreo” badge of honor. I am really black and hearing otherwise is no longer a goal of mine. Blackness is a gift because it’s the way God created me. I’m done denying and I’m working on embracing, embracing my blackness in all of its beautiful mess.

If being black means that I don’t have the option to turn a blind eye to this moment in our nation’s history, painful as it may be, then let me be as black as they come. If being black means I feel grief and therefore empathy in the face of injustice, then let me feel as black as possible. If being black means healing and hope are found through harrowing and heavy months, then I’ll take it and then some. I suppose this is the lens through which I was always meant to see my blackness. It may have taken twenty-nine years, but I am damn proud to be here. I am damn proud to be black.

But, enough about me. Let’s arrest the cops who killed Breonna Taylor and Elijah McClain. They are long overdue for justice.