The Black Friend Read online

  During my first lunch period, I sat by myself. This lasted for about fifteen minutes, until a group of slightly older white kids walked over. They sat at my table and stared at me, and one eventually asked what school I transferred in from.

  I looked at them for a second and told them.

  “Oh, that’s the ghetto school,” one replied. “Lucky you made it here.”

  I didn’t even know how to process that.

  I sat in the silence, still surprised that a wild pack of white boys were speaking to me in the first place. Before I could respond, another asked me a question that gives context to my entire experience while at the school and, for a long time, my views on white people and my very self.

  “What hood do you live in?”

  This wasn’t meant to be a friendly way of finding out whether we were from the same area; this was an assumption, or rather an assertion. “Hood” was slang for a low-income area, and in the part of the country where we lived (Yonkers, New York), those areas were typically filled with Black and Latinx people.

  You’ll see me use Latinx in the book, as it’s a gender-neutral term for people who are Latin American. Can’t ask people to respect my people if I don’t respect theirs, right?

  But not all Black and Latinx people lived in the “hood,” and this white boy had never spoken to me or even met me, so he couldn’t have had any idea about where I was from or how much money my family had. He simply assumed I was poor and lived in a “hood” because I was Black.

  This is a common racist stereotype about nonwhite people. But in reality, most people living in poverty in America are white.

  But I was fifteen years old and wanted to fit in, and he wasn’t wrong—I was from a “hood.” So I told them where I was from, and they immediately thought I was cool and edgy. That was the day I became the token Black guy.

  A token Black guy or girl is a Black person that white people can claim they know in order to avoid being called racist and who doesn’t ever make them feel uncomfortable about the racist things they do. Kind of like Kanye West and the Kardashian family.

  To add context, this was in 2004, before there was social media, a Black president and First Lady, and trendy wokeness. It was basically the Wild West. It wasn’t MAGA bad, at least not on the surface, but it was a different type of bad: an I-don’t-realize-what-I’m-saying-or-doing-is-hella-problematic-and-racist bad.

  In my first few weeks at that high school, I quickly learned that there were only a few ways white people viewed people of color, and we were broken into specific groups:

  If you were Black, that meant you were unquestionably good at sports, even if no one had seen you play yet. You grew up in an impoverished neighborhood, you came from a single-parent home, you knew every rap song ever made, you were prone to violence or stealing, and you had no interest in academics.

  For Latinxs, it was assumed that your first language was Spanish, you had a large number of siblings, you were proficient in Latin dancing, and you were probably in some type of gang.

  Asian kids had stereotypes placed on them that might seem positive—they’re often referred to as the “model minority”—but stereotypes are inherently problematic. The East Asian students in my school, and in schools across the country, were seen as being highly intelligent, mild mannered, and more than likely to know martial arts.

  While I often make the point that no one in the world has it worse than Black people in regard to stereotypes and racism, in the early 2000s, people from the Middle East had it bad. At that point, we were only a few years removed from September 11, and people were not only racist, they were racist on steroids. They would vandalize the homes and businesses of Muslims and people perceived as Muslim, attack their places of worship, and gang up on them and beat them up. All in the name of “American values.” Most of the physical abuse wasn’t taking place in my school, but the mental and verbal abuse certainly was.

  Because much of what was going on in the world was also taking place in my school, it was a very difficult place to be a student of color. Not only did we have to worry about fitting in, but we also had to worry about surviving in a place that was obviously not meant for us. But, as we’ll discuss throughout the book, my school wasn’t much different from America generally.

  Many of us had messed-up experiences during that time. But I think the worst part was that we started to become conditioned to many of the stereotypes and problematic views about our groups.

  Including myself.

  That’s not to say I thought I was a murderous thief or naturally great at basketball (especially because I was never that great at ball). But I started going along with some things that set the tone for how I viewed and felt about myself for years and, eventually, how I viewed and felt about white people.

  Again, like most students, I wanted to fit in and be welcomed. So to do that, I aligned myself with whatever made that process easier, even if it meant growing accustomed to laughing when a white person called me an Oreo (Black on the outside, white on the inside) for enjoying Maroon 5 or letting it go when someone asked me random questions about “the hood” without knowing where I was from.

  I was like a cooler version of Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or that one Black cast member on each season of The Real World. You know, the one who hangs around white people and makes them feel comfortable, even when they do something problematic or racist. The person to whom people say things like “You just happen to be Black.” And for all intents and purposes, it worked.

  I’m not going to even bother explaining The Fresh Prince; if you’ve never heard of that show, the world has failed you. But there’s a chance you don’t know what The Real World is, which gives me hope for humanity. Basically, it was a reality show on MTV about a group of strangers who were given a house in a random city and asked to live together, and we watched them all hate one another and throw shade. (Dang, I feel old.)

  By the time I got to my senior year, not only had I survived by being the token Black kid; I had thrived. I was voted both most popular and prom king by my classmates, and I was the vice president of the student government.

  I figured I would carry on this way even after high school. I knew the world was primarily white, so I should just get used to navigating white people’s stereotypes and problematic behaviors by pacifying them. I was going to be the token Black guy forever.

  Thankfully, I’ve spent my years since high school learning and meeting people who were far more culturally aware and thoughtful than I was, which helped me realize that the role I wanted to play around white people wasn’t the token Black guy but rather “the Black friend.”

  Let me explain.

  I like to think of the high school version of myself as the original Black Power Ranger: well meaning but extremely problematic. While he did have powers and helped save the world, he also was constantly dancing to hip-hop music, rapping, and speaking in slang. It was a very stereotypical representation of Blackness. (They also really had an Asian woman play the Yellow Ranger: yikes.)

  The college version of myself was attempting to be a young Stokely Carmichael. My militant pro-Blackness was awakened by writers like James Baldwin and Toni Morrison. I spent most of that time protesting, refusing to speak to most white people in public, and trying to support only Black-owned businesses—it was a great time to be alive.

  I would normally say you should google Stokely Carmichael (later known as Kwame Ture), but I did my own search, and as it often happens with pro-Black figures, the first results about him were falsely negative. Stokely is famously known for coining the term “Black Power” and was a civil rights leader and grassroots organizer.

  The thing about being militant Black and refusing to speak to white people is that it makes it difficult to earn a living. Which is why by the time I was in my early to midtwenties, I became more like Denzel Washington.

  While Denzel is known widely for the movies he’s been in and his award-winning acting, behind the sce
nes he’s made a great deal of change for Black people. He’s done things such as help students pay for college and has even let young Black people live with him and his family if they need a place to stay. He’s also donated millions of dollars to historically Black colleges. And this has all been very under the radar.

  But now I think I’m in a moment where I’m a good mix of all of my phases (except that Black Ranger moment, yuck). My focus is on using everything at my disposal, from storytelling to access to finances, to help create a better and freer future for all people of color, especially young people. In large part, this means finding ways to educate and inform the white people who want to listen and grow. I call this my Ava DuVernay phase.

  Ava is the director of films such as the award-winning Selma, about the Civil Rights Act of 1964; the documentary 13th, about the history of race and justice in America; and series such as When They See Us, about the Exonerated Five (formerly known as the Central Park Five). You should probably just see everything she’s made, to be on the safe side.

  Throughout the book, you’ll read about moments from each of my personal phases. I’ll be speaking to you directly at times to explain certain things and to give my current opinion on stories and conversations you’ll be reading about.

  I’m also going to be pretty damn hard on my past self.

  I call this voice the Black Friend.

  I often think back to that white kid asking me about my “hood.”

  Realistically, we were both problematic. He was wrong for making that assumption about me, and likely about many other Black people, and I was wrong for playing into it.

  By not telling him that he was wrong to make such an assumption and by instead going along with it, I made him feel like it was fine to do this to me and, worse, to do it to other Black people. I could have said that not all Black people live in a hood, or that not all Black people live in poverty, and that his question was racist. Hell, I could have also simply said nothing, which would have been better than basically agreeing with the racist stereotype.

  I couldn’t see any of that at the time, but I see it now, and I’ve made it the mission of this book to help others to see it, too, by choosing to create the Black Friend. In this context, the Black Friend is the person who is willing to speak the truth to the white people in their lives, to call them out when they do or say something hurtful, ignorant, or offensive. After reading this book, my hope is that white people won’t need to tokenize or ask Black people and people of color to do all of the work.

  It’s not an easy thing, being the Black Friend. And it’s certainly not a role every Black person should be expected to take on. But those of us who choose to play that role do so because we know that by helping our white friends become better people, we help make the world a little bit better for the rest of us.

  As your Black Friend, in this book I’m going to share—as examples and as a guideline of things not to do—some of my personal stories as well as stories from other people of color about problematic moments created by white people.

  Much of the dialogue in the scenes from my younger years is invented, as I didn’t have a tape recorder running. But I’ve done my best to be true to the people involved—my past self included—and to the sentiments felt at the time. All names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

  This book is meant to provide teaching moments, cultural history, and context for white people. But just as important, this book is also supposed to provide affirmations for people of color—that you are seen and loved. Know that others are dealing with the same stuff. You are not alone. This book is also for those of you who may not realize yet what you’re dealing with—I was one of those.

  I’ve been using my energy for most of my life to try to make the world a better place, and I’m still fighting the good fight, but frankly, I’m getting my ass kicked. Hell, everyone working to make the world better for people of color is getting their ass kicked, too.

  The world needs you to step up, or get out of the way. (Imagine me saying this in my most superhero-monologue-like voice.) Particularly if you are a white person. The world needs to be better, and because of the power that white people hold in our society, much of that change needs to start with white people. The oppression that white people have inflicted on people of color since, well, damn, the very inception of this country can only be undone by the oppressors (white people).

  If you’re reading this, that means you’re probably a white person who wants to do better, or a person of color who wants to reaffirm things to feel less alone—or someone who bought this book to burn it. (Yep, I see you—and thanks for the royalties.) But, as you’ve seen from the title of the book, this is aimed primarily at the first audience I mentioned, the white people who want to be better.

  All wise people know that no one knows everything. If you feel you don’t need to read this book because you’re already a decent white person, there’s a good chance you’re not as decent as you think.

  There’s something special about firsts—you know, your first kiss, a baby’s first steps, the first day of school, your first time deleting a message from your teacher so your parents don’t know you got in trouble at school.

  High school was a time of many firsts for me, but none more important than my first time being invited to dinner at a white family’s home. It was the same day I tried devil’s vomit for the first time (also known as date loaf).

  During my junior year of high school, I worked at a pet store in Scarsdale, New York, which was about an hour bus ride from my house. Like most of Westchester County, Scarsdale was very white. But unlike the other parts of lower Westchester County, it wasn’t blue-collar middle-class white; it was wealthy upper-class white.

  For context, Scarsdale was listed as the second-wealthiest town in America in 2019, and Westchester County was among the wealthiest counties in the country when I was in high school.

  Another distinctive factor about not only Scarsdale but wealthy parts of Westchester generally is that most of the white people there consider themselves politically and socially liberal. But they will still do and say problematic things. They either don’t know or don’t care that they are problematic.

  I met a lot of these types of customers at the pet store. They’d come in and ask for my help finding things like dog food and then, after speaking with me, say something like “I’m happy you’re doing something constructive with your time and not out in the streets. You should consider college.” As if I weren’t an honors student and would otherwise be spending my time robbing banks.

  While these interactions made it hard to work there, I did become close with some of my white coworkers who were from the area, in particular two guys I’ll call Patrick and Matt for the sake of anonymity and avoiding a lawsuit.

  The two of them managed to get along with everyone. They also acted like their families didn’t have a boatload of money, almost as if they were like the rest of us—working because we had to.

  I would talk with them about everything—sports, video games, anime. It seemed like anything I was into, they were as well.

  One day, we were on break, talking about the game Super Smash Bros. (which was my jam, and if you haven’t played it, you’ve lived a lesser life), and Patrick suggested that Matt and I come over that Sunday to have dinner and play the game with him.

  Up until that point, I’m not sure that I had ever been in a white person’s home, which might sound surprising, but I didn’t live near any white people, and the families of my white classmates weren’t really the “invite the Black kid over” types.

  I figured, “Hell, if people can go to the moon, I can try dinner with white people.” Plus, I had seen enough episodes of 7th Heaven and Boy Meets World to know what to expect. So I accepted the invite.

  One small step for Frederick Joseph, one giant leap for Black kids with a couple of white friends everywhere.

  I wasn’t nervous about the dinner itself, but I was anxious about when
it would be taking place. Sundays for me were a very sacred time, and I had a specific view of how they worked.

  Growing up, I started and finished every Sunday the same way. I would wake up to the sound of my mother playing soul music and the smell of her cooking grits and canned salmon (we didn’t have fresh-salmon money then), and I would have four minutes of peace in bed before she would yell, “Get up and do your chores!”

  That was the routine for most of my life as a kid. I would get up on Sundays, eat breakfast, and then help clean our apartment while my mother cooked dinner, which typically included collard greens, corn bread, and mac and cheese.

  You should know, I can basically taste the food while writing this. I know everyone says this, but my mother is legitimately the best cook. Her food isn’t always healthy—and I have no problem throwing my mom under the bus about that—but it’s good as hell.

  But my house wasn’t the only place like this on Sundays. You could smell similar scents at my cousin’s house and hear the same types of soul music down the hall at my neighbor’s house. This was how my mother was raised, and countless other Black people as well. If you weren’t up cooking and cleaning, you were in church.

  In fact, the music and the foods might have been different, but this was the same scene in the homes of many people of color around the country. Food, music, and family are the essence of race and culture for many of us.

  I was actually pretty interested to find out what a “white Sunday” looked like. What did white people eat? What was the white version of soul music—the Beatles? Or maybe Elvis (who was a racist thief—google it if you don’t believe me)?

  The experience I ended up having at Patrick’s house was not only void of everything I was used to, but it tainted my Sundays for the rest of time.