Fighting my own racism
Two nights ago, I went to a book signing by Damon Young, who just released his first book, a memoir called What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker. Damon is the editor-in-chief of Very Smart Brothas, a blog that Lavanya Ramanathan of the Washington Post described as “the blackest thing that ever happened to the internet.”
Before he signed books, Damon had a Q&A with a reporter from the New York Times, Nikole Hannah Jones. He talked about how racism has made life a constant struggle — like how when his car was repossessed, he had to lie to his friends and say it was towed. And how, despite his newfound fame and fortune, he still feels like he could lose everything at any moment. And how his mother died at 60 because doctors didn’t care enough to listen.
My first instinct was to reach out and try to connect. On the way to the book signing, I rehearsed what I’d say to him. I wanted to tell him that I admire his work and who he is. When he signed my book, I walked up to him and smiled, shaking his hand. For a brief moment, I felt like we had connected. He signed my book, and, compelled to say something, I told him that I appreciated his honesty, and that what he said was poignant. He thanked me, and I left.
I felt split. One part of me was happy that I had had the chance to meet him, and that I got to learn more about “the absurdity of being black.” The other part felt rejected, which was selfish. I hated the way I felt.
I think a lot of white people, myself included, want to think that there’s a way to stop being racist. To feel total kinship with black people. But I know that I will never truly understand what black people experience. And I will never be exonerated from being white, being privileged, being racist.
My landlord evicted a family from my building last year. They renovated the building to raise the rent and force black people out, making room for white people. I live in Harlem, and living here is one of the ways that I am racist, because I chose to gentrify. I didn’t have to have a one-bedroom apartment. I could have gotten roommates, or settled for a tiny studio somewhere south of Harlem, where I wouldn’t be forcing black people out of their homes.
But I made that choice, and I have to live with it until my lease runs out.
This year, I will be a better person. I know that there isn’t any finality when it comes to doing better. There’s no “I’m a good person, so I can rest on my laurels.” It’s a constant struggle against everything you think, say, and do.
One of the ways I’m going to do better is by speaking up when people say or do racist things. This has been my biggest hurdle. I get scared. I freeze up. But I have to say something. I have to do my part.
Toward the end of the Q&A, Nikole asked Damon about a post he had written on Very Smart Brothas, blaming women for being sexually assaulted. He talked about the overwhelmingly negative response he got, and how he felt confused, angry, and defensive.
I can count on my hand the number of celebrities, and people I’ve known, who’ve sincerely apologized for something they did or said. It’s always, “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way…” or “I’m sorry, but…” In short, they don’t apologize. They don’t accept that they’re wrong.
Shortly after he made the comment online, Damon apologized for what he did — and he meant it. I am apologizing, too.
I am sorry. It’s not enough to say that — my actions speak louder. But I say it nonetheless. Because I am complicit — I have chosen to be racist. And no matter what I do, I still am.
It doesn’t matter that Damon doesn’t know how I felt. I don’t think he gives a shit — it’s not about me. I will do better, though. He deserves better. All black people do.