A lot has happened in the last few weeks. We went from being corona scared to bullet scared. We watched lake street burn to the ground. We witnessed our old triggers come to the forefront. National guard on the streets. Racist police. Everything has changed and yet not much at all.
The community has come together in a way that I haven’t seen before. People look at me almost as if I’m human now. Not quite. But it’s somewhat better than before.
Last week I couldn’t sleep because terrorists were driving through my neighborhood. The Klan drove in broad daylight across the city. No one was arrested because the people tasked with arresting them are also their cousins. And so, really, do black lives matter?
My university keeps flooding me with emails of solidarity and what-what. It feels empty, without substance. But I know that. I have low expectations for these institutions, because I know the people they’re comprised of. All year I’ve been screaming about not being seen, about being pigeonholed, about having to fight for space to breathe in those ivory towers. Ivory seems a disservice. There’s nothing clean about them. If anything, it’s a mildewed tower. Musty and useless.
It feels like the nation is galvanized around this moment, for what it’s worth. And for those who are stuck on racist mode, well, they’re only doubling down. Idk, man. Drew brees put his foot in his mouth, something about honoring the flag and blah blah blah. Half a day later, he walked out an apology and promise to do better. Yeah, whatever. Go back to taking selfies with trump, dude, we don’t need you.
In other news, a local restaurant was called out for racist culture. Which wouldn’t be too big of a deal if they didn’t happen to be a pillar of the Muslim community here. Holy Land. They donate to charities, provide free food, support Islamic schools, etc. Ah, yes, but they harbored a whole lot of racism. Some virulent, violent racism. And so they were cancelled.
And I remembered every instance of feeling like I was being watched when I went in there. The thoughts ran through my head like: well, I’m wearing a thobe today, I look very Muslim. Maybe that will humanize me and they’ll forget I’m black. Ah, yes, but brother, if we’re talking about being Muslim, about being black, why should I have to think like that, surrounded by my so-called brothers in Islam? The plot thickens, shawarma my chicken.
Ah to be black and muslim in this world. Concentrated oppression. And when I stand next to my Arab & Desi brothers in the musallah, the averted eyes, the ignored handshakes, the brisk walking away. Is that not racism? Racism doesn’t feel like it’s strong enough of a word. Something else, something worse. More human.
I’ve walked these terra cotta streets looking for absolution. Telling my people I’m just trying to find myself. That would imply that you lost yourself. Which would imply that you had yourself at some point. Which is, as far as I can tell, patently untrue. I never knew myself to begin with. And so the search continues, to look for something that you don’t know the sight of. So maybe I have found myself, ten times over, but I put it back down, not recognizing my reflection.
I could go for a vacation. I wonder if Africa will take me. My waist has expanded. I could stand to lose some weight – too much access to milkshakes. Can’t run because of ankle ache. A trip to Africa is a great workout plan, man, that sun will have you slim and tan. Dark like… like… like a black man, African.
Longing for that African sun, too. I could stand to be slimmer and more tan, I’d welcome the warm embrace of that yellow black sun.