Trayvon Who? Or More Tales From Racist America 2013

Last Friday, my husband Andre, and a couple of buddies, took the two and a half hour ride from Providence to the northwest corner of Connecticut, to see Soulive, his all time favorite band. 

Norfolk, CT, not to be confused with Norwalk, is a small rural place near the foothills of the Berkshires. Population: 1,709. According to the 2010 US Census, the racial breakdown is: 1659 White, 12 African American, 11 Asian, 2 American Indian, 7 Other and 18 Identified by two or more races.

In other words: 97 percent of the population is white.

In other, other words:  Andre, a black man, is probably gonna stick out a bit.

No biggie. 

One of the many beautiful things about my husband is, even after living forty-eight years in his dark hued body, that he doesn't look at life with the weight of some angry chip on his shoulder, expecting folks to react in a certain way. 

Andre is ALWAYS just Andre. Mellow. Accepting. Nonjudgmental. A quality cat.

His only expectation? That you'll treat him the same.

Friday night was no exception. After dinner at the restaurant downstairs, he started to lead his two friends, tickets in hand, upstairs to the concert venue. The ushers at the top of the stairs, the only official people in sight, were Andre's target. 

But apparently, because he'd never been there before, Andre misstepped protocol--and clearly the safety measures that had been put into place to avoid gate crashers.

Even though the place only holds 300 people. 

Even though these Three Amigos, one towering way over six feet, would have been pretty easy to spot in the half sold crowd of 150 people, should their intent be to slip past the first checkpoint, a woman who clearly wasn't manning her station. 

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" called the woman from off to the side. 

"I saw you talking over there," said Andre.

Translation: I didn't think you were working here.

"Yeah, well I thought I was going to have to wrestle you," said the woman.

"I get that a lot," said Andre.

And then? The 'oh, no you didn't moment.' The kind that stops time, where the speaker realizes what she said and the participants wait to see how each other will react.

To Andre, a black man, the white woman said, "Watch it, boy." 

Really, lady. What were you thinking?

Sure. I can pause and give her the benefit of the doubt for a (milli)second. What if she was just trying to be flirty? Or show my husband that she was 'down with him'. Sorry. Doesn't matter or work here. There's just certain things you don't do in life, whatever your intent: Say hijack in an airport. Yell fire in a theatre. 

And, especially if you're a white person, call a black man, 'boy'. 

Way too racially charged. Way too much history. Way too much context.

And truly, what's up with the timing here? Her sorry outburst came just hours after the President's speech on race. It came just days after the George Zimmerman verdict. Maybe its me--and apparently it is-- but is it crazy to think those situations would cause other people to not only reflect about their beliefs, but be a bit more thoughtful about their interactions with one another?

Luckily for her, Andre had that introspection piece covered for both of them.

No doubt, timing is everything. If she had uttered those words to anyone other than my husband, she may have gotten a hugely different reaction. Conversely, if any of this went down prior to the Trayvon Martin case , and his own deep reflections, Andre may have reacted differently. Truthfully, he probably would have opted to say nothing, silently steaming about this ignorant woman.

She would have become part of his negative history.

But instead, because of this Zimmerman verdict. Because of his anger over the senseless killing of a black teen who was much like him. Because of his recent experience developing and teaching a workshop on cultural and race relations, Andre did something a whole lot more powerful.

He looked her in the face and said, very calmly, "That's not very culturally competent."

Andre spoke the truth.

And for a moment, at least, it worked.

Why White America Blew the George Zimmerman Verdict

I could say the George Zimmerman verdict surprised me.

I'd be lying.

I'm generally optimistic. But when I heard the jury make-up: six women, five whites and one unidentified minority, in my head it was all a done deal.

Not guilty.

Here's the thing. I'm white. I've been partnered up with this amazing black dude for almost half of my life. I'm sympathetically aware of the bullshit challenges he sometimes experiences. Occasionally, if I'm outstandingly lucky, I even get to share in joint racial profiling. But, as a white woman, I can never fully experience his discrimination.

And neither could these jurors.

To prove the crime of Manslaughter in Florida, the State must prove that Trayvon Martin is dead. Check. And that Zimmerman intentionally committed an act or acts that caused the death of Trayvon Martin. Double check.

So what's the issue? Could the reasonable doubt have come into play because these women, the majority of them white, have absolutely no understanding of the hardcore profiling that black men and teens deal with every single day. And trust, even with a black president, we still live in an outstandingly racist society. 

Lately, I can't stop thinking about how many people don't want to accept their part in the ugly. Indeed. That would be you Mr. Zimmerman, last week's pariah Ms. Paula Deen, as well as all all of their supporters, including the peeps claiming no one's racist here.

Who exactly are you lying to?

Clearly, if we're living in a colorblind society, as so many people falsely believe, then my husband, Trayvon Martin, and millions of other people of color, who have similar stories to tell, should be able to go about their business without a second glance. 

Sorry. The numbers just don't match up.

The greater truth? No one wants to be labeled as racist. But if you've blissfully managed to live in self-segregation and avoid putting yourself into a situation, any situation, where your beliefs about race can be challenged, either good or bad, then you cannot, I repeat, cannot claim you're not racist.

Racism is not some sort of abstract idea. It's concrete. It's ugly. And how you react in front of a real live person, who looks, on the surface, perhaps a bit different than you, particularly during a time of stress is the true test of character, and in my opinion, the only way you can discover where your racial prejudices really lie.

Zimmerman failed this miserably. 

Tim Wise, an antiracist essayist, author and educator said in this recent piece: "Which is to say, Trayvon Martin is dead because he is black and because George Zimmerman can’t differentiate — and didn’t see the need to — between criminal and non-criminal black people. Which is to say, George Zimmerman is a racist. Because if you cannot differentiate between black criminals and just plain kids, and don’t even see the need to try, apparently, you are a racist…"

Sure, George Zimmerman can claim that he's not a racist. He's got a Peruvian mom after all. But his true test came when he met up with a dark skinned youth, wearing a hoodie, who had the balls to walk through his neighborhood. Did Zimmerman see Trayvon as an individual just passing through. Nope. Trayvon was called out by Zimmerman, three days after the shooting during an interrogation with the police, as yet another of those "fucking punks". 

Racist.

The other piece of the whole mess that really disgusts me is this concept that persons of color have no right to defend themselves, during an attack. Especially during an attack that they didn't start. Indeed, Trayvon may have contributed to those wounds on Zimmerman's head--as self-defense during an fight. But I guess the protections awarded by the Florida Stand Your Ground Law don't apply to dead teenagers. 

Again, I defer to Mr. Wise: "They are saying that black people who fight back against someone they think is creepy and who is following them, and might intend to harm them, are more responsible for their deaths than those who ultimately kill them. What they have said, and make no mistake about it, is that any white person who wants to kill a black person can follow one, confront them, maybe even provoke them; and as soon as that black person perhaps takes a swing at them, or lunges at them, the white pursuer can pull their weapon, fire, and reasonably assume that they will get away with this act. I can start drama, and if you respond to the drama I created, you are to blame, not me."

Let that sink in for a second.

And can we be real for a second Zimmerman? When you pulled your gun on Trayvon, it's highly doubtful that he said, "You got me", as you claimed in the Hollywood western playing out in your mind. Do you really believe your story? I'm guessing that Trayvon said, in complete shock and disbelief, "You shot me."

Which you did. 

So, I wonder, do you still think he deserved it? I don't remember you apologizing. Even now that you're off the criminal hook.

My very wise girlfriend told me recently, about the perspective of one of her African American studies professors, a white man, who said black people are not going to end discrimination. The task lies with white people, the only ones with power to change the system. But to do that, injustices not only have to be seen, but acknowledged as such, even if you can't relate to them in the exact same way.

So to you, the five white jurors, who a real opportunity to leave your mark on history, you just blew it.

Again.

Celebrating the 4th of July with Censorship

I have a YouTube channel. If two videos constitute a channel.

It's under an alias. You know, to protect the innocent. Trust, there's no national security breaches going on here. Just outstanding professional quality concert footage, compliments of my husband, his Canon point and shoot and a newly discovered talent for video production. 

I'd rather keep it all on the down low, because I'm not sure how recording artists feel about having their live performances broadcast from unofficial sources. But in my mind, at least, we're doing a service, as are others who share the live experience. It's a chance to share the vibe of an in person experience and promote unsung talent.

To appreciate and celebrate. Period. 

Initially, the love was flowing through to the comment section as well: 'What a song those harmony's so tasteful'. And:  'I'm really in love with whoever posted this video. That show was amazing!!'

But as the views increased, a bit of negativity started to creep in:  'Come on bro, what are you wearing? Still love this song. Very good quality video. plus one-ing'. 

While this made me a bit uncomfortable, bottom line is that I'm a journalist. Supporter of free speech and all that. I don't censor.

Or do I?

I was pretty confident in my stance until this showed up:  'i'm praying that he does not get fat again'. 

Okay, let's review. The artist in question has struggled for the past decade plus, with serious life or death issues: drugs, alcohol, the media, pressures of fame. Real fans should know this, celebrate whatever victories he's rocked out, because in my opinion, there are many and just stop the hate. 

But apparently, there's a whole lot of people who are more than comfortable, under the anonymity of cyberspace, to snowball the negativity, without even showing their own faces. This reply, to the comment in question, came a few days later: 'This damn music industry f's up people's mind! He looks like he's in heaven and hell at the same time.'
 
Indeed. I'm with 'ya. Or I was until the same person followed up with: 'Please lose some weight. You are 5'6 I know it's a lot of pressure to live up to How does it feel video....us sistas need something to look at! Please! We love you too much! Also be free but get a stylist you are so fine when u put it all together.'

Seriously? Hold up a minute girlfriend--it's not wholly the industry's fault. Equal blame lies with the public. With you. Are you listening to yourself? The mere fact that someone chooses to share their talents with the world, and is living in the public eye, does not give you the right to critique their personal struggles. Please. 

I hold no illusions that the artist will even see our video, but stranger things have happened. Plus, I'm all about the positivity and comments like that don't reflect my life philosophy. So adios comment section. I've gone all Communist censor and disabled them, so we can get back to what's important.

The music.

Paula Deen. Keep Talking About Race

May I be the first to thank you Ms. Paula Deen.

Not for your boneheaded racial slurs. But for reminding us, as Americans, that our world is far from colorblind. And just because we're not publicly lynching people in the town square, doesn't mean things have gotten a whole lot better.

Take a recent Thursday night in my world. While you were attempting to put out your public relations fires, my husband and I spent an evening at a major department store, being racially profiled. You know, because even though I'm a tall white blonde woman, when I'm with my 'scary' dark-skinned husband, there's an element of guilt by association.

Our 'crime', of the moment--trust, it wasn't the first, and surely won't be the last--was returning two huge boxes of apparel, purchased via the web, to a shopping plaza in suburban Rhode Island. As we're entering the store, the security alarm goes off. 

Andre turns to me and said, "Well, I just triggered the black alarm." 

It'd be funny if it wasn't true.

Apparently, if you purchase something on-line from Kohl's, the distribution center doesn't de-activate the security mechanism. No biggie. But if free returns for on-line purchases are standard, then such an activity should not only be commonplace, but not require an immediate tail by a floor clerk, who basically escorted us to the service desk.

In case you were wondering, the racial make- up of Greenville, RI, about ten minutes north of my house in Providence, according to the 2010 census, stands at 97.1 percent white. The black population? A whopping .8 percent. 

Why is this important? Because if you have absolutely no personal interaction with someone other than your own race, ever, there's an outstandingly good possibility you've got some deep set assumptions going down that you may, or may not, be acknowledging, that are indeed, racist.

Like you, ignoramus managerial type, who made it a point to stop by and ask the service desk clerk, "Those guys returning something?", even though she was clearly mid-transaction, scanning clothing in plastic bags, each bearing mail order bar codes, that interestingly enough match the receipts.

And blatantly turning around to and get a full on look in our faces? Nice touch.

So, Ms. Paula Deen. Now that you've managed to open a conversation on race, even if that wasn't your intent, maybe you can see how important it is to continue it.

Phishing. From Far Away.

Hello?" I said.

No answer--but I could vaguely hear something. 

One more try. "Hello?"

"I need to talk to Andre Brown," he said, sounding like an Indian Queen. 

That's gay pride. Not royalty.

"What?"

"I need to talk to Ms. Andre Brown," he said, slightly more whiney than before.

Seeing that there was no Ms. Andre Brown, my fraud alert kicked in. Seemed like a telemarketer. From a far away land. He had clearly been instructed to sound urgent. But instead, he was sounding like a little bitch. 

I was amused.

 "It's not Ms. It's Mr. He's not home. Can I take a message?"

"Yes. I'm calling because your computer sent out a signal that there's a problem."

Here we go. Snicker.

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!"

Wait. Did he just say what I thought he said? He couldn't have. So I asked, "What?"

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!!"

Oh, no he didn't. This dude who just cold called me, in a clear attempt to rob me of something, is now verbally reprimanding me? That can't be. Can it? So I asked again.

Naturally.

"Why am I laughing?"

"Yes. Why are you laughing ma'am. This is a serious matter. Your computer is in danger."

Couple of things buddy. I'm laughing because you're clearly an international hoser. Your acting skills suck, as well as your choice of profession.

You've also called the East Coast. We're skeptics by nature. As well as street wise. You will not be receiving any personal data by me. In fact. I'm going to taunt you. I've decided my goal now is to make you hang up first.

"Really? How did you figure that out?" I asked.

"Through the internet. If you just give me a minute ma'am. I can show you."

Seriously dude. Clearly you didn't pick up on the sarcasm in my tone. Do you really think that I'm believing your story. Any piece of it?

All lost in translation. 

And now you're insulting my intelligence. Which you shouldn't do. Because this will come out of my mouth, and I will quickly become the loser at my own game. "Don't ever call here again or I will report your number to the authorities," I said. 

No worries chap. If you were a good student, you would have come away with a little somethin' somethin'. But it was a bit more subtle than my social security number, so I doubt you picked up on it.

That inflection in my voice, right before I hung up? 

That was the tone you were looking for in the first place.