As I stood in line, I was texting my roommate, begging him and his friend to come have lunch with me because no one came into work today, and then it happened. This man turned around and asked me, "What's it like to walk into the bank and not be profiled?" I looked up and there he stood, an African-American, about my height and approximately 300 pounds. I knew what he said, but I wanted to make sure. "Excuse me?" So, he repeated the question, and I couldn't come up with any kind of answer. I felt my stomach drop to my shoes. I looked to the teller ahead for some kind of answer, and she just shook her head at me. She, too, was African American. I looked around, and there wasn't a single other white person in the entire bank; it was as if the public statement of white America had suddenly been laid on my shoulders. As someone in the public relations industry, I assumed that I would be able to handle such a feat, but instead, I broke the most important rule of the trade. I had nothing to say, so I just stared.
He decided to continue without me, "I walk into this bank, and they act like I'm going to rob the place. Last week, I brought a 6,000 check in here, and they looked at me like I had stolen it. They act like they're scared of me." I glanced at the bank teller as she closed her eyes, "It's not right, man." I looked at him and felt my mouth drying out. The television in the corner was reporting on the Trayvon Martin case when I responded, "I agree. It's not right. I hope that one day we live in a world where it's not this way." He stared at me like what I had said was not enough, like there should be something else more qualifying in my words. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know what racism looks like. I've seen women back home in Tennessee clutch their purses as a suited black man walks into a restaurant. I get it; I know that it's real. But for me, it's not how I live my life. I never thought he was going to rob the bank. I barely even noticed he was standing there. Before I proceeded to the next teller, I looked at him and said, "I'm so sorry," but I wasn't sure what for. Apologizing for the racism of white people when it didn't seem clear that there had been any racism exacted? Apologizing for privilege I never asked for?
And the privilege is complicated because it only carries over until something else takes precedence. Today, I'm wearing a bright purple polo, with matching Chuck Taylors. My voice opened up to the teller to reveal the slightly high-pitch tone that didn't quite fully mature through puberty. My usual demeanor, enthusiastic, is ever present, and on days like this: with the matching outfits and the voice and the demeanor, it's easy to assume the stereotype--he's a homosexual. It's a common assumption I've dealt with my whole life, and one that has, at times, had an effect on the way I was treated. But Abu at BB&T didn't seem to take offense, nor did he seem to offer support or condolences. He simply gave me my rent money, and I left on my way. But this morning, when I stopped to grab a pack of cigarettes, I walked up the counter smiling, and the cashier looked me up and down and pursed her lips together. Afterward, she barely made eye contact. Could I assume what she was thinking? Sure. Will I ever know for certain? No.I turned on my computer once I had gotten back to my office, and Facebook was pulled up. A friend had posted an article entitled, "What Should Trayvon Martin Have Done?" And my retort to that would be, "what should any of us do?" It's complicated and complex and nearly depressing if you think about it too much. I had this unconscious flow of emotion as this man asked me about my privilege at the bank. It automatically began with guilt, though I had done nothing wrong. I wanted to offer some kind of resolution or apology, without proper evidence that an infraction had been committed. And then it turned to nervousness, similar to when an entire class gets in trouble for one student's actions. I know that there's wrong in the world, but it was me who was having to provide an answer for it. And then, it turned to a confusing mixture of sadness and anger. The anger stems from the fact that someone can look at me and see exactly what he or she wants to see; in this case, a tall, white man. It was assumed from those three identifiers that I had never been profiled. Not for my socioeconomic status or religion or sexuality. It was assumed that I was living the white man's fantasy. But the sadness is even worse because it's the startling realization that the progress we're making toward equality is incredibly slow. We spend so much of our time comparing our circumstances to one another that we get lost in the semantics. We fail to recognize that not a single one of us should take importance over the other.
I wish I had an answer for that man, because other than his painfully abrupt sociological discourse in line at the bank, he seemed like a very nice guy. I wish I had an answer for the Trayvon Martin case, a nauseatingly complex case full of details we've overlooked in pursuit of some kind of racial reasoning. I wish that we didn't judge people based on their race or gender or sexuality or religion or anything else. There's a lot of things I wish for the world because I believe we would better for it. Instead, I just do what I can. As I entered my building, I could feel someone behind me, so I walked in first, held the door for him or her, and closed my eyes. Why? Because it shouldn't matter who you were doing it for; it's a person, and that's reason enough.
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