THUG*

Some years ago, I was at a party with a friend in the city next to mine. It's a well-known place of maize and blue that, if you know anything about this town, you know not to call it yellow. It's bigger than my city, and everything from its population's values and fears to its demographics and tax bracket starkly contrasts with my beloved city. Despite this, my town and its neighbor usually coexist fairly peacefully, with the inhabitants of the former generally leaving those in the latter alone, and those in the latter barely ever passing the strip mall at the border between us. "The elephant's graveyard," they'll call my city, quoting The Lion King as they gaze off toward the East. It's not uncommon, and I'm consistently better at disrupting that sort of talk when I hear it, but this party seemed particularly rife with those who felt strongly about the inferiority of where I lived. I was not equipped.

The night was winding down, and only a few people were left sitting together in a stranger's bedroom, huddled on the lone mattress as if surviving a cold snap that only body heat could manage. Molly is a hell of a drug, so despite my initial discomfort, I joined them on the bed. A young man, maybe mid-twenties, was discussing the differences between my town and his. "Aside from the obvious economics of the matter, it's just about the quality of person you'll find wandering the streets." He explained. "Thugs," he said, "run [my city], academics run [his]."

I, also a mid-twenty-something at the time, had no idea how to handle this, so I quietly excused myself and sat in the bathroom. Long enough for them to think something was wrong. I scribbled some thoughts in my notebook, primarily kicking myself for not saying anything in the moment, lamenting how it was surely too late to go back and say something now. I went home later that night/morning and wrote this piece as a stream-of-consciousness, venting the fury I felt at myself for not having defended my home and all of its beloved inhabitants.

I share it now, edited a bit and clarified as best I could. I write it for white people about whiteness in the hopes that it might spark a dialogue within us about the difference between what makes us feel unsafe and what simply makes us uncomfortable. May it help us challenge the assumptions we make about people we don't even know. And finally, I hope it might help us begin to examine our language and hold ourselves accountable for the words we use or condone, either explicitly or with our silence.

There's a person on the other side of the street, or walking directly

toward you, that you then put on the other side of the street. You stiffen,

then breathe because you realize you haven't been and have instead stared

through them so long that you might

think that they weren't even and never were

there. You wonder what you ever were afraid of in the first place, now

that the moment has passed and you're safe and can tell your friends what

happened, or what almost

happened, or could have

happened, or did

happen to someone one time that sorta looked like something that

happened to you, but to clarify, it wasn't you and you

hesitate to tell the truth that you were never in danger. You just

honestly thought for a moment to yourself that all those

"hastily" drawn conclusions about Black men might be true, and

honestly, forgetting yourself, forgetting anything but Other and the

usual stereotypes that come with that, you felt fear.

unless, of course, you consider that obsession with Other an

unquestionable obsession with Self that always leaves you

unable to see your Self as one without the Other opposed to you. Then,

understandably, you didn't forget yourself, and it's simply an

unconscious reality for you. I promise, it's conscious to the "Others" left to

guard themselves against hate and

guess when it may be safe to

give voice to

grievances they most certainly have against the

gall and ego and utter depravity of the

white imagination.