She hurried to the other side of the tunnel when she saw me walking toward her. She clutched her purse. She put her head down and she rushed past me.
I didn’t do anything to startle her. Why is she afraid of me? I had only greeted her with a faint smile. Why is she threatened by me? I had just gotten off the train and on my way to study at the library. I have no intention of harming her. Why is she suspicious of me? Is it because I am Black?
I was raised to make myself as least threatening as possible. I was taught to disarm strangers with a smile. I was instructed to speak in a respectable fashion. I was told to never get a tattoo. I was advised to stop wearing bandanas and durags in public. I stopped wearing my pants below my waist. I stopped dressing like a ruffian.
I was not dressed like a thug in the tunnel. I was not wearing a bandana. I was not wearing my pants below my waist. I was wearing my dark skin. That is what makes me threatening.
She isn’t the first White person to perceive my skin colour as a threat. The tunnel isn’t the first place where I’ve been treated as a threat. I have been a threat to White people in elevators, school hallways, parks, streets, and in the back of a police car.
But is it because I am Black? I didn’t even answer the question. What does all that have to do with that girl? Why am I forcing past experiences into this tunnel?
Did she clutch her purse because I am Black? Did she put her head down and rush past me because I am Black? Did she assume the worst of me because I am Black? Maybe. I don’t know. But I know that I assumed the worst of her because she’s White.
I am so conscious of what being black might mean to others, but so ignorant of what being White might mean to others. I speculate over how a White person perceives me, yet I am indifferent to how I perceive that White person. If being Black means being a suspected criminal, being White means being a suspected racist.
My heart is deceitful above all things. How can I trust it? Maybe she wasn’t afraid of me because of my skin colour. Actually, now that I think of it, maybe she was simply doing what I had told Nadia to do when she is in the tunnel alone with a man.
Maybe If I weren’t so selfish, I would have considered her feelings as more important than mine. If I weren’t so prideful, I would have considered her perception of me as less important than her safety.
If she wasn’t White, I wouldn’t have assumed the worst of her. Maybe she isn’t a racist. Maybe I am.