“What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here”
Although the song itself is about an increasingly frustrating infatuation, to me these lyrics from Radiohead’s “Creep” have also always represented the disconnect some of us (black people) occasionally feel when finding ourselves deeply entrenched into mainstream (white) culture. It’s a feeling of displacement, of not-really-quite-fitting-ness that has a way of sneaking up on us while at a board meetings or company cookouts or even while buying turkey bacon at Trader Joe’s.
It doesn’t happen often. And, it’s not necessarily that we feel like we don’t “deserve” to be where we happen to be. But, every now and then something happens — a thought, a memory, a phone call — that puts us in a state of limbo somewhere between alien and citizen, telling us that something isn’t quite right and we don’t belong here.
This happened to me last week, as I was checking my voicemail while sitting at the coffeehouse where I do much of my writing. While the rest of my senses were knee-deep in yuppiedom — watching wealthy white women park their Range Rovers, smelling whatever the hell the baristas put in the coffee to make it worth six dollars, still able to detect the aftertaste of a surprisingly good gluten-free cookie I’d just finished eating — the message I was listening to took me to a completely different world.
One of my relatives had been arrested the night before on a multitude of charges (including attempted murder), and this voicemail was informing me of where he was being held.
Now, before I continue, I have to say that I realize that there’s no universal black or African-American experience. Just as there are black people who’ve never tasted Kool-Aid or sung the Negro National Anthem, there are those who’ve never received a phone call like that. But, regardless of our upbringing, location, or socioeconomic status, the specter of gun violence is something every single one of us has to deal with. There’s never a time when we’re not under its shadow in some way.
Seriously, even without mentioning instances when we’ve been directly affected by it, think about all the things we do or don’t do because we’re either reacting to or trying to avoid the possibility of it.
Think about the clubs we don’t go to and the people we make sure not to invite when deciding to go. Think about that great soul food spot with the banging wings that, despite it’s greatness (and its cheapness), definitely won’t see your ass or your cash after sunset. Think about how every black man you know parks his car in the “gitaway” position. Think about the conversations you’ve undoubtedly had with a parent or an uncle or a teacher about what to do when encountering police, and how to avoid getting shot by them. Think about the times you’ve gone somewhere, had a great time, and left completely surprised and elated that there was absolutely no threat of any violence. In fact, the fact that there was no violence might even end up being the most memorable part of the night.
I realize that we — African-Americans — aren’t the only people who deal with this. But, we are the only ones who all are realistically a degree of separation away from gun violence, and maybe this consciousness and the not-really-quite-fitting-ness are related somehow. Can’t get too entrenched and too comfortable if you know you can receive that phone call at any moment.
I really want to write more about this, but I need more time to be able to fully flesh out exactly what I want to say. In the meantime, people of VSB, how has your life been affected by gun violence (directly and indirectly)? Also, do you think I’m off-base when suggesting that every single one of us is always one degree of separation from it, and do you think this consciousness affects us in other ways?
—The Champ
I do not believe that a man should put his hands on a woman.