I'M TIRED OF GOOD WHITE PEOPLE
There’s a YMCA within walking distance of the house my wife and I moved into a few months ago. Which has been quite a boon for my attempt to slim from 225 (my weight last year) to 195 (my college playing weight.) (I’m currently 199.)
The proximity has also been helpful on days I’m particularly stressed and need something to alleviate it. And days when I become so anxious that my acid reflux flares up, making me feel as if a shot of Fireball has been thrusted up my esophagus. And days when I‘m so hyperfocused on reading and writing and editing and re-reading and re-writing that I spend three or four or six consecutive hours in the chair in the spare bedroom that’s been made into a home office—forgetting even to eat, shower, or shit. And days when I need to blow off some steam before it shoots out of my ears. And days when I need to think about something—anything—other than what’s been ravishing my mind and jabbing away at my spirit.
Basically, for days like Wednesday, the day after Donald Trump was elected President of the United States.
I try to play basketball three to four times a week. That night I walked to the gym, ball in tow, at roughly 6:45 P.M. Unfortunately, I forgot about the Wednesday evening coed dodgeball league there, and turned right back around as soon as I reached the Y’s doors and could hear the sneaker squeaks and dodgeballs smacked against the wall.
My plans to shoot around and sweat thwarted, I did the perhaps the exact opposite thing; the only other reasonable thing that would make me feel better than how I was feeling at that moment—find some greasy-ass and/or fried-ass food, loaded with all types of trans fats and high glucose corn syrups and shit, and eat the fuck out of it. I settled at a nearby bar, and ordered the bacon cheddar fries. With extra bacon. And gravy. To go.
I sat and waited at the bar, nursing a ginger ale. It was packed. And, since this is Pittsburgh—a city where I have an (estimated) 35 to 60 percent likelihood of being the only Black person in any random bar I walk into—I was the only Black guy there.
I intentionally avoided white people up to that point in the day, choosing to stay home and work instead of venturing to one of my preferred coffee shops and cafes. I just didn’t want to have to ponder whether the guy in front of me in line or the woman sitting behind me on the couch or the cop trailing my car for a block or the cute barista who always smiles and occasionally gives me danish recommendations was a Trump voter. And I didn’t want to think about what I’d do—if I’d explode in volcanic rage or (even worse) if I’d want to explode but instead choose a veneer of polite and non-threatening Blackness—if I learned they happened to be one.
It’s a luxury I realize most Black people don’t have. I do not have any white co-workers I need to interact with this week. No right-leaning and particularly jolly supervisor I have to report to with gritted teeth lurking under a pained and professional smile. Unfortunately, millions of Black people have to spend the entire week (shit, the entire next four years) re-experiencing the trauma of Tuesday and Wednesday—the days America collectively told us to go fuck ourselves—while somehow finding a way to be productive while simultaneously deciding whether to confront or avoid triggers. On a daily basis.
But here I was. Waiting at the bar for my food while surrounded by the types of people and the types of conversations I spent the day evading. Of course, the din of the dozens of discussions taking place made it near impossible to really distinguish any from the others. I wasn’t exactly trying to listen to anyone, but the collective noise was such that I couldn’t do it by accident, either. But then, through the noise, I heard the word “Trump” and peered up from my phone to see two 50-ish white men engaged in a conversation about the election. They were four or five stools away; far enough where I couldn’t hear everything but close enough where I’d get the gist and the general tone of whatever they were talking about.
They were not fans of Trump. They both preferred Bernie but voted for Hillary. And they both expressed a silver lining that the Clintons were likely done in Washington. Then some election coverage on the TV behind the bar caught their attention—a segment on how Pennsylvania turned from blue to red and a county-by-county demographic breakdown on how that happened. It was a particularly wonky segment, and this fascinated them, making their conversation livelier than it had been 30 seconds before. “Oh, wow. I knew Trump would win the Beaver County white vote, but not by that many points.” “Damn. Did you see that? Clinton’s exit numbers in Fayette are even lower than Obama’s were. That’s a shock.”
And this relatively mundane conversation between two left-leaning white men made me angrier than I’d been all day. My eyes narrowed and my face hardened. I felt my pulse heighten and my blood rise. It was an instinctual response; a subconscious but very real reaction to this stimuli. But I didn’t understand it. Why this conversation? What is it about what they’re saying that induced this immediate rage?
I’m sure they voted. And maybe they campaigned and canvassed and volunteered. And maybe they were genuinely disappointed by the results of the election. But they have the luxury to not really give a fuck 12 hours later—to discuss the election results with the same glib curiosity and intrigue they’d discuss sabermetrics or James Harden’s true shooting percentage—because this election doesn’t change much for them. It’s not a sweeping referendum on their status as full citizens. It’s not confirmation that their country would rather choose a self-sabotaging white supremacy than witness you make even a modicum of progress.
This lack of investment is, admittedly, understandable. After all, it’s not their asses and their actual bodies on the line. The Nate Silvers and Wolf Blitzers of the world are fine. They can have political and policy debates in bars and have these debates be lively thought exercises where both parties agree to disagree and then share a shot of Jameson. They can afford a distance. A performative sobriety.
But this lack of investment—of really, desperately giving a fuck that their Black and brown (and Muslim and LGBTQ) countrymen exist in a perpetual state of endangerment, and there’s evidence to suggest it’s already happening—is why Donald Trump will be our next president. Black Americans obviously can’t change the hearts and minds and mindsets of the tens of millions of white Americans who still question our citizenry and humanity. There just aren’t enough of us, and we’re just not privy to the innermost crucibles of white America. We’re not at the Thanksgiving tables or the suburban homerooms or the country clubs or the bars in Pittsburgh or wherever else white people congregate amongst themselves. But these “well-meaning” white people—the ones who voted for Hillary but were able to sleep last night—are. And they haven’t done enough. Because it just doesn’t matter enough for them to do enough.
My food came a few minutes later. I paid for it, tipped the bartender, and left. I began eating it as soon as I got to my car, ripping open the styrofoam carton and dipping the bacon-draped potatoes in gravy before shoving them into my mouth. It was messy and delicious and glorious. And I sat there licking my cheese-slicked fingers, savoring each bite—finally finding the tiniest satisfaction on a day 59.7 million of my countrymen said they wouldn’t terribly mind if I were dead.
Damon Young is the editor-in-chief of VerySmartBrothas (VSB) and a professional Black person. He can be reached at @verysmartbros or damon@verysmartbrothas.com.
