Perhaps the most difficult part of this week, on a personal level, was being “back at the office.”
“Distracted” isn’t quite the word. It was more a partitioning of my psyche into two equally necessary, asymmetrically important, and considerably overlapping halves: Transformation Professional. Black Man in America.
None of my deadlines changed, no tasks were taken off my plate. I wasn’t offered any special dispensation. To be fair, I didn’t request or want any, even when one or two leaders awkwardly edged towards the suggestion. But still.
There’s a short Medium post about this making the rounds. I skimmed it, took it in conceptually, but got back to work more quickly than I could truly absorb it. After this week, I now assume it was so brief partially for brilliant impact but also because she had to get back to work too.
Every day required the exhausting mental exercise of compartmentalization. Text my soccer team to make sure they’re safe in the protests. Finish building the acquisition DD checklist. Research the bail funds we want to donate to. Schedule CEO candidate follow-ups.
Core parts of my scope of responsibilities seemed intrusive; simple ad-hoc requests – Review some new hire requests – seemed downright rude. Where on this calendar do I schedule in time to grieve with my people, and to act?
While protesters two miles away march against injustice and demand more black people at the table, I find myself lucky enough to be inching towards said table, and terrified of pushing my seat back by not delivering. Even when the mind is miles away, fear keeps one firmly rooted in the “here.”
Peak challenge of being back at work during the George Floyd protests was listening in as the leadership team wrestled with crafting our internal and external corporate responses to the murders of George, Brionna, and numerous others. I grew impatient at the dancing some did on the topic.
As the lone black voice on the call, it felt *feeling I can’t describe* to be the one always pushing to name names, label crimes, and commit to action. So I said nothing on the first two calls. Then felt angry with myself for silence that felt like betrayal or cowardice. Still.
One of our comms executives asked for my help offline with the messaging. “It’s just so complicated, you know? Everything going on? These “things” happening? And the riots?”
“Wait…are you referring to the murder of George Floyd by the police?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Yeah…that…” he said. But he couldn’t say it himself.
People have a very hard time saying the words “racism,” “black,” “slavery,” “injustice,” “privilege.” As we’d say back home, it’s like a witch locked those words up for them and buried them under the tree, leaving words like “riot” and “loot” easy to pronounce.
For those who find the witch’s key, there’s an overuse that begins to burden. If I have to hear one more version of the phrase “While I, as a white person, will never fully understand the experience of a black person living in this country…” I’m going to explode. I know you’re white. I can see you.
As my wife said, at a certain point I start to feel “Other’ed” by that language, which runs completely counter to my desire for the most basic of equalities: to just be a normal person having a normal day at the office.
I shouldn’t be unthankful. I appreciate the vulnerability a statement like that requires, and the fervor with which some of our white allies are holding our executive team (and their friends and their families) accountable. It sometimes borders on over-compensation, with a tinge of white guilt, but it comes from a place of new love. I’m okay with that, grateful, even. This is a journey, and I’d rather the occasional awkward phrasing than complicit silence. Still.
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In a lot of ways, this week’s experience is the “cliff-notes” of one version of the experience of being black in America. There’s just so much “other” stuff you carry with you into every meeting, every conversation, every encounter with authority.
Feeling like you represent an entire race, all the time. Ignoring/pushing through micro-aggression. Having to compose oneself in infuriating, unjust situations. Explaining obvious things to the willfully blind. And still having to deliver. That’s just any given Wednesday, in any given office, for any given black person.
This weekend’s solidarity gives me hope we’ll eventually move some big rocks – especially on police brutality disproportionately meted out against black bodies. I’m hopeful, and grateful.
But still, #*$&… all of this is exhausting.