By Olivia W. Wilson
This memoir captures a glimpse of the experience of a college student navigating the race relations in her individual world. By infusing a reflective tone and nuanced stream of consciousness, she provides an intimate atmosphere along with her powerful food for thought. With an abrupt start, but no destination in mind, the narrator grapples with her unique position parallel to, but a great distance away from her parter and family members.
“We need to find somewhere else to eat. Somewhere safe for them.”
What did she mean? Why would a restaurant be unsafe? The jellyfish sting of Laurel’s words remained floating in the air around us as we jaywalked across the street to the Golden Leaf Bistro, the lunch restaurant we regretfully decided on. In the same moment, I looked up and outside of my own space and body. Blue and green eyes were following our every movement, heads turning, scanning, watching, memorizing in awe – or was it disgust? – as we made our way.
Maybe it was just in my head. Mjay held the door open for us and I walked ahead to the hostess stand, aware of the attention we drew to ourselves. There was an absence of hospitality – no welcoming smile or friendly, “Hello.”
“Four please,” I finally forced out of my mouth to the staring lady. Just as forcibly, she cracked a smile and showed us to a booth. With thoughts focused on our empty stomachs, we began chatting again and laughing at each other’s jokes. The waitress with pigtails and a bandana approached and asked me if we were ready to order, despite my position on the inside of the booth. Why me? There were three other people sitting at the table ready to order too.
Maybe it was just in my head. I ordered a classic – fried chicken sandwich and fries. Laurel ordered the same. Mjay ordered. Twice. The first time he asked for his food the waitress could not understand him. Stan laughed nervously, making the waitress flinch and restart her sentence after a long, hard blink.
What I could not fathom was how normal this experience was for Mjay and Stan. When I entered this restaurant with them, the realization of the whiteness of the space was so heavy it seemed to suck all of the oxygen out of the room, dissipating my appetite. I became acutely aware of what Laurel meant.
“Oh, yeah. We’re just used to it at this point,” Mjay replied with a chuckle. When we were tucked in bed watching Grey's Anatomy, I brought up the intensity of the atmosphere from the bistro earlier that day. Mjay is usually a nonchalant, go-with-the-flow kind of guy, but somehow, in this moment, I was not convinced that he was entirely unaffected by these everyday microaggressions. How could he say he feels unaffected? How could I feel more affected than him?
The constant drone of the sportscar got louder as Mjay accelerated down the clear three-lane highway. We were enveloped on both sides by dead, yellow fields of grass as the sun shone down on our Saturday morning. Mjay, a fresh haircut; the sky, a fresh, vibrant blanket of blue – we were unstoppable. Blue and red flashing lights abruptly appeared in his rearview mirror and, just as suddenly, the energizing, blue sky became a dreary, dull gray. Mjay swiftly moved to action. In silence, without a whisper, he turned down the music playing, moved his gun into the cupholder, pointed to the glove box, to which I responded by retrieving his registration, all while slowing down, pulling to the side of the road, and putting the car in park.
I have never been pulled over by the police. Mjay seemed like a pro – well, not seemed, he was a pro at handling police interactions. I wondered what age his mom gave him the talk. Not the safe-sex talk, the police talk. The talk where a mother has a laundry list of things to explain to her son or daughter about their bodies as unsafe in the presence of police officers. I wonder how she found the words to tell Mjay that the system views him – a son, boyfriend, uncle, friend, and realtor - as nothing but an expendable body. The sirens and badge hold the power and neither her, nor her child’s melanin-rich skin hold any. You must not move “too fast,” you must keep your hands visible at all times, you must talk respectfully and answer their questions, or else you may not make it home for dinner. All because the institution lacks pigment. All because Mjay was born Black.
The stubble-faced police officer with a farmer’s tan and heavily shaded sunglasses approached the passenger side window and eyed Mjay’s glock. “Good afternoon. How are y'all doin’? I see you have a firearm.”
“Yes, sir, I do. It’s registered and I have my concealed carry license,” Mjay replied.
“Please, do me a favor and leave that in the cupholder for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Mjay said. I remained silent as they spoke. Silently oozing privilege from my pores.
“Where are y’all coming from?” the officer asked after Mjay gave him his license and registration. I was unsure whether he was asking me or my boyfriend, but Mjay responded, “We just left my dad’s house and are going back to Chapel Hill where she goes to school.”
“OK, well, I’m just gonna go run this in the system and be back. Sit tight.”
When the officer returned, he gave Mjay his documentation and said he pulled him over because he was going 80 in a 55 mph zone. We were left with a warning. A slap on the wrist. We pulled back onto the highway and rode without words for a few minutes until Mjay broke the hush, “That was the first time in my life that I wasn’t searched after being pulled over by the police.”
The thought of Mjay being treated as a criminal before any evidence of wrong-doing, the thought of Mjay being told to step away from his vehicle while police officers carelessly rummaged through his belongings, the thought of every stop and search he endured without me present makes me physically nauseous. As if my presence in the car alone informed the officer that this man showed no threat? As if my complexion placed lovingly next to his made it clear to the officer that this man is safe? If I was not in the car with Mjay that day, he would have probably been ticketed for driving 25 mph over the speed limit and possibly unlawfully searched and seized for being a Black man in America. I simply cannot unsee these inequities. It has never just been in my head.
“Come on girls, get dressed. Let’s go to the library. Each of you can pick two books to check-out,” Tanya said to my sister, Claire, three step-sisters, Kyra, Kyndal, and Lexy, and I. My stepmom was introduced to Claire and I around Easter when I was in second grade. I still remember the candy-filled baskets she got my sister and I, and I will never forget the pool day at my grandma’s townhome where I met my stepsisters for the first time. We were best friends instantly and will be indefinitely. Back then, I saw no difference in our skin – the reality of the world in which we live would teach me this later.
The feeling of intense insecurity, self-consciousness, and acute, over-self-awareness was a salty wave crashing over me when we entered the building and walked over to the sign-in desk. I felt the same wandering blue and green eyes as I did with Mjay and his father, Stan, in the library with Tanya and my sisters. I could imagine what every single person was wondering and thinking in their heads at the sight of us… “Are those all her kids? Why does this white lady have Black and white kids? Keep an eye on those ones.”
Perhaps this early exposure is the reason I often find myself the one white person in my college classes looking around, wondering why all of my classmates look like me and questioning my own character for placing myself in such an environment for four years. Perhaps this exposure and my current relationship are the only reasons I think of race in my world and in this way. This work and process, of searching, of opening one's eyes to, acknowledging and opposing racial inequities, is left untouched by many of the privileged, subconsciously, simply because they do not think it affects their life directly. I am familiar with the whiteness of the world I live in, but am unable to get even a peek into the world of the Black and dreaded. I recognize that even though I am sitting right next to Mjay, I am watching his experience of the world from miles away.
Last year, fall semester began and so did the bombardment of online assignment notifications and emails from professors and organizations. I finished my assignments for the day, successfully cooked dinner and cleaned up my dishes, and sat down in bed with a book. “Hey, Olivia,” Katie said as she approached my doorway with my other housemate, Meg, following closely behind, “Are you free to talk?”
Getting the sense that they would not take “no” for an answer, I welcomed them into my bedroom with a smile, “Yeah, sure!” Despite being well aware of their intentions, I silently prepared myself for the conversation that was about to ensue – although, conversation seemed a bit unfitting. Looking back now, I am unsure of how I kept myself from laughing in front of them – or crying; or even screaming.
With both of their eyes locked on me, Katie began, “So, like we kind of talked about before, I think we should have a conversation together about expectations surrounding boyfriends and the house.” Interesting, considering we never had this talk when we first moved into the house. Very interesting, considering we never had this talk the entire first year of living together, while Katie has had a boyfriend for this duration as well. But, go on.
“Could you please give us a heads up when he is going to come over? Just to make sure we’re not wearing anything revealing or something.”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
“Could he please not come over more than twice a month?”
“Well, since his dad allows us to stay with him sometimes, sure,” I replied.
“Could he please not have his friends over? We just don’t know them and have all of our personal belongings here, you know?”
“I – ... OK,” I replied, hesitantly. I was unable to speak. If I felt powerless in this situation, I could not imagine the uncomfortability and powerlessness Mjay may feel on a daily basis.
“Could he please not be in the house when you aren’t?”
“Sure,” I replied, aware that whatever I said would be combated with a subconsciously privileged counter-argument that would leave their entitled request unbudged. I left this conversation feeling unheard, powerless, and utterly enraged at myself for letting my thoughts go unsaid and leaving Mjay’s name undefended. Katie’s boyfriend never required a discussion or rules or expectations. Her boyfriend is, unsurprisingly, white, tattooless, and lockless. I never thought I would be in such a position as an undergraduate student during 2022 – especially not with peers my age. The weary world has provided so many lessons in a variety of contexts, but this one seems to be extra sticky. It dangles in the back of my mind every day. Deep, genuine compassion for others, regardless of its benefits or lack thereof in a person’s life, is the missing piece in our white-washed world. Writing this story, I hope, at the very least, it will anchor down my ability to better communicate about race in this way in our world and spark necessary conversations among the Katies and Megs I am sure to encounter along my way.