Rioting in Atlanta

When I went to bed Friday night, my tired eyes and heavy heart were witnessing an impassioned crowd migrate toward the neighborhood of Buckhead, Georgia. Hours prior to this, a peaceful rally had taken place in Atlanta while I was at my desk wrapping up work and thinking through a weekend to-do list. By the time I tuned into a live stream of the events, tensions seemed to be heightened and the protest began to take a turn.

Buckhead is the place where I landed my first full-time job after graduating from college. I started a contract position in an office building within walking distance of Lenox Square Mall—one of the places I woke up to find had been looted. The mall is home to high-end designer brands. It is the kind of place where well-dressed security guards patrol the door of a watch store because they’re priced at $20,000 and above.

I have never been particularly moved by designer labels or the people who tout them as the pinnacle of worth. In so many ways it seems wealth equals worth in this country. I was, however, moved emotionally when seeing photos and cell phone footage of people taking to the streets and flooding these very places where I once roamed around during lunch breaks with my coworkers.

Feeling Like an Outsider

I was one of the few African Americans at the office, I could barely afford office attire and I was the proud owner of a ’93 Jeep Cherokee Sport I purchased at an auction and named Cherry Bomb because of her loud red hue and the even louder sound roaring from beneath the hood. The odds were already stacked against me when it came to feeling like an outsider. I learned a lot when it came to marketing, content creation and even measuring success. I also made friends with creative, jovial and curious souls. All the while, I never forgot I was different.

I wore a sew-in during the first few months at my job. I got the inevitable-for-any-black-woman-who-wears-protective-styles-in-a-predominantly-white-workplace comments on the impressive growth of my hair and also the drastic change that was me “cutting” my hair or wearing it in its natural state.

I heard ignorance uttered regarding black students only being capable of attending a university because they played basketball. Someone cracked a joke about how they were not black and in turn the bottom of their feet were not black. I interrupted and quickly educated them that I am black, but my feet are not. For anyone who is unclear on this, barring medical conditions, NO HUMAN has black feet. I learned that some people just don’t find black women attractive. As if each of us looks the same. “They’re just not attractive to me.” We could debate preferences all day, but it has always been odd to me that someone could deem an entire race of people unattractive. You’ve literally never seen every person of every race. I still wonder if some of the ignorant comments uttered were said to enrage me or if the individuals speaking those words were completely unaware of how harmful their ways of thinking were.

My Heart Raced

From being racially profiled to witnessing someone describe how female slaves were actually appreciated because they were sold at a higher value than a plot of land—I have experienced disgusting, offensive, heartbreaking and sadly unsurprising things too often. Even if I do not experience extreme cases of racism every day, just once is enough to leave a lasting impression.

My heart raced as I was chased out of a gas station alongside my siblings because a clerk saw us enter the store and immediately yelled at us to “Take it. Just take it.” He had convinced himself we were there to steal food. We were confused and upset. I never imagined I’d be there unzipping my wallet and shaking my money at a store owner to prove to him I had money. The worst decision we were going to make that day was to overload on junk food, but someone saw three black teens/adults and assumed we were up to no good. Robbing a convenience store never occurred to us. That was years ago, but experiences like that stick with you when you are treated as other.

Just weeks ago, I found myself at a gas station with my siblings and again my heart raced. This time it was because my brothers—two black males—entered a convenience store to purchase snacks and water for a walk we were about to take at a state park. They were wearing handkerchiefs—the type my pastor father uses to dab away sweat during a sermon—over their faces to protect themselves and others during this pandemic. I decided to stay in the car then suddenly my stomach turned as I realized how easily someone could misconstrue the situation and accuse the two of acting suspicious or coming across as threatening.  A black man covering his face during a pandemic could present itself as a potential risk to his safety. It’s the reality faced by those that are treated as other.

I wasn’t in the midst of the activities happening in Atlanta. I wasn’t smashing windows of the high-priced stores I roll my eyes at the mention of, but I get it. It’s difficult to truly say what you would do if you were placed in someone else’s shoes, but sometimes when people are pushed past their breaking point, they break things. I align with the people who protested the senseless and unjust killings of African Americans across this country. I did my small part in helping the family of George Floyd by way of financial support.  I understand the pain and frustration of feeling treated as other, being looked down on, feeling voiceless and completely fed up because I have experienced these emotions.

Consider This

Consider this metaphor for a moment: When someone argues with you and they do not seem to be hearing you out, it’s likely your heart starts to race. You probably begin to raise your voice to get their attention and continue making noise until you feel your point is made. They may not walk away having been persuaded at the end of the disagreement, but they now know where you stand. They recognize a line has been crossed. At the very least, they may recognize the quiver in your voice and your tone in the future and possibly consider a different course of action to avoid the need for yelling. Maybe they will learn from the past. Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they will deny it. Dismiss it. “Let the past be the past,” they might say.