Sure, I'll Be Your Black Friend

by Ben Philippe

  How your new Black friend might respond:

  They don’t. At that point, I’m left with no choice but to fade away as if someone with a time machine just prevented my grandparents from ever meeting.

  “So, what: I just can’t say it? Even if I don’t use it as a slur?”

  Situation in which this might arise:

  You’re usually drunk. So am I, for that matter.

  We’re at the corner booth of a pub, and we’re getting real. The devil has retained your services and you take the task seriously. It’s just a word, after all? We give it more power by not saying it, no? We should take that power away? “Devil’s advocate here,” you will eventually preface before asking me to share in my nigger-using privilege. Just a little smidge. You just want a taste of the high.

  Why not?

  . . . Look, I’m not your dad. But it says something that you would want to, no? That out of the 218,632 words in use in the English language (171,476 in current use and 47,156 obsolete words), that one is the one missing from the vocabulary for you. That without it you feel censored, unfairly treated, maligned.

  Not defenestrate or petrichor—which, sidebar, is the best word in both definition and phonetics and refers to the smell of earth after rain—but that word.

  Nigger as a noun. Nigger as a pejorative. Nigger as a modifier.

  Let’s consider this question instead: Why does your vocabulary feel incomplete without it?

  Whatever the case, it kind of kills the premise of this entire book because, nah, friend, I won’t be your Black friend if you only want a Black friend to give you a free pass to use the N-word with the larger Black community. Also, I can’t just unilaterally grant you an N-word pass. I have to submit requests to Michelle Obama’s office, Whoopi has to see it . . . it’s a whole bureaucratic nightmare for me.

  How your new Black friend might respond:

  Everyone reacts differently in the moment. Another Black friend might take a swing at you. I prefer full dissociation. I sip my drink, purse my lips, and just zone out. I itemize all the mugs in my cupboard while you make your argument to complete silence . . . The chipped one, the one from college, the set I split with my old roommate . . .

  Most white people will eventually, hopefully, get the message and back down. Some of them will come to it on their own with a vaguely embarrassed, “Well, I don’t know . . . maybe I just don’t get it.” Or “I don’t want to say it, I’m just wondering . . . drunk, I’m actually just drunk, Ben.”

  Some white people may be emboldened by this silence. They feel challenged by it somehow. “Like, ‘nigger,’ there! I said it. Nigger! You’re here and I’m still here, you’re still here. What’s the big deal?”

  And that’s how you get deleted from my phone on the way home and muted across all social media platforms .

  “I could never date a Black chick. Just a preference.”

  “I love Black skin. I don’t get racism. There’s nothing like that ebony complexion. Gimme some more of that Nubian goodness.”

  Situation in which this might arise:

  Trick question. There is no situation where it is appropriate for this to arise—no matter how close we are.

  How to respond as a Black friend:

  Your PornoTube preferences are between you and your religious institution. I am not here to discuss, massage, understand, or grant absolution for your interest in “race play,” racial fetishizations, or your sexual preferences and predilections. I cannot be the racial representative of what you thrill yourself to. Just living my life over here. Like, dang, I didn’t even ask you!

  “Are Black guys really . . . bigger down there?”

  Situation in which this might arise:

  Surprisingly many. Y’all get comfortable very quickly asking that one. I don’t know, maybe it’s my face. To give you an idea, I’m thirty-one while writing this, and I’ve gotten this one at least eight times.

  Why not?

  I mean, want to check my calves and teeth while you’re at it? Honestly, who raised you? Give me their email. I want to send Susan a strongly worded email.

  How your new Black friend might respond:

  “Yes.”

  “White privilege isn’t a thing, Ben!”

  Situation in which this might arise:

  You come across a meme making fun of white people on social media. It bugs you, but you can’t quite place why. It’s a weird pebble in your shoe that 178 people have already shared this meme mocking a White Guy outfit/album/practice/way of life you find perfectly suitable and may even identify with yourself. (“What’s wrong with drinking a White Claw in a Patagonia vest?”) You swallow it until you come across a news article, hours later, condemning white privilege . . . or even just pointing it out. The comments are filled with people enumerating various manifestations of privilege that you quietly defend in your mind because, you know, you just don’t think that much about race.

  You shake your head. You were just mocked, and then people accuse you of having it too easy! What the hell?

  White privilege, you assert, implies a boat full of Leonardo DiCaprio clones and a seven-digit bank account. You have neither of those things. Chrissy Teigen won’t even return your direct messages. You have bills and a backache and feel unfairly targeted by this insinuation of privilege that you do not have. So, you fire a DM to your friendly Black friend, who shared the image in the first place, intent on blowing his narrow mind.

  Why not?

  Yes, white privilege is absolutely a thing and yes, you absolutely do have it. That’s a nonstarter.

  I don’t blame you for not noticing it. I don’t notice my credit score until it’s time to look into taking out a loan. It’s a protective, invisible barrier that you don’t notice because you’ve had it your entire life.

  Many good-hearted people are taught to see racism as individual acts of meanness. A cross burning on a lawn. A shouted or whispered slur. A crumpled résumé of a job candidate named DeShawn. Those are out there, yes, but this concept also extends to the system that gives dominance and preference to a societal group—your group.

  I might trash your DM, but I do understand your frustration. When you have as much freedom to do what you want, think as you want, and move as you want, when this privilege has been imbued in your education, your work, your neighborhood, and then reflected into your mirror, your television, your laptop, it can be hard not to take criticism of it personally. Even if you wanted to turn off your white privilege, it’s not something you can turn off without some advanced Ramsay Bolton flaying of your Caucasianness.

  Now, that’s not to say that a guy who sheepishly introduces himself as “Hi, I’m Todd, reluctant beneficiary of white privilege, and would like to apologize for my race” doesn’t creep me out.

  I’m not going to be friends with that weird dude! That’s the same guy who wears a THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt, or goes to Gay Pride parades for the express purpose of taking photos with scantily clad women. Point is, acknowledging white privilege doesn’t mean you need to follow it up with performative white guilt in search of absolution. I’m not going to be your priest or therapist: work that stuff out elsewhere.

  How to respond as a Black friend:

  With a book recommendation.* In this case, we’ll go with White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack by Peggy McIntosh. She’s a terribly smart woman—white, too, if that matters—and writes about this exact thing from your exact perspective.

  *Please note that any book, hardcover graphic novel, or DVD borrowed from me will require you to take a photo of yourself holding the item in question. This will be stored on my phone. The photo is then moved to the desktop of my computer, so I don’t forget. I’ve lost over twenty books this way, and shit gets old. Like, I miss my books, man. You people cannot be trusted.

  Two

  Ten Things to Know Before Befriending Me, or “Which Black Guy Are You Getting?”

  Good question! The first and most imp
ortant lesson is that no, not all Black people are alike. By now, you’ve probably realized that you’re getting a specific type of Black male here, so let’s cover the basics. I’m a type J, which is somewhere between an Enneagram 4, a Charlotte from Sex and the City, a Slytherin, and a Ross from Friends, all with a Littlefinger rising.

  By the title of this very book, you know that I am happy—thrilled, even!—to be your Black friend. Whether yours is already a thriving multiethnic social circle or this whole racial disparity thing is a completely new experience for you, it’s all good. For the next few hundred pages, I am committed to being an honest, fun Black friend to you. Think of me as . . .

  The Turk to your J.D.

  The Wallace to your Veronica Mars

  The Gerald Martin Johanssen to your Hey Arnold! (with a much less bawdy haircut. That boy did not love himself.)

  The coworker Deacon to your Doug Heffernan (CBS’s King of Queens)

  The Falcon (aka Sam Wilson) to your Captain America . . . and later on, Bucky (Sidebar: Isn’t that some refried bull? Veteran superhero, head of Super Agents at the espionage agency S.H.I.E.LD., and bird telepath went on to become the sidekick of the resurrected 1968 sidekick. Give the Falcon his own movie, for God’s sake.)

  The Lee Jordan to your Fred and George Weasley (Don’t recognize the name? Revisit your Harry Potter canon, friend. He was that blink-and-you’ll-miss-him Black character who was described as the “twins’ best friend.” That’s right: the Weasleys were such peasant wizards that they even had to split a Black friend.)

  The list goes on and on, but needless to say, you and I are joining a rich tradition here, buddy!

  Still, friendships are a two-way street. After thirty years on this planet, I’m fully aware that a friendship with me comes with its own non—racially themed challenges. I can be a difficult person. (I know, I know: you’re now holding this book, mouth thoroughly agape.) The point is that you should broadly know what you’re in for.

  The following tidbits of self-insight are brought to you by a medium amount of introspection and two therapists totalling five sessions, one of which was subsidized by a very generous Groupon. Think of this as a disclaimer, a caveat lector.

  1. I CAN OCCASIONALLY BE MEAN?

  Or, I should say, “I am occasionally mean?”

  Let me explain. It is my personal belief that there are only two kinds of people in the world. Only two, no more, no less: naturally nice people who force themselves to be mean to survive and, alternatively, naturally mean people who pretend to be nice.

  That’s it. Eight billion folks; two piles. These are all synonyms for the two kinds of people who make up humanity here at the top of the food chain. Being mean is not an act, it’s a natural, default state that some people tame better than others.

  You are either a bit of an asshole with a heart of gold, or the nice person who exerts a lot of energy on fighting their default setting of “asshole” that if left unchecked can lead to them being a phenomenal piece of trash. Most interpersonal conflicts come from people misreading one as the other.

  In my case, after a lot of flip-flopping, I’ve confidently settled on the certainty that I’m a mean person who tries, and mostly succeeds, in not leading with that easy, mean foot.

  I avoid conflict. I smile a lot. I funnel it into snarky young adult characters who have the freedom that comes with being fictional. But in the real world, mean is the other side of snarky that you occasionally tumble into while trying to make everyone laugh with a joke.

  I’m the guy who, in a mutual moment of comfort with someone, guards down, laughing and joking over beers, will make a casual observation, only to look up to find myself staring back at the devastated face of a friend, flushed at the cheeks and shocked at what they’ve just heard. I’ve gone too far without even noticing it and will proceed to feel terrible about it for the next two to five years.

  A horrifying example was the night that I—on the verge of tipsiness—casually told the roommate of a good friend in college who was complaining about the fact that every guy in her life was a disappointment that it was at least nice that her new boyfriend looked so much like her dad because she could now work through the issues with someone she can legally bang.

  . . . Oh, come on: don’t look at me like that. That’s funny! At least two people were chuckling. I think. Anyway, I was subsequently banned from ever stepping foot in their suite again. I realize I shouldn’t have made the comment, but I mostly stand by that one. Daddy issues recognize daddy issues, Lola.

  2. WHILE I CAN OCCASIONALLY BE MEAN, I AM INHERENTLY OVERLY SENSITIVE. AND PETTY.

  In the third grade, I remember shoving my friend Simon for some slight or another that I’ve long since forgotten. Whatever it was, I shoved first. After a beat, Simon shoved back. I instantly crumpled to the floor with teary eyes. Why, Simon? Why would you shove me? How could you?

  My skin isn’t paper-thin: it’s porous. It’s a wet page torn from a hotel Bible. It’s a sail made of tissue.

  One of my primary school teachers, Mrs. Ivette, once scoffed at one of my drawings during art hour. It was a good drawing, all right? Have you ever tried to draw a bicycle from memory? It is shockingly difficult. Go ahead; grab a pen and scribble it in the margins of this very book. See? Hard. Anyway, I was just a ten-year-old trying my best. And this raven-haired harlot in dangling earrings and conservative cardigans leaned over and said—in French, as the entire world was back then—“That looks like a baby wheel tied to its mama. Try a bicycle next.”

  The other kids in our classroom all laughed in unison in that specific way classrooms of fourth graders laugh in unison, all sounding alike and then stopping all at once. It echoes.

  In my hyperactive mind, the story does not stop there.

  Twenty years later, I’m driving on a highway when I spot a car by the side of the road. I slow down. I normally wouldn’t, but it’s one of those listless drives with a destination but no timetable to keep. I offer to help. She’s hesitant, as any gray-haired woman in her sixties would be, but I smile and have a high voice and she’s relieved someone came riding down this road. “Oh my god, thank you, so much!” she might say as I begin to change her tire, carefully mounting the new spare. Naturally, I recognize her before she recognizes me and, as I slowly tighten the lug nuts, with each rotation bringing a new layer of hope to our interaction, I lead the conversation away from points of commonality through which she might place my face. I’m from Portland, USA, and passing through, I’ll say. My parents are Nigerian.

  In this fantasy, I carry a pocketknife, and a quick, subtle jab is all it takes to deflate the tire while chattering about this imagined life. “If only you had a bike,” I’ll say coyly, getting back into my car as the horror of recognition finally dawns on her face.

  It’s been over two decades. The details get more vivid every time I imagine this scene. The confusion in her eyes that gives way to recognition, then deep shame. The shape of her mouth about to say my name as I glance at my rearview before stepping on the pedal and driving away as wolves howl in the distance. I cackle and laugh after letting out a scream of release into the night . . . You can freeze-frame the movie right there and fade to black and white; my story has come to a worthy conclusion. Roll credits.

  I’m very aware of how messed up that is. I don’t even own a car. Or an active driver’s license.

  The brain space that vivid fantasy occupies would be best served by something else. I could play the stock market with the time and energy I dedicate to unproductive pettiness. Then, with my newfound wealth, I could show them all . . . You see? It’s endemic.

  3. I WAS RAISED BY POPULAR CULTURE

  My brain was first wired into Creole and French concurrently in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. English came later and through the small, fat-backed television in my childhood bedroom. That’s where I would shut out the world and soak up the banter and rhythmic timing of late-afternoon sitcoms for hours. Awkward moments—like a breakup, or an emo
tional conversation—come with a tiny caveat of “Wow, this is such a powerful season finale” in the back of my head. My high school friends are carryovers from season 2 of my life, and the folks I see once in a while without a last name may be saved as “First name—GS” on my phone: Sean—Guest Star.

  Speaking of popular culture . . .

  Why do white guys love to list members of the Wu-Tang Clan?

  (I have more questions about white people, believe me. If this is off-limits—like my hair—please let me know.)

  No, really: they throb at that. To be clear, I am familiar with the members of the Wu-Tang Clan, but white guys love to stand in a circle, or sit on lawn chairs at a barbecue, and try to list all the members of the Wu-Tang Clan they can remember, glancing to me for confirmation each time they get one.

  This has happened to me three times in my life. Two barbecues, one Montreal–New York road trip. Two white guys, hairs of varying shoulder-length, looking like roadies for Five for Fighting, deciding it would be fun to “go through the roster.”

  I promise you that my stare will be blank. I know them, mind you. Ghostface Killah, Method Man, U-God, RZA, Raekwon, Masta Killa, Cappadonna, GZA, Inspectah Deck. No Googling required. I just won’t give you the satisfaction of bonding with a Black guy by listing members of the Wu-Tang Clan.