Sure, I'll Be Your Black Friend

by Ben Philippe

  Example:

  I be about dat ass.

  Too crude? Okay, better example:

  I be about white friends who can acknowledge systemic racism without shifting the emotional focus onto themselves with performative displays of guilt. But also occasionally that ass, though.

  The Hard-“R” Clause:

  You can’t say it. You just can’t. Well, that’s not entirely true. You can say whatever you want. I, in return, have the right to boil your entire existence into you speaking these syllables near me and write off the whole thing. I’m vastly indifferent to your feelings or logic on when and how you ought to be allowed to use it. It’s not unfair and it’s not policing your language; it’s awareness. Not using it shows you have the slightest awareness of the world we live in. It’s a word, a single word, versus the entire history of the world stolen, pilfered, and remade into your image. You’ve made it this far into this book. We’re friends. It shouldn’t be that hard for you.

  Hotep:

  Oh, jeez. These clowns. What can I say? Men can be assholes across races. Hotep ideology (in the YouTube channels and Reddit sense of the word) is rooted in performative pro-Blackness that aims for nothing but to replace WHITE male patriarchy with BLACK male patriarchy with a dash of Afrocentricism thrown into the mix.

  There is no intersectionality to Hoteps. It does not account for nor does it champion Black women or Black queerness. It’s just a font change on familiar nonsense. Not everything deserves a thumbs-up just because you slap a thin layer of pro-Black rhetoric onto it. Sexism, homophobia, transphobia . . . all that garbage is still garbage if you make it Black.

  Misogynist creeps, but make it Black. A Hotep has more in common with the creepy bearded white guy running an Alabama commune of sheltered wives who are not allowed to go outside than they do with African revolutionaries.

  They are also . . . really corny niggas. That guy calling Black women “brown-skinned Nubian goddesses” while demanding they worship him and pay his bills and cook his food and breed his Black children to replenish the soil of Blackness while also wanting Black women to recruit white concubines for him as nothing less than an active harem will quench the . . . You get it? Pass me with your copy of the Willie Lynch letter, nerds. (Their parking lot pamphlet.)

  Your IBAS (Idealized Black Advocate Self):

  The flawless, perfect, wokest Black self-advocate. That mythical Black person who takes just the right amount of a stance in every instance. They never over- or underreact. They know when to take out their phone and record, when to comply, when to pop off, when to thoughtfully explain something over coffee, when to storm off. Toni Morrison is always proud watching this person . . . They are in charge of their own emotions and navigate the world bettering race discourse in America at every turn. And if this person exists, I don’t know them.

  Karen:

  The catchall for young-to-middle-aged women who demand to see the manager. Their discomfort or reticence in any situation means that the situation should not be happening—someone must be made aware of this. It’s more than regular old caucasity. Broke people can be caucacious. No: Karens are the walking avatars of Yelp reviews that start with “I used to love this establishment but no longer.” Their plight of receiving their salad with the dressing mixed in instead of being on the side—which they forgot to mention but that the waiter should have divined—is a story that simply must be told.

  Karens have increasingly gotten more racist in popular culture. First, there were viral clips of them approaching Black families in parks, demanding to know if they had a license to be barbecuing, or listening to music. This lone finger on the chin then moved to little girls selling water bottles outside their buildings without a permit. They then began to notice Black people coming home from work and walking into their buildings. “Do you live here? You don’t look like you live here. I know everyone who lives here.”

  Karen no longer petitions the entire street and knocks at your door at 7 a.m. on a Sunday to inform you that “Everyone wants you to trim your hedges.” No: now Karens hiss at you for daring to tell them that their dog should be leashed. They have their phones in hand, have affected a white tremble to their overwhelmed voices, and have Death in their eyes, telling you that they are calling 911 and telling them that “there’s an African American man threatening my life.”

  By the year 2020, Karens are no longer simply busybodies but outright racists. Naturally, Karens will not have this. (They were so chill about everything else.) They refer to the slur of their own first name as “the K-word.” They are persecuted and depressed. Hatred is so ugly when you’re not wielding it yourself.

  If you’re a good person named Karen, just realize we’re not talking about you. I know a couple of Karens who can hang. They wear “This Karen Supports Black Trans Lives” T-shirts at marches and get high fives for it. If you can’t realize that this isn’t actually about you, even though it might share your name, I am sorry to inform you that you just might be a Karen.

  “Mandingo”:

  The goulash of media narratives, pornography, slavery-era propaganda that amounts to a singular image of Black men as overpowering and hypersexual creatures and a fetish/kink/deviancy rather than people. Beyond how problematic it is, being your thug fantasy is, incidentally, also a lot of freaking pressure. (Not tonight, babe, I have a headache.) Sexual stereotyping—Asian women are submissive, Black men are dominant, etc.—and fetishization both reduce people to the most racialized aspects of their beings that you find attractive. It is way less flattering than you may think to be slotted into those cheesy roles.

  Niggacity:

  A type of Black audacity restricted to a Black twenty-one-year-old college student with a Yu-Gi-Oh T-shirt who absolutely thinks he’ll be right at home at an open-mic roast battle at a Bronx comedy show. This was my first and last attempt at New York City standup. There are skinny Asian guys in baggy FedEx polos and shy smiles out there who will drag every cell in your body to absolute hell once handed a mic. I was a niggacious little thing thinking I could go toe-to-toe with them and not get burnt. (I told you this was a tell-some, not tell-all.)

  Ofay:

  A would-be derogatory term for white people. This one is more of a factoid than anything. I don’t see a white family being driven out of a new home by having ofay burnt onto their lawn, y’know? There’s a history behind it, sure, but it’s not the white N-word. The same way “cracker” isn’t a slur that comes anywhere close to nigger. It’s not the C-word, now, is it? (Also, it’s been suggested that white slave foremen were called “crackers” for their practice of cracking the little whip to drive slaves and cattle. I’m not feeling the dehumanization in that one.)

  Oreo:

  It me, according to many and for a long time.

  According to Urban Dictionary: When a young Black man doesn’t like to associate with other Black people and would never go out with a Black girl. He behaves like a white person, has white friends, always dates white women. For all intents and purposes is “Black on the outside, but white on the inside.”

  Example:

  “Holden isn’t going to go out with you. That bougie punk would never date a Black girl.”

  “Is he an Oreo?”

  “Get your glass of milk, honey.”

  Race Card:

  The rumored ability to benefit from your race by simply bringing up your race. This mythical card is misused by both Black and white people; for matters as small as my aunt noticing our bread basket isn’t as full as the next Olive Garden’s table, and as overwhelming as gerrymandering across Black districts. On an everyday basis, the fear of being accused of using “the race card” is as dreadful as being in a situation where your race is being used against you. It is useless to internalize this. As a writer, I can promise that it is the same as any old impostor syndrome.

  Rachel Dolezal:

  I don’t know her, but she loves my hair. Google the name if you’re one of the three people blessed no
t to know it by now. Honestly, the closest definition I can come to here is a deep forty-three-second sigh of exhaustion from the bottom of my very soul. (Just, please don’t call her “sis.”)

  Sexual Racism:

  Sexual racism is racism. A restaurant that proudly displays NO BLACKS ALLOWED is unacceptable in today’s day and age. Even if you privately agree with the sentiment, you would pause seeing it so brazenly displayed. So, why accept it under the generic and interchangable hiking photos of dating apps?

  It’s not just a preference. Vanilla or chocolate is a preference. Aisle seat or window seat is a preference. Deciding—and then decreeing—that you are not sexually aroused by an entire ethnic group is a choice. Unlike preferences around gender, racial “preferences” in dating are usually the result of societal conditioning. Nothing innate or biological here. You did not sit down and read a book to learn it, but it was cultivated over time. Now, I am not telling you to unlearn it. (I mean, you probably should; I’m simply acknowledging my inability to carve that journey for you.) What I hope you will do is stop weaponizing it on these platforms that find most people at their most vulnerable. Taking the time and malice to write “No Blacks, no Asians; Whites Only” or anything of the kind under a photo of yourself at Macchu Picchu? (Oh my god, fun!) That’s an ugly choice and an action you can very easily control.

  ToDoG; or TODOG:

  Noun. A “Tim or Dan or Grant.” Your generic white guy of 8-or-above attractiveness. I sincerely believe that being a TODOG is the equivalent of wearing Thanos’s glove with all the Infinity Stones but in the wrong order. All you need to do is figure out that blue goes before purple to unlock the powers of the universe.

  Tried’it:

  A person attempting to do something—or perhaps to get away with something—and failing. That person effectively tried’it. This one is pretty straightforward. For instance, remember when Sony Pictures decided to reboot Spider-Man by casting twenty-nine-year-old British man Andrew Garfield as angsty American teen Peter Parker? And then doubled down on a sequel? Oooh, they tried’it. God bless ’em, they tried’it. Thank God, Marvel webbed Tom Holland right into our freaking hearts, amirite?

  Uppity:

  Taking liberties or assuming airs beyond one’s place in a social hierarchy. Assuming equality with someone higher up the social ladder.

  Mr. Smith does not allow his subordinates to address him by his first name; it shows uppityness, and he will put you in your place with a good tongue-lashing.

  Wakanda:

  The corner of the Marvel Cinematic Universe where all the fashion designers live while the rest of the superheroes of this world are left to only wear hoodies at leisure when not in costume as punishment for their sins.

  Yes, we know it’s not real; we just acknowledge that it’s great to see people who look like us celebrate a heightened, highly fashionable culture on-screen after so many decades in the bowels of Steven Spielberg’s Amistad.

  Weed:

  Cannabis. Marijuana. That thing that no, I don’t currently have on me at all times for your recreational usage . . . We’re in the middle of a lecture on an Ivy League college campus, for Pete’s sake! No, I don’t have a loose spliff to sell.

  “Well-spoken”:

  See also: articulate. Depending on the school, Black kids are mocked both for speaking poorly and for speaking well. As far as I can tell, we’re supposed to speak “poorly” (which isn’t poorly at all; see AAVE), but strictly within our own neighborhood, away from the well-spoken white kids and dutiful minorities who are allowed to thrive. It is not a compliment to be looked at as an exception to everyone who looks like you.

  Delighted schoolteachers exclaiming, “You’re so well-spoken! You must be foreign!” was never a keen worldly eye into my Haitian features. It was a dismissal of all the Black people you had met before me and whose voices and tones had displeased you. Nothing more. The equivalent would be my taking a stroll through your family albums and calling you a stunning beauty, compared to your crooked, droopy-eyed family of milk cartons.

  White Nonsense:

  According to Urban Dictionary: when white people do something clearly stupid without expecting any negative consequences.

  Example:

  “They built a replica of the Titanic! Let’s go on its maiden voyage!”

  “What kind of white nonsense is that?”

  Actually, thank you, Carly Targaryen (September 20, 2016) for the quotes above: that sums it up perfectly. When the world is made of padded, cushiony walls, throwing yourself against them can be kind of fun. We get the bricks.

  Woke (The A Side):

  This one is a bit harder by 2020 standards, as there is no unifying theory of Woke yet. There are, as far as I can see, two ongoing definitions, both used with equal fervor across the land.

  According to Urban Dictionary: a word currently used to describe consciousness and being aware of the truth behind things “The Man” doesn’t want you to know. (I.e., classism, racism, and any other social injustices.)

  Example:

  “Stay woke, nigga! Stay woke!”

  Woke (The B Side):

  Also according to Urban Dictionary: the act of being very pretentious about how much you care about a social issue. Yeah, most people don’t care about parking spaces for families with disabled pets. “I wish they were woke like me. #Woke #SocialJusticeWarrior #hipster #progressive”

  The distinction between Woke A and Woke B is that Woke B is often used to trivialize Woke A in an attempt to diminish its message and core truths. It’s nothing new. (“The Queer movement” vs “Look at that queer over there!”) and again highlights the power of words and ownership in these conversations.

  The XYZ Of It All:

  There’s so much more I want to say to you but, um, yeah, I have to go now. I think it’s time.

  How do you end a book on Blackness as nothing more than one of 43,984,096 people (give or take a few thousands) currently living in a country you were not born in but still call home? How do you account for a full 13.4 percent of a population, having only lived the one uneven life?

  Hell, how do you even end a book on the full scope of your Blackness at age thirty-one when you hope to at least make it to sixty-two . . . and will presumably still be Black then, too? (Although, who knows where this dystopia is headed: we might all be purple by 2034.)

  What conclusion could I possibly rev up to? I’m not being cute here: I don’t have an answer to any of these questions. (Cornel West! Be a brother and elegantly end this for me, will you?) Honestly, the most natural thing to do at this point is probably wet myself under the scrutiny and run off the stage crying for my mom.

  If reflection must be had, I think I’m a slightly different person ending this book than I was when I started it . . . That’s an arc, right? Close enough to personal growth. I wish I was a better son, a better person. Faster metabolism. Less petty, less mouthy, less angry, less lonely. A hundred beers/walks/subway rides later, what is your verdict? Was it whipped cream over a steel door or a steel door hiding fluff? You might have a better metaphor altogether.

  As for you, friend, I wish you so many good things; I really do. I hope you’re a nice person. I hope you’ll be safe out there and that you’ll pay it forward. Whatever your race, I hope you’re not too lonely, too. There’s no comfort in knowing others are alone out there; it doesn’t fill your silence.

  How do you befriend someone after monologuing your life at them for 81,000 words? Should we dance it out to a Tegan and Sara song like Meredith Grey and Christina Yang did when the latter left the show? (Yes, I still watch Grey’s Anatomy; shut up. It’s going to be me and you watching the world burn from a cliff at the end, Shonda Rhimes.)

  Maybe I’m that bad friend who invites you to brunch, apologizes profusely for being twenty minutes late, speaks only about myself for three hours without asking you a single question about your life, takes a selfie leaning into you and throwing fingers up at the camera while you’re le
ft to sign the credit-card receipt. I’ll give you a quick back pat, locking you in on a promise of doing it again soon before dashing off because I didn’t walk my dog before meeting you and I have to go, like, now. It’s a lie but, hey, every friendship carries a few, no? I’ve lied to you a total of four times in this book.

  You know way too much about me for me to simply be your wacky Black friend moving forward. Sorry about that. Although, who knows, it might have been my plan all along. You still haven’t walked a mile in my shoes, which were still pretty comfortable shoes given all the privilege I’ve been doused with my entire life.

  It’s not always easy being your friend either. In the grand scheme of things, I much prefer if you dislike me for being Ben than if you like me simply for being Black. Thanks for covering the bill, by the way. The next one is on me, swearsies!

  Cheers,

  Ben

  Acknowledgments

  Honestly, all my books (fuck yeah, plural!) are acknowledgments to my mother. I owe everything soft and open about me to her, and these things are requirements to being a writer as far as I’m concerned . . . So, hi, Mom! All right, that’s enough of that.

  I will also use this space to shout out two other names: Amber Oliver and Sarah Ried, my editors. While I bear a striking, truly uncanny resemblance to both Michael B. Jordan and peak Denzel, I never thought I would be given free rein to just vomit my unremarkable life and thoughts into a book. But, against many odds, Amber saw something in my proposal. And when the Black Lives Matter moment of 2020 happened, she allowed—urged—me to lean into the angry soup of feelings I was navigating through.

  And when Sarah came on board, she also highlighted the glaring omissions, the tangents that were too tangential, and the work I hadn’t done, back when I thought that witticisms would be enough and that I could write a book like this while staying comfortable. That notion fell by the wayside very quickly, and looking back, I can only thank Amber and Sarah for that. This would not be a book without you. You were kind, incisive, and so very patient, and for that, you have my eternal gratitude.