By
John W. Fountain
“I am an
invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe …I
am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me…” -Ralph
Ellison, "Invisible Man" (1952)
I am not invisible. I am a shadow. People react not to me, but to the exaggerated
image of me; to the two-dimensional shadow that is every black man. That is why white people with whom I have worked,
people with whom I have laughed and joked and traded stories, have sometimes passed
me on the street and not recognized me. Out of context, out of safe
surroundings, I am but one among a cast of dark shadows.
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I am always a suspect. American menace. Most feared. Most hated.
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Shadows are insubstantial. They are
inconsequential. But they are menacing. They loom disproportionately large.
Light from the right angle in a darkened bedroom makes a teddy bear a grizzly.
Shadows turn men into bogeymen.
I am a shadow.
It is the experience of black men in America. By
his own words, it is even President Obama’s. My grandfather’s. My son’s. Mine.
I am not a thug. Not a felon. Ex-con, murderer,
robber. I am educated, middle class and have laid hold on the American dream. As
a black man, I am accountable and responsible.
And yet, I am always a suspect. American menace.
Most feared. Most hated.
At the root is racism. Racism blows like the
wind. Slaps us in the face, swirls.
It doesn't matter where you grew up, where you
were schooled, what you do for a living, whether your daddy was a professor, plumber
or a pimp. Black men speak the same language.
I will be sitting around with friends and
someone will say, “Man, I was crossing the street today, and there was this
line of cars stuck in traffic…” And someone else will finish his sentence: “…and
all around you people were clicking the locks shut on their doors.”
Or someone will say, "I was in the Metro
today, sitting there on the train, which was pretty crowded, mostly white people
standing in the aisle…” And another will say, “…but the seat next to you was
empty.”
Or someone will say, “I was minding my business
in this store…" And someone else will say, “…and they tailed you like you
were a shoplifter.”
Or someone will say, “I walked onto the elevator
today and there was this white woman…” And someone else will finish, “…and she
hugged her handbag to her chest.”
Black men can do this by rote. Yet, to speak publicly
of our collective experience is to risk being called racists or whiners. Will
collective silence make it go away?
Racism lives. It is delivered to us in one of
two ways. The first is a slap. You are stopped and frisked by police, because
of your race. You overhear an ethnic joke or you are called a name. The insult
is overt. In your face.
The second kind is as invisible as the wind. You
cannot anticipate or discern its source. It is anonymous. You incorporate it into
your life. You go on in spite of it. It’s what happens when a black man tries
to hail a cab.
Who is to say why a cabby passes you by? Maybe
he has another call. Maybe he had gone off duty. Maybe he doesn't like black
men. Maybe he just doesn't see you. Or maybe he does.
I am a shadow.