Karbi
Many people don't know this, but I am actually the African American ambassador
to the nation. One of many, really, but I don't often seem to be in the same
place at the same time with the other ambassadors. In fact, in most cases and
many places here in upstate
Just this past holiday, my husband and I were visiting friends for our yearly
New Year's party. This party is truly the highlight of our year. It always
includes a great many people, old and young, most of whom I hold in high regard
as friends of my husband's and now, mine. I'm usually the only person of color
in attendance, but this never bothers me, no matter where we are. As I
mentioned, I'm frequently the "only one" or "the other one".
Since these friends live more than an hour from us, we always make arrangements
to stay the night just to enjoy their company without feeling the need to make
it home before sleep or drunk drivers overtake us.
We were, in fact, just hitting the 3 o'clock
hour and a possible bedtime when someone suggested we play a game called
Balderdash. It's a great word game if you've never played; you have to try to
convince people you know the meaning of a real, but very unusual word by
writing a definition that sounds convincing…or at least, sounds funny enough to
make the game fun. Usually, people become one of three types in this game: the
funny definition writer, the simple definition writers or the complex
definition writers. After a few minutes of game play, we already had
established ourselves. We'd had quite a few of the
goofy answers already, like "fungo--the green goo on the back of a turtle" and "bort--excess gas". For the record, however, I'm an
amazing liar as well as a teacher, so I tend toward the creation of definitions
too complex to be a lie, like "karbi--the sooty
residue atop slate shingles after years of usage".
On that same round, however, another member of our party also came up with a
definition. "Karbi--what a black guy says…dis kar bi mine."
Most of you hearing this did one of two things just now…snicker or laugh
outright. I, on the other hand, was mortified and very
trapped. Remember for a moment that I was the only black person at this table
full of 10 other adults. Even my husband is white. The entire table swiveled to
look at me while my husband gripped my hand with an intensity that was as
powerful as my own at that moment. What was I supposed to say? What COULD I
say?
A diplomatic quandary, though you may not recognize it. For I only have one
true option in this situation and it is NOT the one I want. To do what I want
means becoming indignant, demanding to know why this man, whom I only knew as a
husband of a relative of a friend, would say something so insulting at this
table with me right in plain view. How dare he say such things in my face,
insinuating that a black man, such as my college-educated father or any of his
friends, would talk this way? Jokes about people of any ethnic background are inevitably
about their stupidity, which is why most people don't tell such jokes now.
Sure, there are black actors, comedians, and regular folk who still use this
humor to impress others, but maybe they haven't yet realized the dignity our
people have lost while they get paid, or just don't care. Money can make a
person that way, especially large amounts of it. I have even watched younger
black children make these same jokes so that their friends will think they are
funny, too, not realizing that they are being laughed at, not with, and I feel
sick inside thinking of all this.
But in the eyes of my friends, I could see what was hoped for, even expected.
Surely I would find this amusing! Why, only last week, Def Comedy Jam had a
comedian using ebonics rather proudly and he'd been
hilarious. And don't show like "Martin" tout
the same sort of ebonic pride? Surely I could be
pleased that I would be part of such a broad tradition of humor! Besides, it
was "just a joke"…why take it so seriously and ruin the entire party
with a bunch of politically correct rhetoric? We can all laugh at ourselves
here.
Many of you might be saying, "Nonsense! If I found something offensive,
I'd speak right up and hang what others think of me!" But this is the catch
.22 of being the diplomat. What others think of me is what others think of
others like me they meet. Everything I say and do now reflects on everyone who
looks like me later. This has become abundantly clear when children come up to
me and want to know who my favorite rapper is, or why black people are so mean
all the time, or when grown men and women still ask things like "Why are
black people so loud?" or "Do you know Shanika?
I used to work with her back in
And honestly, if this were the case, could
anyone blame any black person for being irate with every white person THEY met?
After all, one bad experience rules a great many white lives…why not mine? Why
can't I take this one experience and hate or prejudge or, at the very least,
have a real fear of any white person I meet? But what I usually hear in
response to this is "Well, you just have to understand…"
Why? Why is it my job to be
understanding and your job to speak out about what disturbs you without
the irritation or disdain of others? Yet, just like the president, I cannot
simply SAY how much I dislike something without global repercussions. I
CERTAINLY can't ACT on my feelings, because my anger here proves that black
people are a violent, or at the very least, an overly sensitive lot. But my
silence or laughter only reinforces that it's okay to use this kind of humor
and then nothing is learned at all. Never mind the fact that had this joke been
about someone with a mental handicap, we would ALL have been indignant.
And so I sat for an uncomfortable second,
with all this whirling in my head, my husband gripping my hand, because as a white
person himself, he, too, wants to speak out and damn this man's actions…but I
did what I had to at that moment.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I demanded. "Do you not see me sitting in the room here?"
But as I said it, I laughed.
And as I did, and the rest of our friends began to chuckle with me, a little
piece of my dignity slipped away. My right to speak for myself was stolen by
the adoring eyes of my friends who thought I was a great sport for laughing,
even as I threw a notebook at the man's head and blinked back angry tears that
no one but my husband saw.
On the way home (a trip which we decided to make 30 minutes later, despite our
original plan to stay), both my husband and I ranted and raved about the
"nerve of this guy" and how his leaving before us was probably to get
home to restoke the ol'
Christmas cross fire. But by the time our furor had died down, we were left
feeling cheated. "I hate being reminded of my place," I told my
husband wearily as I started to cry. He felt awful, of course, and tried to get
me to understand that my place was not to be the brunt of someone's jokes.
"No," I told him, "my place is to understand that he doesn't
know any better and that he might NEVER know any better and just accept that. I
am the ambassador. Welcome to my world."
As I sobbed, I realized in the back of my
mind how hard this was for him. First, as a white male, he has never been
denied his right to speak. He has even gone so far as to demand that
shoplifters put things back when he sees them taking an item, so justice is his
banner. As my husband, he has also never been denied his right to protect me.
But once again, he was able to see how even his anger or irritation on my
behalf would only have exacerbated the situation…and he felt just as helpless
as I did, but certainly not as often as I have. In a way, that makes it harder,
I suppose.
But he didn't leave it at that. The next day, my husband called our friends and
told them why we left, explaining our feelings and our discomfort. I was
against this at first, especially when I realized that NO one else at the table
had thought twice about this. But not only were our friends
understanding, they wanted to talk to me and thank me for telling them
this, giving them food for thought and a new understanding. It helped to wipe
away a little of the natural wariness that had arisen from this incident, so
much so that I realized how many people really WANT to know when they've said
or done something offensive and don't. Usually, the person they've offended
leaves without saying a word or they, too are an ambassador and laugh off the
incident, swallowing yet another distasteful public scene into their own
discomfort. I was comforted to know that this is not always a thankless job.
It's unfair and even painful, but not always thankless. SOMEone
learned something from this…and perhaps in hearing it, you might, too.
I am actually one of the many African
American ambassadors to the nation. I have diverted many a cross cultural mishap
in my time, but please…don't thank me.
Understand me.
Speak for me when I cannot speak or am not
heard.
And for God sake, don't just let me
laugh…hand me a tissue.