Reflections From a Token Black Friend
By: Ramesh A Nagarajah
Tags: Privilege, BlackLivesMatter, White Privilege, Racism, Relationships

In the wake of the past week’s events, I’ve reflected on my interactions with the police. These interactions lifted the veil of black privilege I thought existed, though it was likely only afforded to me because of my military affiliation.

I was once pulled over in a cemetery, less than one minute after getting back into my car after visiting a friend’s grave, only to be asked, “What are you doing here?” The cop had been parked right by me the entire time, so he obviously just seen me out at a gravestone alone.

“Visiting my friend’s grave before heading back to school tomorrow, sir,” I said.

The officer’s aggressive demeanor changed only after I told him I went to the Naval Academy, at which point we entered a friendly conversation about his days at Norwich. What stuck with me is what he could’ve done in those cemetery back roads without another living person in sight — no witnesses, no cameras.

Another time, when I’d walked back to my best friend’s empty house after a party, I accidentally set off the alarm, bringing the cops buzzing to his door. I wonder if the only reason it went so smoothly is because I quickly identified myself as a member of the military, opening their ears to hear the full story of what was happening. I think of what might’ve happened if they’d mistaken me, holding my military ID in my hand as I walked out the door, for something else.

It’s tough to realize how rarely these possibilities occurred to me when I was younger. When I was pulled over numerous times, often without cause, driving to a hockey game in Weston or parked talking to my white girlfriend, I didn’t consider that the cops might have had it against me. When I did witness these biases, I quickly brushed them off as insignificant.

Early in middle school, I arrived to our high school’s football game with a group of friends, all white, to find three or four policemen standing by the entrance. I greeted them with a “Good evening, officers,” and then quietly said to my friends, “You gotta befriend them so they are on your side later.” My buddies thought it was hilarious, and I had succeeded in making the boys laugh. Looking back, I realize they didn’t understand that I was speaking to something legitimate. I was no older than 12 or 13, and I already understood that the police would not be inclined to help me. It was only funny to my friends because they’d never had those sorts of conversations.

I think back to when my friends never understood why I wasn’t allowed to play with water guns — or any toy guns, for that matter — when I was a boy. I’d be so excited to visit a friend’s house and use their airsoft gun in the backyard. I used to get so frustrated when my mom told us it was “too dangerous” for black boys to do that and that someone would mistake it for a real gun. When I was 16, 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot and killed while playing with a replica toy airsoft gun. I realized my mom was right.

I think of the way the black girls were treated as second rate in high school. Guys rarely tried to talk to them romantically, and if they did, others discussed it with an undertone of comedy. I never felt this way, personally, but didn’t realize until college that my silence was compliance. I was participating in denying dignity to the black women around me.

This attitude from my white friends didn’t end in high school, either. This past year, I was at a bar in Narragansett, Rhode Island, where I’d quickly befriended one of the guys my friend had brought with him. At one point, I expressed my interest in a girl who had just entered the bar. He asked me to point her out, so I did, also noting that she was black. He responded, “Yeah bro, she’s cute, but you could have one of the white girls here!” I questioned his statement, and he realized it didn’t fly with me. We eventually moved on and continued the night, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. He truly didn’t think anything of it when he said it. And he assumed that I would agree with him. To him, the preference for white women was undisputed, so he suggested it unapologetically. It was especially hard for me because, outside of that statement, there was nothing to suggest he was racist. He had treated me with nothing but love and admiration and accepted me into his crew. It was simply ignorance, which had probably been reinforced countless times. That was difficult to wrestle with.