I don’t call my friends “dawg” or “homie.” I like to think my friends are people, not part of the canine species. I don’t like saggy, baggy jeans — let’s be honest, those things are a hassle to walk in. And I definitely don’t endorse the blatant subjugation of women in rap music videos.
But as a black man, I’m supposed to like those things, according to a predominantly white society that seems to have their expectations of me.
Almost all my friends are white and for a lot of them, I’m the only black friend they have ever had. That doesn’t bother me either.
Whether we’re friends because our interests match up or because we spend a lot of time with each other, awkward racially charged moments happen, and more than most people think. In fact, most people I meet usually go out of their way not to offend me — most of the time.
I don’t understand why so many white people in Fredericton are afraid to call a black person “black.” I’ve never heard of anyone who was afraid to call a white person “white.” But the double standard makes my white friends come up with alternative ways of describing a black person.
I’ve heard people slowly mumble, “Oh he’s…darker,” or call a black person African, which in itself is extremely political, and a lot of the time just factually incorrect. And then there are my two personal favourites: “African-Canadian” or “Afro-Canadian.” Afro-Canadian? Really? You’re telling me you would rather go through the trouble of calling a black person Afro-Canadian than black?
This year I’ve found myself repeatedly explaining to some of my newer friends that calling me black isn’t offensive. At first, I’ll hear them describe me as very tall, which is also true. Then I’ll hear them describe me as black and then chuckle, almost like a little kid who just swore in front of his or her parents for the first time.
I’m not going to lie; I’ve given a lot of people a pretty mean stare after seeing them do this. It’s insulting that someone would feel guilty after calling me black. It’s not like being black is a bad thing.
It baffles me that the word “black,” used daily to describe the lack of colour, has taken precedence in offending someone over a word that was used by white slave owners in the United States. Just because black people – mostly in the United States – use the “N” word to address each other doesn’t mean white people, if anyone, should use it.
I’ve been called that word far too many times and as much as I’m not a black American or lived during slavery, when someone addresses me with that word, it makes me feel insignificant. It’s a word that carries so much history and context and one that doesn’t belong in the 21st century.
So the next time you see or talk to a black person, do yourself a huge favour and save everyone a whole lot of awkwardness and just call him or her black. It’s fine.
I never understood it: why we’re so intrigued by our differences. Whether it comes down to race, gender, sexuality or even our taste in music. We’re so focused on what sets us apart rather than what brings us together. In my experience, if you open your eyes up for just a little bit, you might realize how similar we are – no matter how cliché that sounds.
There seems to be an impulse to constantly set ourselves apart from others or to fit in with a certain crop of people.
When I look at my three closest friends, we have practically nothing historically or racially in common. None of us share the same ethnicity and only two of us are from the same province.
When we finish university, I don’t think any of us will be working in the same field. But somehow they’re the closest friends I’ve ever had.
And the topic of race?
Well it hasn’t really come up and I don’t think it ever will.
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