Beirut Politics

He's a young man. His dark eyes are squished together like two marbles that have carelessly been cast adjacent to one another in a game of Mancala. He's got vaguely wavy hair and a stooped stilted gait that suggests that, despite the“bros" and “ dudes"that escape his mouth, irrespective of the douchey orange and blue stripped tie he continues to wear at 10pm, in conflict with the the several blond women (and men) who seem to be in his group, and regardless of the arrogant smirk that seems to permanently line his face, he is not white. I mean he's not REALLY white. He's Jewish, or Greek, or Spanish or something. He's no WASP. His family had probably been treated like shit sometime recently because of this non-whiteness. Fortunately though, this man's almost-whiteness  will allow him to, in a few short generations, be white. Hell, he may already be there. 

Tonight my friend and I are playing Beirut (beer pong) against this nearly-Blanco individual.We were supposed to have played the game in before, but this man with the wavy hair invented a lame excuse, saying these one of the members of his vast party called the next game “like, a long fucking time before you did."  He and I both know that he had verbally acknowledged that my partner and I would have next, but that's a moot point. White men, I've learned, are allowed to change the rules or terms of any agreement, at any moment that's convenient for them. Even faux white folk can do this.

Eventually, my partner and I are allowed to play. We set up our cups, and my partner, who had vehemently opposed the rule swap they had pulled on us, even apologizes for the fuss he made earlier.

We're all ready to play when our Jewish/Greek/Spanish/almost white opponent decides that he and his partner will take a cigarette and bathroom break. They disappear. 5 mins. 10 mins. 15 mins.

They emerge. No apologies. No acknowledgement of the elapsed time where we were made to stand and wait. Nothing.

Smirk in tact, he thrusts up his middle fingers at us after making the first shot, and I feel my adrenaline rush. My face must have let on that I was displeased as he assured me that his“fuck you" was meant for his friends sitting behind us, not us. ah. 

In the end, my partner and I get beaten. We leave the table. But I kept thinking. Would I have, with a bold face told someone one thing, and then said another as this man had done in offering us the next game and then claiming anther had it? Would I have called a cigarette break that left my opponent standing for minutes on end, and then offered no apology? Would I have had the audacity to openly curse ,“in jest" people I did not know?

No. The constant guard against appearing too ostentatiously "other," particularly in white company,  would not have allowed it. As a black man, part of assuring the (white) world I am safe is emoting an amiability that bridges on docility. Being uber respectful is paramount to bolstering this image.

And so, I did not protest the treatment. I did not demand respect. The stakes, I reasoned, were so low that starting a conflict would be a waste of time. It was after all only a beer game. Yet the strong racial component that informed my actions left me with intense heartburn, like I had swallowed several raw cloves of garlic whole. My desire not to be seen as a problem and consequent silence in the face of blatant disrespect, not racially motivated, but disrespect nonetheless, made me nauseous.

I felt powerless.