Grande Blond Roast, Black

Two white boys walk home in the fading light. Their identical  navy blue sports coats ,with the insignia of whatever day school they attend, highlight the posh character of this upper westside neighborhood. Their conversation is indistinct through the window I view them from,  but one can see from their loping gait and flopping hair that they are uninhibited, carefree. The taller of the two holds a  bag of popcorn and flings individual kernels at his mouth,  unbothered that much of his snack has ended up on the city sidewalk. Their heads draw back in laughter as they enter the building across the street. 

Down the block are two teenagers, ambling slowly toward the building. Night has settled now so it's difficult to see, but you can nonetheless tell that they've got the love bug. The girl lays her head against her guy's shoulder as they stroll, and the boy's mouth snaps open and shut in rapid succession. I wonder if he is talking at a frenetic pace, maybe telling a joke or recounting some story from the day, desperately trying to get it all out  in a single breath. 

 I observe an older woman and her two schnauzers amble toward the entrance. Two middle aged women in exercise clothes hurry past the doorman who gracefully steers the grand doors open.  I see several men, each with brief cases  hurriedly enter the building, their legs seemingly gliding over the pavement.  Then, its all clear. 

 I take another sip of my Starbucks grande blond roast, black. I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. I'll wait. 

The building I'm headed to is a gorgeous red-brick.  A sign that announces the building's elegant-sounding name is illuminated by dim sconces reminiscent of the Ivy League. This building is majestic but not gaudy---clearly, the monied people here aren't new to riches and have no need to show off...too much. 

From my position at the the Starbucks across the street, I've been contemplating my next move.  I absolutely do not want to arrive too early to my tutoring session. I don't want to end up dead this night,  and surprising white folk is great way of hurrying life along.  

I've told this to my white friends before, the part about not surprising white folk.  "You're being paranoid," they say, "Why does everything have to be a race issue."  Maybe. Maybe not.

Last year, in the dead of winter,  I broke my rule and arrived at a session 10 minutes early. The apartment I was going to was in a white enclave in Inwood, a quiet stretch that has somehow has managed to keep out the Dominicans that dominate the rest of the neighborhood. It was freezing outside that afternoon, and there was no Starbucks to wait it out nearby. 

As I walked toward the apartment building, I saw a teenage boy coming toward me, his arm wrapped around his girl. As they got closer, I realized that I knew this boy--- it was the brother of my tutoree. I also observed that at the rate that he and his girlfriend were walking, we would get to the apartment door at the same time.

I had met the approaching teenager on several occasions that I had been working with his brother. In fact, we had exchanged salutary remarks in passing, nearly every time I had been over to tutor. 

Nevertheless, I worried that this encounter had the potential for racial tension. After all,  I was a big black man loitering in front of an apartment building where my kind clearly didn't live. 

On another occasion, I would have waited for this boy and the girlfriend to go in. Then, after giving them time to get to the apartment, I would have buzzed up and been let in.  That day, however, the cold beat out my common sense. 

"Good afternoon," I said with a wide smile as the boy and his girl approached the door.  

"Hi," said the girl good-naturedly, her rosy cheeks flushed in the frigid air.

The boy nodded. "You need to be let in?" he inquired.  

As the three of us entered the apartment building, I remarked on the terrible winter we were having. It had in fact snowed an awful lot.  

Generally, I am silent in elevators with white folk. That day, though, I needed to say something to diffuse the mounting tension as the three of us crammed into the tiny apartment elevator. Nothing calms white people like weather talk.

As the door closed, the boy hit "7" on the elevator key pad. Then, in a tone that was overly formal, he addressed me: 

 "What floor, sir?"  

With a toothy grin, I said "7th!"

The polite smile that had played upon the boy's pasty face dropped slightly, and I could see that I was in for it. I had thought that he recognized me at the door, but now I knew for sure that he in fact had no idea who I was. I knew now that no matter how I sliced it, this exchange was going to be uncomfortable. 

What happened next was classic. 

"If you don't mind my asking," he said, his grip around his girlfriend tightening, "what apartment are you going to? Do you live in the building?"

Ah. There it was.

I laughed disarmingly.  

"I don't live here. And I'm going to YOUR apartment," I sang out, good humor punctuating every syllable.

The girl laughed uncomfortably. The boy turned a stark white. His body went rigid in terror. 

"I'm your brother's tutor," I hurriedly added, "I know, I'm a little early today."

The elevator must have been in slow motion.  

"OH!" gasped the boy in relief, "Shit!  I don't have my glasses on, man, I'm sorry, I didn't know who you were!"

Racial decorum dictates that in these racially charged moments, black folk must assuage white racism by assuring them that their terror of you is utterly justified. 

As the elevator opened up on the 7th floor, I told the embarrassed boy not to worry. I said I understood his wariness, and that his instinct to question someone  he didn't know was "right on." 

 Despite my best intentions, though,  a sliver of sarcasm dotted my words. Harmful people, I assured him, could be wearing a Jones New York peacoat, suit pants, and dress shoes as I had worn that day. I HAD changed my hairstyle recently, so I DID in fact look different than I had the last time I had seen him, days before. And anyway, he should make sure to wear his glasses more often. 

When I got to the apartment and began working with the boy's younger brother, I found my mind wandering.

 Would this boy have asked a grown white man  he didn't recognize where he was going? Would he have viewed such a person with the same suspicion?  

And, on a more grim note, had I not worked hard to quickly dispel the boy's  fear, and had he been armed, could I have been hurt?  After all, his naked terror had been palpable, and scared people do stupid things....

--------------------------

Five minutes left until my session.  I happily observe that the streets remain mostly clear---no one approaches the building of today's session. With a last slurp of my coffee, I stand up to go, moving in a slow delicate motion.  In my head, I review the rules of engagement:

1. Do not show up too early; you don't want surprise white folk. Too early is 5 minutes early. 30 seconds early is too early. You want to get there exactly on the mark. 

2. When entering a building, enter by yourself. Do NOT enter right behind white folk . You don't want to scare them.

3.  Do your best to get on an elevator by yourself, but if you cannot avoid it, smile broadly and say nothing. If someone addresses you, and you get the feeling that they're worried about your black presence,  flash a huge smile,  and comment on the weather. 

4. White folks do not know what you look like, no matter how many times you've been in their house. Therefore, you must remember that you are the big black demon of their nightmares in the first several minutes of your encounter, until you remind them otherwise. 

5. Try to mitigate any racism, no matter how blatant, by blaming the bias of white folk on anything and everything else. Whatever you do, try to avoid making white folk feel guilty. 

6. It can't be said too often, but let's get it down to talking points: Try not to surprise white folk.   Try not scare white folk.  Don't make white folk feel guilty. 

Because surprise, fear, and guilt are the things that get a nigga killed...