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 New York, I am the "only one" or "the other one" in many social gatherings. It is my job to be as diplomatic as possible in relations with those outside the African American race so that all future cross culture interactions go as smoothly as possible. It's a pretty stressful position, but one I have slowly learned to realize the importance (and sometimes depressing nature) of. 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 shows 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 Dallas, and she's black, too…" Or even worse yet, when my own mother-in-law tells me that she cannot accept me because she was attacked by a mugger who was black.
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.
