theatlantic | This is my reality: As an upper-middle-class black male, I am seen as
part of the solution class tasked with rescuing my nation from its
problem and my race from itself. Yet, ever since my childhood, I’ve been
held at arms-length by two cultures. Many of my black peers were bused
in from the other side of town; after hearing my diction and learning I
lived in a suburb replete with green lawns, two-car garages, and
debris-free streets, they labeled me an Oreo, a well-worn slight
indicating blackness on the outside and whiteness on the inside.
Meanwhile, as the only black kid in my neighborhood or honors classes, I
was called a “raisin in a bowl of milk.” Some of my white friends
invited me to their homes for parties and sleepovers, but introduced me
as their “black friend Teddy.” I was never black enough for the ’hood,
but always too black to exist without a race modifier in my own
neighborhood.
As adults, we Tenthers joke about having our “black cards revoked.”
And in the next breath, we trade stories of professional connections
that masquerade as interracial friendships—so dependent on
code-switching that we envision them telling each other, “It’s almost
like he’s not really black.”
Both sides make the same basic claim about us: we are exceptional.
But they don’t mean this in the usual way, as an objective observation
of personal excellence or meritocratic achievement. Instead, it’s an
assertion that sets us apart from the rest of black America, implying
that we’re oddly different and a little less Negro than the others.
We’re anomalies wherever we go, considered less authentic than the
brothers in the inner city and certainly less-than-totally acceptable to
the larger society. The solution is at hand, and yet, the problem
remains.
And what have we accomplished? Segregated schooling and housing
practices still exist, though they are now economic and social
conditions instead of legal enforcements. The Tenthers haven’t been able
to change the rigorous policing and biased sentencing that have
imprisoned vast swaths of our communities, eroding families in the
process. Despite the economic success of our privileged circles, black
wealth, income, and unemployment are perpetually at recession and
depression rates. Key victories for voting rights are slowly being
rolled back. The results of all this include children who fall behind in
school before they are even enrolled, health disparities made worse by
poverty and racism, and public policy that maintains systemic
inequalities.
The reality is, of course, we Tenthers were never the answer to begin
with. We bought into the idea that education, personal fortitude, and
hard work would be enough to overcome history and raze barriers to
equality. But in the process, we’ve set ourselves apart from the two
communities we were created to bring together.
How does it feel to be a solution? It feels like social
carpetbagging, always code-switching to blend in with whichever environ
we happen to be in. This is more than just a social survival skill; it’s
become a matter of identity. There is no turning it off, only tuning
the rheostat. We will never completely fit in America, and will always
be confronted by preconceived notions. DuBois charged us with relieving
the burdens of “an historic race, in the name of this the land of their
fathers' fathers, and in the name of human opportunity.” Yet, we are an
exercise in insufficiency.
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