How To Be Black

My therapist questioned my black authenticity simply because of the color of my skin. I tried to explain postmodern polymorphic identity.. and that race has to do with “ethnic identity” and I therefor could be black if I wanted to be black!

I first discovered my blackness from while C-Span. I don’t know what the show was.. some kinda black politics thing.. lots of Cornel West goodness… 

See, what I noticed was that every one of these “black issues” were issues I had suffered from! 

You look at cycles of abuse.. how abused becomes abuser.. getting passed on through the generations.. And then you got a whole group of people who lived through all the evils of slavery.. of people thinking taking pictures of your self next to a dead man hanging from a tree is a great thing to share with the whole family… I mean what exactly do you think is supposed to come of that?

And what I saw was people rising up from that yoke.. transfiguring that pain.. I saw people wrestling with the shadow side of the American soul. I saw people I could look up to.

I’m a victim of abuse, on some level we probably all are, and so I just identified with it..  I mean I understood that the social toxin’s that were behind racism where the same toxins I was suffering from…  It’s just a whole lot of canary in the coal mine..
and I think what separates us, in our own individual identifies.. is illusionary.. 

So.. to rhyme with Odysseus who said to a certain cyclops “I am the no man who is every man” I say.. why yes, I’m black. And anyways.. 

That and I wanted to get my hands on that there antibiotic West and the boys were cooking up for the toxins.

In response to, “Why can’t we just ignore racial differences already?”

In the 70s when I was in HS, our town had 11 black kids in our three year HS of 2000+.  Most of them lived in our neighborhood, along with the Koreans, Jews, and the rest of us Catholics of varying ethnicity, mostly Polish and Irish in that town at that time.  The white “Protestants” were definitely the minority in our neighborhood, and in the town generally, and they were looked upon with suspicion by the rest of us. It was the 70s and “The Troubles”  in Northern Ireland were in full swing.

When I was right out of HS, a very baby-faced 18 year old (think Jimmy Baio, Scott Baio’s pudgier younger brother)  and was working in the factories and later as a security guard was when I first ran into “real” black guys, guys who had grown up in neighborhoods that were all black, where they weren’t the “other”.  I got to be really good friends with this guy Bill I worked with as a security guard on the swing shift, we’d cheat playing crazy 8’s with each other, tell stories, bullshit, he was goofy, we had a good time.  He was older, in his early 20s, just out of the navy.  He kept talking how he was gonna get me a job with him in his cousin’s bakery that paid real money, $10 an hour, we were gonna go hang out at his bar, we were gonna do a lot of things that we never did.  Because one night, I’m giving him a ride home, and you know, the polite thing is to invite someone in for coffee or whatever but he gets real embarrassed and goes “yeah, um.  I’d invite you in but… my family… you know… “  I was kind of too stupid at the time to say anything, so he goes on “well, you’re WHITE.  It wouldn’t be safe for you, in this neighborhood.”  That’s the first time it really sank in for me, how serious this race shit was.  That he was worried I’d get assaulted, worried he’d get physically harmed, just for being seen with me.  A white guy.

People suck.

In response to, “When did you first realize you were _____?”

I was 16, at my grandmother’s funeral.  All these people that all looked alike were talking French, a language I didn’t understand.  Me and my father were the only people there that didn’t speak the language; he was the only blond person in the bunch.  The rainbow coalition of older sibs were all grown and out of the house, so it was just me and my father, and  I inherited my mother’s dark mediterranean looks. It was surreal. I stood there in this sea of relatives, in a community I’d never been part of, and my whole sense of self just melted.  All I could do was stand there and think “holy fuck, am I part of some … ‘minority’?!”

I’m in Texas now, and I explain to my Hispanic friends, it’s like finding out as a Junior in HIGH SCHOOL that you’re Mexican.

I never wanted to Not be black. To be clear, that is distinct from ever having thought about not being Black.

But I have noticed how uniquely black people are bound to the prejudice around them. White people can simply change their stories and avoid prejudice. Jews, Serbs and others have changed their names and records of origin to avoid persecution. The difference is they could fit in after effectively making these changes. I have yet to succeed at not being seen as the “Black” person amidst a group of whites. Any Black person who has accomplished this please, please, PLEASE write a book or produce a class on it so I can get that down.

I find the predominance of white privilege that underlies mainstream society simply awesome. I have yet to find any place in society where the application of unfair practices and a majority of detrimental outcomes for Black people are not found.

In my blog “Being Black” I question the effectiveness of our predominant choices. Ghandi, Mother Teresa, Malcom X, Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, and Martin Luther King, Jr. (to name a few) all chose to oppose ”the values of the mainstream society around us”. And they all share a common creed - they chose to take daily incessant civil action in support of the choices they made, they chose to act out of love and with compassion, and their lives were filled with challenges and persecution for their actions in support of those choices.

Are we questioning ”the values of the mainstream society around us”? If so, what choices are we making? Are we doing the same things and expecting different results? Does bitterness fill our hearts and underlie our actions? Do we act with unceasing commitment in support of the changes we wish to see, or do we act out of anger and in opposition to present conditions and circumstances? In my humble experience these are relevant questions for all to ponder.

When I am thinking about race issues, I always take as my starting point the fact that I’m racist.  I sure would like to not be racist any more.  But I’m also American, born and raised.  I don’t think it’s possible to live your life in America and not be racist.  I’m talking about a psychological internalized racism, but that racism is the cause and result of lots of objective phenomena.  For example, a black male has a one in three chance of spending time in prison — check out this article: http://nplusonemag.com/raise-the-crime-rate

I will be unable to participate in a post-racial society, because I am too racist.

The more I learn, the more I cannot ignore the fact that race is still a tangible, if not conscious, force in the everyday experience of an American.  There are still people alive today who remember the difference in the way German Americans were treated vs Japanese Americans during world war two.  911 showed us that members of an entire ethnic group will be blamed for the actions of a minority as long as they are not white.  In my undergraduate experience at MIT, I discovered that even among those whom the world deems geniuses, the best and the brightest, you will still find racist paradigms in the social prejudices of the student body.  If these ideas have been allowed to crystallize in the minds of the American elite, then I cannot justify faith in the country as a whole, though I must admit that too many people have sacrificed far more than I have for me to give up on it.

In response to, “When did you first realize you were black?”

The day that I first realized I was black was my senior year of high school. At the time I lived and went to school in Vallejo, CA. Vallejo was the home of notable rappers E-40 and Mac Dre. It was also the home of Nascar driver Jeff Gordon…. but I digress.

Anywho, back to my realization. During my senior year, I took AP English. I believe the second book in that class we read was “Invisible Man”. Like many white English teachers, our teacher had an odd fascination with the book. He believed that everything had meaning in that book of great significance.

We were spending a class period discussing our required readings of the book thus far. Most students of the class were hinting at why the title of the book was as it was. Our teacher was focused on a random unanswered conversation the main character had with a person not right of mind. All I remember is the character had said “Iz you got the dog?”. Our teacher went into a long explanation as to how he didn’t understand what was meant by that phrase. He then asked “I wonder if maybe, one of our African American students could enlighten us on this conversation?”

It was then that I realized that there were only three black people in the class that day. Myself being the darkest. The teacher turned and stared at me, in hoping that I was Negradamus or something. Our class clown, not black, followed the teacher’s eyes to me with a wide smile. I wasn’t smiling.

Ever watch The Boondocks? You know the episode with the old blind jackass? I was so close to having one of those moments, but I’ll still consider it the same. I was so close to being the typical angry negro. Sure, maybe if the book came out 8 years ago, I might have taken the opportunity to be the informant to white people, but I was unprepared, overwhelmed. My first real moment of having to do something as a black boy was daunting and so stupid that it took my entire being up to that point from snapping completely.

I may have restrained my voice, but I’m sure I wasn’t able to restrain the immediate anger from my face. After the class clown focused on me and saw my face, his smile went away and turned around. I’m sure the entire class was looking at me, but after the clown turned around, I only focused on the teacher. It was dead silent for a good 15 seconds before the teacher composed himself and went on with the class. I’m pretty sure I was the only person in the class that year that directly said “F*** You” to the teacher without uttering a single word.

After class, one of my closer friends came to me and said: “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d turn black.”. It was then that I knew that I was black. I was the Angry Mute Negro.

Trevor Ziegler comments on race in athletics.

I usually tend to try to avoid keeping up with the latest twitter beef and other social media controversies. Why? Because its petty and stupid and I really don’t care about what some idiot with a computer in Eastbumfuck, Idaho has to say about…anything really.

But something happened last night that I simply couldn’t ignore. Something that hit so close to home that I felt compelled to share my thoughts in hopes to prevent a similar situation from occurring in the future. Im sure it won’t. In fact, somewhere on the internet it’s probably going on right now. But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

Last night the Washington Capitals defeated the Boston Bruins in game 7 of the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals in dramatic fashion. Now I hardly consider myself to be a hockey fan but seeing as I’m from the Baltimore/Washington area and currently reside in Massachusetts, I couldn’t help but to be drawn to this series. And this series was certainly an exciting one that did not disappoint. The game ultimately ended with Capitals’ Right Wing Joel Ward scoring the go-ahead goal in Overtime to seal the win for the Caps.

Following the game I headed to Twitter to see the the anguished tweets of all my Bruins-supporting friends which made for a good laugh. What I did not expect to see was a racial-fueled onslaught of tweets directed at the game’s star, Joel Ward (seen here: http://chirpstory.com/li/6781).

You see, Joel Ward isn’t just a hockey player in the NHL, he’s a black hockey player in the NHL, and apparently some of the Bruins’ fanbase isn’t too keen on that. As I read through some of these tweets, I couldn’t help but to be reminded of my experiences of being a black competitive swimmer. Much like Joel Ward, I was good. And much like Joel Ward, I saw my fair share of people who had a problem with a black person excelling in a predominantly white sport.

It sucks that all the hard work any talented athlete puts into elevating their game to a higher level can easily be overshadowed by some idiots that have a problem with what they look like or what they represent. When you’re black and you’re a hockey player or swimmer, you’re not just a hockey player. You’re not a swimmer. You’re a BLACK hockey player or a BLACK swimmer. Google Joel Wards name and the top results aren’t about highlighting his Game 7 heroics, they all mention the racial backlash that occurred on Twitter moments after the game.

A great moment in sports, the closest playoff series in the history of the NHL, won’t be known for the hockey anymore. It will be forever tarnished with the backlash that came from a some hateful “fans”.

I will always be known as the “black kid” that swam for my school. Sure, I put some records on the board and helped my team win some conference championships, but I will always be the black swimmer. Now, I’m not putting my team down, I loved my team and every moment spent competing with them. I just know that I will most likely always be remembered for this fact.

I think it’s a shame that people still put such an emphasis on race in scenarios such as this. In my case, and Im sure in the case of Joel’s, I was just a kid that had an immense passion for a sport I excelled at. I wasn’t out there to prove black people could swim or change race relations or anything. I just wanted to compete and I wanted to win. I did everything in my power to win and it was so frustrating when my hard work was cast aside for some stupid label because not a lot of people that looked like me did my sport. Its like an entertainer trying to shake a previous gimmick from the minds of his/her fans but will always be known a specific way regardless of their efforts to make legitimate art.

One of the most poignant examples I have of this is the nickname conjured up by our rival team my Junior year of college. A couple weeks before our big conference meet my team got wind of the nickname. My last name is Ziegler and apparently they were calling me “Ziggler the Niggler”. Real fucking creative, assholes. Still, to this day, the nickname stirs some anger in me but i’ve learned to laugh off petty insults like this because theres no point in getting butthurt every time some dummy calls you a mean name. And guess what, we beat the hell out of them that year and the next year so I guess thats the best form of retaliation.

The point I’m trying to make is: WHO FUCKING CARES what we look like? If the talent’s there, if the dues have been paid, isn’t that enough? I’m so sick of walking around with all these unwritten rules and expectations that I am supposed to abide by. I’m black but guess what I like rock music (gasp). I like folk. But I love hip hop too. In fact, I listen to whatever the fuck I think is good. Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t like? I played many sports as a child: swimming, baseball, basketball, soccer, and I happened to choose the one I loved the most. Not the one I was supposed to be good at.

Play by your own fucking rules and don’t let some ill-informed, jealous assholes dictate how your own individual happiness can be achieved. That is all.

In response to “When did you first realize you were black?”

My parents are the type that believe in education above all else, and it was with this belief in mind that they stuck me in private school since the age of three. As everyone knows private school (with a few not-so-positive exceptions) essentially means white school. I was always The Black Friend, though I didn’t necessarily think of myself as such in the beginning: I saw myself as a friend, and in my youngest years considered myself and my white friend Anna as one and the same. We were both smart, and liked to read, and were just crossing the line from cute to chubby. Nevermind that she had pink skin and long blond hair; I honestly saw no difference.

I barely remember Anna now, but one scene from my earliest years prevents me from forgetting her entirely. She holds the honorable position as the first person to ever use my blackness against me.

There was a group of us, three whites one asian, and me, who sometimes played together. Because we were little girls, and princesses were practically a requirement of our childhood, we decided by mutual decision to play disney princesses. 

My favorite princess has always always been Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I had memories (the important lasting kind) of me and my favorite cousin watching it over and over again over multiple bowls of popcorn and sparing sips of orange pop. In addition Belle liked to read, and I liked to read, so obviously we were something of kindred spirits.

This was the argument I presented Anna with when she challenged my desire to be Belle in our game. In return she told me that she liked to read too; plus she looked more like Belle. To which I pointed out that she had blond hair and Belle was a brunette. I suggested she be Cinderella.

And then a moment I will never forget: she grabbed my hand and jabbed her finger repeatably into my skin, and speaking slowly said, “I’m a lot closer than you.” I now realize that as much as I saw myself as the same as Anna, that would never be how she saw me (a truth that me and my fellow prep-school-blacks remind each other of constantly in our respective roles as The Black Friend: never forget what you are, because they certainly won’t). At this the other white girls nodded vigorously, seeing the logic.

This was before the lovely Tiana of the Princess and the Frog, and there were no black Disney princesses to be found. So it was decided that I would be Pocahontas. Ignoring the fact that she was native american, not in any way affiliated with Africa, it was wrong, and I felt for the first time the pressure of an unfairness that I have felt—and will continue to feel— throughout my life.

Faced with this unfairness I was tempted to scream, and if I’d been a little more temperamental, or a little less shy, I might have. Instead I stormed off and (in an action that would be reproduced constantly in my career as a Black Person) went to the only other black girl in the class, and proceeded to tell her what rude thing my crazy white friends had just done.

In response to “What are your thoughts about the use of the words nigger, nigga, and derivatives? Are some allowed to say it?”

I do have one story that I often tell that pretty much sums up my childhood. I was playing video games with a couple of my friends who were white when i was about 14 years old. We were playing like Halo or something and my friend dies in the game and goes “FUCKING NIGGERS”. And the whole room just freezes. Everyone turns around and just looks at me in horror. I just give my friend the “come on, dude…” look. My friend looks at me and goes “oh sorry man, i forgot you were here.”

How thoughtful.

In response to “When Did You First Realize You Were Black?” and several other questions, check out Trevor’s story:

On multiple occasions, I’ve had friends and even complete strangers tell me that I should write something that somehow chronicled the events of my life. “But why?” I would ask them, “Why would anyone want to read about the trials and tribulations of a socially inept black kid from the suburbs with a comically multicultural family straight out of a shitty 90s sitcom. A kid whose life was a constant struggle just to fit in anywhere with failed and usually comedic results?” Nevermind.

I feel as though I should brief you on my background seeing as you probably have no idea who the hell I am. My name is Trevor Henry Ziegler. Pretty typical name for a black male, right? It wasn’t until about 10^th grade that I realized maybe my name didn’t quite fit my physical appearance. Up until that point, however, I didn’t think anything of it. I was just regular Trevor Ziegler, in my own eyes. I saw nothing different about a black kid named Trevor with a German last name.

And don’t get me wrong I’m not ashamed of my name. Not even in the least. I just think my name alone placed this giant label on myself that read: THIS KID IS TOTALLY DIFFERENT. And for good reason, my name alone has garnered more puzzled looks than an M. Night Shyamalan movie (just the really shitty ones though).

Adding to my reputation as a walking anti-stereotype, I was a 17-year competitive swimmer and even competed on a Division I team in college for four years. I also worked as a lifeguard for many years throughout high school and college. So basically for the first 22 years of my life I was a living punchline for the “black people can’t swim” joke. Off to a pretty good start, right?

I was adopted pretty much right after birth to two white parents in an affluent Maryland suburb. My sisters, who are both older than I am, were adopted as well. The eldest was adopted at a young age from the Philippines and my other sister was adopted at age four from India when I was about three years old. So right off the bat I was already “the black guy” in my own family. Pretty much a metaphor for my entire fucking life.

I’ll spare you the details of my birth parents, for now. Spoiler Alert: It’ll blow your fucking mind. Well, hopefully. I guess you’ll just have to read on to find out. Suckers.

Anyways, as I mentioned earlier I was born and raised in a suburban city called Columbia, Maryland of about 100,000 residents. Columbia was a planned community established in 1967. The basis of Columbia was that it was designed to be a series of 10 self-contained villages that aimed to eliminate any sort of racial or class segregation. Thus, every village was said to contain lower-income, middle-income, and high-income housing. Fair is fair.

However, the “village” that I lived in was added in the mid-90s and proved to be an exception to the rule. The area in which I grew up in catered to mostly upper-middle income housing and high-income housing and consequently shat in the face of the designer’s dream of getting rid of class segregation. Until I attended high school, the area in which I grew up in was about as diverse as a box of saltines.

Looking back at my life and the conditions I grew up in, it’s hard to comprehend why I thought my life could ever be normal. I should probably clarify what the word “normal” meant to me back then. To me, normal was simply fitting in anywhere. Normal was surrounding myself with a group of peers who knew exactly what I was going through. Normal was that feeling of not being looked-at or judged a certain way because of what I looked like, how I talked, or the things I was into. I so desperately wanted to just be known as “Trevor”. Not Black Trevor, or that black kid, or the black kid that acts really white, or the black kid that swims, or the black kid with white parents. I would have even settled to be another face in the crowd. Anything was better than what I was going through.

To be continued…

In response to “Has Anyone Ever Questioned Your Authentic Blackness?”

I’m an African who grew up mostly in Africa. But because I was educated privately in England that somehow means that I’m ‘posh’ and not fit to represent my race:

“Why do you speak like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Like you’re talking to the Queen.”

This gets really old, and really exhausting. And it infuriates me that by extension these ‘real’ black people are implying that to be truly black you have to speak in slang and have limited vocabulary. 

I guess the fact that I’m going to the NKOTBSB concert this month doesn’t help matters much, hahaha. (That’s New Kids On the Block and Backstreet Boys for those of you not in the know). I should probably mention that I’m 26 years old and this is probably not acceptable irrespective of your race. I don’t eat chicken on the bone and I’ve probably been to KFC like twice. Having said that, I speak my language, I know my culture, my dad was a chief (surely I get black points for that!) and I like the word ‘free’.  

The older I get, the less concerned I am about what other people think I should be. I’m now comfortable with my own definition of blackness that I’ve created through my own experiences. Like this hybrid identity. And it suits me fine. 

In response to “What’s the most awkward racial interaction you ever had?”

I sit next to a woman at work who is yet to receive the memo that we now say ‘black’ as opposed to ‘coloured’. So every Monday when we rehash weekend TV, I hear all about the coloured guy on Britain’s Got Talent or the coloured guy on X Factor. Not awkward at all. 

In response to “Can You Swim?”

I only “learned” how to swim because I was forced to in high school. It was literally a graduation requirement! I signed up for the class the first semester of my 9th grade year, to get it over with :)

I’ll admit — I didn’t want to wear a silly looking swim cap, but that meant my relaxed hair would be jacked up all day (the class was in the morning, of course), multiple times a week. And wrecked from all the chlorine. I think I eventually succumbed to the cap, though honestly, that detail is a bit fuzzy.

The class was set up in stations, and the first one was floating. Next was kicking & arm movements, then breathing, etc. I made it through the first two stations, and wouldn’t you know, I didn’t quite make it all the way through the breathing station when the class ended!

Though I’d be hesitant to put too much faith in my aquatic “skills” should I ever really need them (God forbid), I apparently knew enough to graduate (yesssss! no drop-out stat here!).

At the end of my semester in the class, there was only one student left, still struggling through the first station… Yep, you guessed it. A fellow black girl, my compadre. I felt bad for her each time I made it through a station (all 2 of them), especially since the stakes were higher for her — she was a senior! But judging by her senior class picture in the yearbook, I believe she was allowed to graduate too :)