An editor at the Washington Post, Christine Emba, writes:
I’m a black woman living in the United States of America, but I didn’t grow up with a pervasive sense of fear. I was taught that things were getting better — they’re always getting better. Look, we’ve moved past slavery, past Jim Crow. The civil rights movement worked!
Thinking back, perhaps my parents — like all black parents — were less convinced than I was, and rightly so. Immigrants from Nigeria, a pharmacist and a nurse, they were middle-class professionals obsessed with our educations and far more interested in pushing us to get ahead rather than in looking back.
Yet I still listened to them instruct my brother the day he received his driver’s license: Drive slow; don’t be outside at night; if you’re stopped by the police, always keep your hands in view; never raise your voice; don’t talk back; you’re not like everyone else; this country isn’t safe for you; you should always be on your guard.
And even as the younger, female child, I received my own warnings. Dress well; speak correctly; don’t ever give anyone cause to suspect you; know that you need to be twice as good as anyone else. The threat of bodily harm was reduced, but the implication that certain structures couldn’t be counted on to serve me, and that I would need to work harder than my white peers to stay safe, was not.
Despite all that, I assumed the best — sure, it’s unfair, sure, it’s limiting, but hey, we’ll eventually be able to stop worrying. After all, things are improving.
The problem is, they’re not.
