I Stayed In My Lane, But He Ran Me Over
This week’s feature for Ars Poetica’s Writing Series for BIPOC Voices is written by Haley Debnam. All pieces within the series have been curated by Shakilya Lawrence.
Photo by Max Andrey
If I never hear these seven words again, it’ll be too soon.
“I would never date a Black girl,” my white friend spat as I chauffeured him to the store. Avoiding eye contact, I nodded and clenched the wheel. We were friends, classmates, and I never expected to be hurt by him.
“Not dating Black people isn’t a bad thing. It’s just like if you wouldn’t date someone because they’re short. I have a type.” He said.
Having a type is what you like, not listing what you don’t, I thought but didn’t dare say.
He went on. “Surely, you have a criterion for dating that could offend someone, so the Black thing is a moot issue.”
I thought, but didn’t say: Are my feelings a moot issue?
I also didn’t say: I won’t be silent again.
Growing up, my grade school was far from diverse. In fact, all my spaces at school were predominately white spaces. Within those spaces lived uncomfortable conversations that taught me to be seen and not heard. I remember the history classes where blue eyes peered at me as we talked about slavery. Holding my breath, I locked eyes with my teachers, silently pleading with them to speed past the topic. I cowered my head and bit my tongue as I choked back tears from embarrassment.
My white classmates always managed to make it clear how they “don’t date Black people.” Their pious parents explained to them that it wasn’t nice to mix races. Teachers sat idle as school-kids babbled about me, in front of me, at lunch hours.
I sat still and quiet.
My entire middle and high school career, I was told that Black girls were undesirable. When I went to college, I kept my fingers crossed that I would avoid men who fetishized blonde-haired, blue-eyed girls. Two years into college, I walked a little taller, having decided that these men no longer existed. It had been ages since I heard those comments, so I assumed that my skin would no longer punish me. However, that day in my own car, my close friend changed my mind.
No space is a safe space; I kept thinking. If I couldn’t avoid hurtful words in my car, then something was wrong.
Even in my own spaces, people felt free to shove their opinions in my face. By self-censoring, I gave them permission to enter and speak as they wanted. Sometimes, like the time in my car, harsh and personal words. They stated their racially insensitive comments, and I was their victim. That’s over; I’m exhausted.
Photo by Tess
Black America excuses ill-mannered questions from white counterparts based on merely “living in a white world.” Even currently, I’ve witnessed others in my community self-censor as they ache living within the tense racial climate of today. How long will we have to act as if everything is “okay,” and continue to live as if we’re unscathed?
On that day in my car, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to ask my supposed friend why he was so narrow-minded. Rather, I thought I had white culture figured out, and their conversations decoded. Sometimes harsh things are said, and Black people should excuse it. That’s how Black and white people should coexist. At least that was the notion I’d accepted.
Driving to the store, in complete silence, I recalled another instance where my friend spoke out of line. Weeks before, he sat in my apartment on campus. I paced back and forth, baffled at yet another racist remark from a stranger. He stopped me, “Have you ever been a slave?” There was a pause. “Have I or any white person you know ever owned slaves?”
I thought to myself, where is this going? But deep-down I knew.
“So, I’m confused why people get so worked up about ‘Black’ comments,” he continued. The conversation went exactly where I knew it would. All I could do was look at him blankly as he sat on my couch. I remained silent as I contemplated the hurtful comments that left his mouth.
After recalling that second instance, I parked my car and watched him saunter into the store. When did I forget that conversations go both ways?
In my own personal spaces, I didn’t think to question him. It didn’t even cross my mind. Race conversations should always be a two-way street. Unfortunately, I’m realizing, more times than not, we don’t share the road. I assumed he was echoing this behavior from home, just as the kids did in grade school. As always, I stayed in my lane.
Self-censoring had become second nature to me. Too many times, I was faced with hurtful comments, and in return, I had nothing to say. By avoiding confrontation, I began an internal war. How could I continue to save someone from being held accountable as they found no issue pointing fingers at me? This idea was my turning point in refusing to initiate conversations and instead remain in hurt.
Photo by Anna Shvets
The bottom line is, conversations strengthen relationships. They also train someone about how to speak to you. Because I let conversations be one-sided for so long, white people took my lane as well as theirs. The excuses I’ve made for the comments I’ve received from white America could destroy my relationships and devalue personal responsibility. I now know that, in questioning, others can and should be made liable for their words. My silence and lack of accountability gave him permission to continue.
I stayed in my lane, but he ran me over.
The conversations with my friend struck harder than any I’ve had before. Coming from someone I’d come to trust, it shocked me.
White people can’t answer the questions I don’t ask. And I never asked any. Why try to understand someone’s ignorance and attempt to educate them when I was too busy repairing my heart? That’s where I was painfully wrong, and where I’ve failed myself in failing them.
Friendship with a Black person isn’t a pass for you to speak carelessly. My blackness is worth your respect and worth your explanations. So, from here forward, I charge myself to cease self-censorship and ask more questions. I charge you, white friend, white America, to answer. And please, with the same patience and respect I gave you routinely.
I’ll most likely see this guy again. And he will most likely have opinions to air, especially given where America is today.
But next time, he’ll have to listen to what I have to say or get out my car.
Haley Debnam is a Junior at Campbell University studying English and Spanish with a Dental Concentration. She hopes to be a general dentist and practice dental medicine in the North Carolina area.
Recently, she has been exploring her English studies through freelance writing. She has published different articles surrounding her experience as an African American woman in America. Writing these has helped her articulate and reach others through her personal experience. She’s found the importance in sharing perspective and extending her story.
Prior to freelancing, she has written for her University’s newspaper and foster care agency.
When she’s not writing or studying, she loves watching telenovelas and emerging in Spanish culture.
Socials // IG: @haley_debnam