Just Another Black Face in the Crowd - Part 2

The following day after working to clean out old emails, fixing up my desk, and filing away notes and other papers, I got ready for a Christmas party at a couple’s home. The couple is an especially nice couple. The husband works on the professional golf circuit. We met while each of our daughters’ attended their first gymnastics class. We had known each other nearly a year and our kids played well together. The husband is White and his wife is Mexican American.

As we drove to their house, every warning sign had gone off. But, I ignored the signs in the interest of enjoying the one night rarely without the kids. As I arrived at the party, every image of good American fun dashed through my head. Each image was very familiar - White picket fences, barbeques, beers, talk about work, tasteless jokes, unfamiliar faces, questionable music taste, and uncomfortable moments of silence. I could manage all those parts of the event. I mean, with free food, drink, and a night out away from the kids, it was simply priceless. But, damnit, I could barely suffer a night as the only Black man at the party, again.


I’d been there before at work, professional conferences, graduate school, driving through certain neighborhoods – it was a condition of living as an educated, Black man, living in a White world. Still, come on! Not another night sitting with White people, laughing and smiling politely, internally wondering how the hell could I get out of the situation.

During a run to get a beer, I returned and was reminded of my romp previously wondering about the lonely Black face in the crowd. I realized that I was just another Black face in the crowd. Me, Dr. Black Consciousness! Where’s the revolution? How could that happen? Like gas surfacing to the top through thick Mississippi mud, I recalled some familiar words.

I was nineteen or twenty working at Whataburger in Arlington, Texas, waiting for my opportunity to return to college once I made enough money. A young White female coworker stood oddly comfortable with me passing the hours loading French fries into bags and talking about her previous night of drinking with friends. The uniformity of her voice blunted my senses. Nonetheless, I remember vividly her passing comment to me. Maybe she thought it was a compliment, a sign of appreciation, or a light to the end of the tunnel. I don’t know. She paused for a moment and said, “You know, I feel real comfortable around you. I really don’t see you as a Black person.”

What are you suppose to say to something like that? "Ah, shucks! Thanks ma'am."

I was not suppose to be that Black face in the crowd. I am the Black radical – opinionated, outspoken, a credit to my race, weary of kowtowing to White America, public enemy number one – a young, gifted, talented, educated Black man – America’s Most Wanted. Notwithstanding, I walked quietly to the bathroom, took a deep breathe, looked in the mirror and damnit if I did not feel mad as hell. I am that token Negro – the Black face in the crowd.