On a less than eventful summer day, I was having a nice conversation with two of my closest friends over coffee. We were discussing mental angst and everything that comes along with it; particularly, certain thoughts or memories that invoke despair. We dubbed these thoughts and bad memories as the “dark places” within our minds. My friends had so much to share about the things that upset them, but I struggled with the task. For most of my life, I’ve been conditioned to suppress bad thoughts, and to not put too much emphasis on bad things that happen to me. The saddest part about the psychosomatic conditioning that I’ve become accustomed to is that most, if not all, black men in America have been conditioned in a similar fashion.

I started to ponder the question: “What is my dark place?” I raked my brain over it day after day. It wasn’t until about a week later that I came to a conclusion. I realized that my dark place consists of the society which I am a part of. The two friends who I had this initial discussion with are both of Caucasian descent, and are very compassionate and understanding individuals. Their lack of empathy for the way that I felt was not taken personally, but it did make me realize that my situation is unique. Black people account for thirteen percent of the overall United States population, and I can guarantee that all of them feel the exact same way that I do.

What does it mean to be black in America? I was asked as I was speaking on a student activism conference a few weeks after the conversation I had with my friends. The gentleman who asked me this, an older white fellow, genuinely looked perplexed by the notion of living life as a black person.

I simply responded, “Being black in America means everything that it shouldn’t. It is frustrating, unnerving, and exhausting. We constantly have to be aware of our surroundings, for fear of being perceived ‘too black.’ Social stability is a luxury that we know not of. As children, we are in constant fear of our fathers being taken away from us by the hatred of troubled hearts. As parents, we train our children to only acknowledge the color of their skin only when no one is watching. Being black in America is hoping that the officer who just pulled you over is in a good mood today, and that he politely lets you off with a ticket that you most likely cannot afford. It’s a constant struggle for legitimacy, and an ever present misunderstanding of perception. Being black in America is everything that I wish it wasn’t.”

I confirmed all of this gentleman’s fears about the state of black America, and at the same time I confirmed my own curiosity about what my dark place is and what it consists of. I came to the conclusion that I am perpetually in a state of mental angst, and that this anxiety is a permanent facet of my mental capacity. Instead of appearing natural in social settings, I find myself trying to convey a sense of non-threatening civility. Even though I didn’t want to believe it myself, but most American citizens do not think that African American history is American history. This hyper awareness of my identity and of my surroundings relegates me to a constant state of paranoia. It did not take long for me to realize that my dark place is trying to fit into a society that I was never meant to be a part of.

Objectors to this perspective have contended that since I am an American, I should herald a certain pride about my citizenship in such a great nation. That because of the men and women who fight and die for my freedom on a daily basis, I should feel a great sense of patronage to this society. They call me a “black supremacist” or a “militant” activist for speaking out against the illusion that they call the free world. These people cannot understand why I have such contentions with this nation, and this is due to them viewing me as extraordinary. They ask, “Where do you get off? You attend one of the largest universities in the nation, you went to a private school from kindergarten through twelfth grade, and you have two well-paying jobs; all you’re doing is complaining.”

These objectors fail to see the scope of the experience from which I speak. They ask me to take pride in a country that enslaved my ancestors. I’m told that I should be grateful for the soldiers who fight for my freedom on a daily basis, while also being told to disregard and to forget the millions of slaves who already died for it. Imagine how frustrating it must be to not accept the ludicrous notion that someone gave your people their freedom. My objectors see that I am in college, but also believe that I took a deserving white student’s place. They see that I went to private school, but don’t see the copious amounts of odd jobs my mother worked just so her children wouldn’t be subjected to the neglected public school system. They see the two jobs that I have, but fail to notice that I have to stay up late every night just so I can study. They call me a supremacist and a militant minded person, when all I actually want is validation of my heritage. Instead of acknowledging me standing up for what I believe in, they perceive me as theoretically creating the conditions for my own oppression. They see my existence, but fail to recognize my experience.

The fellow which I explained all of this to looked lost. Honestly, I felt lost after my explanation. How am I, a twenty-one-year-old African American student, supposed to remedy a genocidal way of life? I immediately felt the despair of the picture I just painted for this gentleman.

The gentleman then asked me, “What emotion comes to mind when you dwell upon what it means to be black in America?”

“Rage,” I replied almost instantly, “unrelenting rage.”

In Power,

Shomari J. Tate