It was a dark winter night in Chicago and I needed to run to my neighborhood bank to withdraw some money. I threw on my long black bubble coat, dark grey, wide-legged, sweat pants, knit hat and requisite Timberland boots (a DC must-have for girls since I was a teenager) to track through the heavy snow. It was menacing weather but I was prepared for it.

Despite the harsh wind gusts, I made it to the bank in one chapped piece. After I made my transaction, back into the snow flurry I went, wrapped up with my gloved hands buried into my pocket and ready for the cold.  On my way home, I noticed that the atmosphere began to shift slightly. The snow started to fall slowly and freeze into ice on the ground, making it dangerous to traverse but the salt gave me traction.

As the snowfall stopped and the wind speed increased, I noticed that a woman crossed the street as I pushed through the gusts with high steps. The other side of the street was not cleared of snow but the woman swam through it. In the distance, I saw a friend who looked at me quickly and I smiled to say “hello”, but before I could say anything they crossed the street… “Hey!” I yelled. “Hey!” I shouted in an even higher pitch. They looked back at me, squinted, and said, “I didn’t recognize you… you have to be careful out here”… They said with a scowl.

They were not talking about being careful about the snow, they were talking about being careful to not run into a criminal lurking in the blizzard. To them I was another distant black body, moving toward them at night. And yes, there had been crimes but I didn’t even get the dignity of a good look because I could’ve been someone they knew. Understandably, they could not see me fully and were trying to take caution, but I still wondered about the effort I could have taken to distinguish myself enough to be seen.

They were not talking about being careful about the snow, they were talking about being careful to not run into a criminal lurking in the blizzard. To them I was another distant black body, moving toward them at night. And yes, there had been crimes but I didn’t even get the dignity of a good look because I could’ve been someone they knew. Understandably, they could not see me fully and were trying to take caution, but I still wondered about the effort I could have taken to distinguish myself enough to be seen.

This exchange was a catalyst for many questions about what it means to be seen as a young black person in the United States. Although I have been pulled over and hassled by police, while dressed in my Sunday best, I realized that there was something different about the ways in which black men move through the world. I also realized that I had been socialized to take on a particular apprehension around black men that I pass by each day. I was ashamed that I treated my brothers like rebels. Read more at Heed Magazine Online

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