That ain’t gonna happen!

I wrote this piece on February 19, 2020  - just a couple of hours after a harrowing incident with a “watchful” neighbor on my walk home from class. Eerily, it was just a few days before Ahmaud Arbery was gunned down in Georgia while he was jogging. I shared the piece with a few loved ones. Some encouraged me to make it public, but I decided not to. Honestly, I didn’t want to alienate anyone. I didn’t want to make people uncomfortable.

Again on Sunday morning, 9 o’clock on Mother’s Day, I was stared down, followed, and accosted by another concerned white neighbor. This time, I made the mistake of being on the phone with my mom to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day. That was the final push.

It’s time to share my story.

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I was walking home after a pretty abysmal meeting with the Career Development Office. I was feeling despondent -- unenthusiastic about my job prospects, doubtful of my ability to convince someone to hire me, cynical about capitalism as a tool to solve society’s problems. I also was feeling sad. I just went through a breakup. I missed her. I still do. Did we make the right choice? Am I being impatient? 

Given the existential angst that I’ve been feeling, I’ve been flirting with religion more and more each day. I was thinking about which gospel song I would play when I got home - I was wondering where I could get the Sister Act 2 version of “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” It’s a beautiful song. 

As I made my way to my apartment building, I remembered that I had a couple of Amazon deliveries that were scheduled to arrive today (see previous point about capitalism). On the front door of my apartment complex, there is a big-ass sign that says “Dear Delivery Person, please put all packages on the back porch.” Implicit in that request is the following “...because there are some thievin’-ass muh fuckas who take people’s shit.” So, I bypassed my front door and walked around the building and through the alley way to see if there were any packages on the back porch. As I turned the corner, I took a peek. And damn, there was nothing there. 

I emerge from the alley, ready to go unwind a bit before my weekly group meditation session, when I hear someone yelling something. At first, I don’t pay any attention to it, but then I hear the same thing being yelled again: “That ain’t gonna happen! That ain’t gonna happen!” When I turn around I realize that this person is yelling at me. 

Let me take a moment to describe this person… First off, if you were wondering, yep, this person is white. Yep, she’s a middle-aged lady. Yep, she’s walking her damn dog. Oh, and did I mention that she’s halfway down the block on the other side of the street? And she’s yelling at me… and wagging her damn finger at me!

I put it all together. She had been using her white-lady glasses to watch me from across the street. White gaze. She suspected that I was up to no good, so she waited for me to come back from the alley to let me know that she saw me and wasn’t going to allow me to steal from her or her neighbors. She thought I was the thievin’-ass muh fucka! I guess it was my black jacket and my black beanie. Too much black.   

Now, I’m pissed!

So I yell back,“What are you even talking about?”

She continues, “That ain’t gonna happen!”

Awkward pause. Is this shit really happening? What the fuck do I even say to this shit?

“Did you ever think that maybe I live here, that maybe I’m waiting for a delivery? How about you learn my name first?! I live here - I hope you feel foolish.”

After another brief pause, Becky and Lassie start walking over to me. I’m thinking to myself “Oh shit. It’s getting real. Is she about to call the cops? Her husband? This can’t end well for me.”  

At the same time, my [white] friend and neighbor walks up to me (because I fucking live there!) and says “Hey, Donovan, what’s going on?” I’m too mad to say anything to him.* I’m still yelling at this lady that she is a fool and she doesn’t even know my name. 

She’s replying that she came over (hand over heart) to apologize, and to say that it doesn’t matter if I’m black or white… something, something, something. I can’t hear her because my blood is boiling. 

Just then, get this: the fucking delivery person walks up. He surely has heard the commotion and says, “Are you Donovan?” “I sure am,” I respond. He hands me the packages that I was waiting for (because I fucking live there!). 

[I wish that I had said to Becky, while she was standing there watching all this: would you like to check my fucking ID, since you’re the self-appointed fucking neighborhood protector from theivin’-ass muh fuckas”]

After getting my package, I looked at her, and I said “you don’t know shit about me!” I wanted to lay out my resume - I graduated from Stanford. I’m a Fulbright Scholar. I’m about to get 2 fucking master’s degrees from Yale. I was hand-selected by John Kerry to work on projects with him for a year. I speak three languages. Then, I thought about giving her proof of my upstanding character. Did you see me when, on this same street, I helped that elderly lady carry her stuff up the stairs? Or helped push a stalled car into the driveway? I’m honest. Hell, I self-reported a $600 check on my taxes. Do not question me or my values. 

But I can’t hide behind those things. They don’t matter. 

Being heartbroken, lonely, jobless, or unconfident doesn’t matter, either.

No. I don’t get to be human. I don’t get to have a name. 

At the end of the day, I’m just a nigger who’s likely to be a thievin’ ass muh fucka. A suspect. A criminal. 

Given my fury and the constraints of time, I couldn’t put all of those thoughts into words. So, all I could yell was “mind your own fucking business!” The crack in my voice betrayed my pain. I hope that she heard it, felt it in her bones. 

I slammed the door. 

When I got up to my apartment (because I fucking live there!), I was livid. Shaking. I sat down and caught my breath. And I cried. I don’t know what I was crying for. But I let it out. And I felt better. 

Fuck her. 

The truth is I’m a good person. I am light, a manifestation of the divine. And I don’t need fucking achievements or respectable behavior to demonstrate it. I don’t need a lover to demonstrate it. I don’t need a fancy job or fancy degrees to demonstrate it. 

And I for damn sure don’t need to prove myself to some ignorant-ass Becky. 

Given Ahmaud Arbery’s outcome - and the outcome of so many other Black people - I consider myself lucky to still be alive. So while I’m alive, I’m going to speak my truth: I’m tired of being watched, having my body policed, being perceived as a threat - just for existing. I remain hopeful that we can reach healing and restoration, but first we must acknowledge that there’s a gaping, festering wound that white supremacy has inflicted on all of us. 

By the way, the package that I was waiting on had 2 important items: All About Love by bell hooks and a journal on how to be zen as fuck. That is my work: learning to love myself and let the bullshit go. 

Thank you, Becky, for the opportunity to practice both.   

***My friend emailed me later to let me know that he was sorry for that encounter and that he wants to know how to be a better ally in that situation. I appreciate that he intervened in the moment, and that he reached out afterward. Apart from that, how the hell am I supposed to know?