High school was a time of many firsts for me, but none more important than my first time being invited to dinner at a white family’s home. It was the same day I tried devil’s vomit for the first time (also known as date loaf).
During my junior year of high school, I worked at a pet store in Scarsdale, New York, which was about an hour bus ride from my house. Like most of Westchester County, Scarsdale was very white. But unlike the other parts of lower Westchester County, it wasn’t blue-collar middle-class white; it was wealthy upper-class white.
For context, Scarsdale was listed as the second-wealthiest town in America in 2019, and Westchester County was among the wealthiest counties in the country when I was in high school.
Another distinctive factor about not only Scarsdale but wealthy parts of Westchester generally is that most of the white people there consider themselves politically and socially liberal. But they will still do and say problematic things. They either don’t know or don’t care that they are problematic.
I met a lot of these types of customers at the pet store. They’d come in and ask for my help finding things like dog food and then, after speaking with me, say something like “I’m happy you’re doing something constructive with your time and not out in the streets. You should consider college.” As if I weren’t an honors student and would otherwise be spending my time robbing banks.
While these interactions made it hard to work there, I did become close with some of my white coworkers who were from the area, in particular two guys I’ll call Patrick and Matt for the sake of anonymity and avoiding a lawsuit.
The two of them managed to get along with everyone. They also acted like their families didn’t have a boatload of money, almost as if they were like the rest of us—working because we had to.
I would talk with them about everything—sports, video games, anime. It seemed like anything I was into, they were as well.
One day, we were on break, talking about the game Super Smash Bros. (which was my jam, and if you haven’t played it, you’ve lived a lesser life), and Patrick suggested that Matt and I come over that Sunday to have dinner and play the game with him.
Up until that point, I’m not sure that I had ever been in a white person’s home, which might sound surprising, but I didn’t live near any white people, and the families of my white classmates weren’t really the “invite the Black kid over” types.
I figured, “Hell, if people can go to the moon, I can try dinner with white people.” Plus, I had seen enough episodes of 7th Heaven and Boy Meets World to know what to expect. So I accepted the invite.
One small step for Frederick Joseph, one giant leap for Black kids with a couple of white friends everywhere.
I wasn’t nervous about the dinner itself, but I was anxious about when it would be taking place. Sundays for me were a very sacred time, and I had a specific view of how they worked.
Growing up, I started and finished every Sunday the same way. I would wake up to the sound of my mother playing soul music and the smell of her cooking grits and canned salmon (we didn’t have fresh-salmon money then), and I would have four minutes of peace in bed before she would yell, “Get up and do your chores!”
That was the routine for most of my life as a kid. I would get up on Sundays, eat breakfast, and then help clean our apartment while my mother cooked dinner, which typically included collard greens, corn bread, and mac and cheese.
You should know, I can basically taste the food while writing this. I know everyone says this, but my mother is legitimately the best cook. Her food isn’t always healthy—and I have no problem throwing my mom under the bus about that—but it’s good as hell.
But my house wasn’t the only place like this on Sundays. You could smell similar scents at my cousin’s house and hear the same types of soul music down the hall at my neighbor’s house. This was how my mother was raised, and countless other Black people as well. If you weren’t up cooking and cleaning, you were in church.
In fact, the music and the foods might have been different, but this was the same scene in the homes of many people of color around the country. Food, music, and family are the essence of race and culture for many of us.
I was actually pretty interested to find out what a “white Sunday” looked like. What did white people eat? What was the white version of soul music—the Beatles? Or maybe Elvis (who was a racist thief—google it if you don’t believe me)?
The experience I ended up having at Patrick’s house was not only void of everything I was used to, but it tainted my Sundays for the rest of time.
That Sunday afternoon, I arrived at Patrick’s house in a cab and was immediately impressed. They lived in a home with a driveway gate that had a video intercom. This already put them in a higher class than the white television families I had seen.
After my cab was let past the gate, I saw that Matt’s car was already there, which eased my mind; I wouldn’t have to meet Patrick’s family alone.
I rang the bell, and within seconds the door was opened by a tall white woman who looked like she could have been Tina Fey’s sister. She stared at me for a moment, as if to take in what I was wearing and confirm that I wasn’t a threat, and then said, “You must be Frederick. Come on in!”
I thanked her for having me and handed her a pie I had bought at Trader Joe’s. I figured that would be the easiest thing to bring them, as everyone loves Trader Joe’s, regardless of what race they are or how much money they have.
When I walked in, I was greeted by Patrick’s father, who sort of reminded me of Ben Affleck. (Not the Batman version, the out-of-shape version.) He shook my hand and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, son,” then followed up with, “Strong handshake like that on a boy your size, I’m sure you can palm a basketball. You can probably dunk, too. No NBA in your future?”
You’re probably thinking, Wow, that was racist as hell. You’re right: it was. If you’re not thinking this, we have A LOT of work to do, and you should refer to the stereotypes entry in this book’s encyclopedia.
I didn’t know how to respond, and luckily I didn’t have to, because at that moment, Patrick came downstairs to greet me and take me upstairs to their game room. (Yes, they were that rich.)
When we got to the room, Matt was sitting there playing Smash Bros. with Patrick’s brother, who was about eleven years old. After a few minutes of talking, I got comfortable and joined them.
We played for a few hours, then Patrick’s parents called us downstairs for dinner, which surprised me because I hadn’t smelled any food being cooked.
When we got to the dining room, there were about ten cartons of Chinese food laid out. As I said, I’d had no idea what to expect from a white family dinner—maybe a green bean casserole?—but it certainly wasn’t Chinese takeout.
When Patrick’s father went to turn on the radio, I figured I would at least get to hear what their Sunday music was, but I was wrong. Instead, he turned on NPR (National Public Radio), which I’ve come to realize is like religion for liberal white people.
I suppose Patrick’s parents could tell I was confused, because they asked me what was wrong. I told them all about Sundays in my household and about my mother’s cooking.