Patrick’s mother responded by saying, “That sounds nice! What does your mother make?”
Before I could respond, Patrick’s brother jumped in and said, “Fried chicken!” and laughed, assuming we’d all think his comment was funny.
Patrick’s father swiftly turned to his youngest son and said, “That’s not funny, Michael. Apologize to Frederick!”
But I jumped in with “It’s okay.” In fact, there was nothing okay about it, but I was so embarrassed and hurt that I just wanted to move past this deeply racist moment.
I was expecting one of my friends to stick up for me and condemn what was said, but Patrick simply chimed in by saying, “Michael, you’re a little jerk,” and then changed the conversation to how the Yankees were doing that season.
I sat quietly for the rest of dinner, picking at my food until everyone was done eating. After Patrick’s parents cleared the table, his brother went back up to the game room, and his parents asked the three of us to stay downstairs for dessert and to talk.
We went into the den and Patrick’s mother and father sat for a second and stared at me. Then Patrick’s father said, “Frederick, I want to apologize to you.”
At that point, I would rather have been anywhere in the world but in that room, surrounded by white people staring at me. Looking back, it felt like I was in the Sunken Place from Get Out.
So I simply said again, “It’s okay,” hoping I could just call a cab and head home soon.
Patrick’s father slammed his hand on a table near him and said, “It’s not okay! I don’t know where he got that from!” Which was interesting, seeing as he was the same person who made the racist basketball comment when I walked in.
An older me would have said, “He obviously got it from you, Chad.” But I said nothing.
I don’t know if his name was Chad. I just figured he looked like a Chad, or maybe a Dan. I also imagined that he had played lacrosse and would shotgun beers at frat parties in college.
Patrick’s mother said, “The reason we are frustrated by what Michael said is because in this family, we don’t see color. When you are here, it doesn’t matter if you’re black, orange, or purple. You’re a human, Frederick.”
Both Patrick and Matt nodded and smiled at me when she was finished to affirm that they were on the same page as her. I just sat and stared at them, then stared around the room.
She then proceeded to go into the kitchen to get dessert.
There are two sayings that almost every person of color has heard various times in their life: “Why does everything have to be about race?” and “I don’t see color.”
These sayings are directly responsible for many of my migraines over the years, and more important, they are part of the reason for a lack of racial progress in this country.
While I might not have been as thoughtful about racism when I was younger as I am now, I still hated the idea of people not seeing color, because it doesn’t make sense. You can’t tell me that you don’t see my Blackness when you have to see my Blackness to even make the statement. The statement contradicts itself.
Beyond making no sense, the statement is also extremely racist, even though most people saying it think it’s the exact opposite. But I wouldn’t learn that until later in life.
When Patrick’s mother walked back into the den, she was holding something that looked like banana bread, which I was happy about. The least they could do was have a solid dessert to end the night.
She cut everyone a piece, and they began eating. I picked up my piece and took a bite and quickly realized this wasn’t banana bread at all. It wasn’t sweet, and the texture was off.
I asked what it was, and Patrick’s mother responded, “Date loaf.” I didn’t know what the hell date loaf was, nor did I care; I had had enough. First they ruined my Sunday dinner, then they were racist, and now they were trying to poison me!
For those who aren’t aware, date loaf is basically bread with nuts and dates. It can be camouflaged as other things, such as banana bread, and is disgusting. It tastes like soggy wheat bread with crunchy nuts and fruit in it.
I don’t know why anyone would eat it themselves or serve it to their guests, unless that person is pulling an elaborate prank—or hates their guests.
I got up and went to the bathroom and called my cab. When I was walking back to the den, Matt was standing there, and he asked whether I was okay. I told him I was getting ready to leave because Patrick’s family was racist. He responded by telling me I was wrong and that they said they didn’t see color.
I tried to explain why that didn’t make sense, but he told me I was “looking for something to be mad about.”
While I’m paraphrasing a lot of conversations in this book, some of the things that were said I never forgot and remember word for word. That comment of Matt’s is one of them.
A few minutes later, Patrick’s father told me my cab was outside, and I thanked them and left.
I thought about the day the entire ride home, and then I thought about it the next day, and I kept thinking about it for months, and now years.
I didn’t just think about the racist things that happened. I thought about how everyone had created a shield so I couldn’t criticize their racism and how I also felt my Blackness being erased in the process. I disliked myself for a long time for giving them that power, for not holding them accountable.
I’ve come to realize that a fear of accountability is why white people say things like “I don’t see color” and “Why does everything have to be about race?” Because to see my color, to see my culture, to see my race, would also mean taking responsibility for how white people have historically treated people my color, with my culture, from my race.
I may not have realized it when I was younger, but being at Patrick’s house helped me come to terms with something important: from the expectations and stereotypes about what foods we eat to what talents we have or what activities we enjoy, every interaction in some way is influenced by race.
More important, talking about and combating racism doesn’t “make everything about race”—racism makes everything about race, and racism can be found in every part of society. From our educational system to our legal system, nonwhite people are disproportionately mistreated and oppressed.
Except when it comes to food; I can safely say that green bean casserole is a form of white oppression.
Between conversations online and in professional settings, I’ve spent a lot of time discussing the reasons it’s important that white people not only see race but also understand the active role their color blindness has played in racism. One of those discussions was with Angie Thomas.
One of my favorite things about Angie is how her work is authentically Black and relatable while holding white people and oppressive systems accountable.
ANGIE: Whenever I sit down and write, I never really sit down with an intention to talk about racism or with an intention to talk about issues that may be affecting young Black people. I just want to really tell stories about young Black people and the things they may experience, and in The Hate U Give, we see that with Starr. She experiences, of course, racism, police brutality, systemic racism. All of these things affect her life, affect her world. But for me, I wanted to simply tell a story about a Black girl in a community like Garden Heights and the struggle she had with being two different people in two different worlds.