In early college, I was hanging out with one of my friends in the student center, relaxing and doing homework when like any other day, we both got a school-wide email update from our college. The email was a regularly updated email that informs you of the safety happenings around campus. It described how someone was robbed a few hours ago and the college police were looking for suspects. Then they went on to describe the suspects. “Two black males, one 6’0” black male with long “braided” hair wearing a gray hoodie and jeans and another shorter black male with short hair wearing a white shirt and jeans.” My friend and I looked at each other and then looked at our clothes and we both had almost word for word matched the vague description. Now at that moment, slight terror passed by both of us, as we tried to joke it off and say things like “man we were here the whole time no way we’d be considered suspects what are they going to do? Arrest us for no reason? We were just studying though” but the jokes quickly turned into contemplation of the current situation we were in. We both lived on campus and our apartment was a 10-minute walk from the student center. We agreed that we should head home for our safety, but we decided to go home separately so we are not mistaken for those suspects. What is usually an easy and quick 10-minute walk, turned into a marathon of survival ensuring that I made it to the safety of my apartment and being careful to not look “suspicious” in any manner. My friend and I made it home thank God, and we proceeded to laugh about it in hopes of lightening our spirit. I think we were able to laugh because we made it home safely, I often wonder what would’ve happened if we did not, if either one of us came in contact with the police. It’s a scary thought, one that is common in my life, a primordial fear for my life when there should be no fear at all.
This is one scenario of many that showcase the lengths that I and many other black men go to, to preserve our life. In my daily life, I often go to the extreme in order to try and live to see another day. I don’t wear black clothes or all-black ever. If I’m walking at night I ensure no one is walking in front me so they don’t think I am mistakenly following them, I often speed up to the side of people in order to be in front of them. I don’t visit residential areas where I don’t live or don't have a friend who lives there. If I know I’m going to an unpredictable or new area I wear light-colored clothes or clothes that showcase my education. I don’t jog or exercise in my primarily white neighborhood. I know all the important laws and follow them religiously. I have an impeccably clean record. I often rehearse what I will say and where I’ll put my hands and my body language for when I inevitably get pulled over or come in contact with police, and when I do get pulled over I go to the extreme to explain who I am, where I’m going, my education and my life. I do this in order to give my life worth in the eyes of the police officer.
I once had to go to Ohio to take a standardized exam in order to apply for graduate school, I knew that since Ohio is far from my residence in Canton, Michigan I would probably get pulled over since the time and distance from my house increases my chances of getting pulled over. Lo and behold I got pulled over, for “not using my turn signal for the whole turn” I was mentally prepared for this and I was calm and when the cop asked me what I was doing here I simply explained my situation and then he asked where I went to school. I explained to him that I’m a Wayne State University student and then he asked if I had any scholarships and what the exam was for, I told him, yes and it’s for pharmacy school. I then began to explain to him my life story and the education level that my parents also have. I felt I needed to do this to explain to this officer “Yes officer I am a productive member of society and a law-abiding citizen, please know that there should be no reason for you to arrest me or take my life.”
In one of my first few encounters with the police in a regular traffic stop. The officer noticed that I was very tense, as I had both hands on the wheel and I was stuttering in my speech, I had nothing to hide. I was just fearful for my life. The police officer told me “You can relax” and I looked him in his eyes without moving another muscle, gave him a faint-hearted smile, and told him thank you. Needless to say, I did not relax. How can I relax? Knowing that at any moment my life may be taken away from me for any wrong move I make. It feels like my life in America is just me trying to avoid any mistakes that may cost me my life. I cannot begin to explain the mental toll that this has on the psyche. What type of life is that? One where I am afraid for my life and I tailor my daily activities in order to mitigate the perceived “danger” that I may pose. It wasn’t always like that. Before I immigrated to America at 10 years old from Saudi Arabia, I had experienced my fair share of racism but my race wasn’t my main defining characteristic. I was judged by who I am as well. In America the most important factor in your identity is race, race is everywhere, race is what you put in every form, and race is the first thing someone thinks when they see you or describe you. The prevailing nature of race is something that is palpable when you come to America, this wasn’t something I was born with or taught, this was something I internalized after immigrating here. This type of racial tension especially for black people is not found in other parts of the world. Sure racism exists but it’s different. The racism in America is an integral part of its history, laws, and foundation. This translates to a tangible feeling that you learn nonverbally. That your race is what defines you here, and you being black means you will be treated differently sometimes, and that one of those times can mean your life, and you should be afraid. This is not normal. We cannot and should not fall into the trap of thinking that this is normal.
Thankfully every day I have lived to see another day, most days I’m okay, most days the nature of my race and the precautions I have to take falls into the background, most days I am not so worried, most days my encounters with police end okay, most days I’m just happy to make it home. Most days I try to make jokes and laugh about the perceptions that I have to face. Every once in a while though, the news reminds me of the grim reality of the world we live in, like the recent shooting of Ahmaud Arbery. It’s a painful and heartbreaking reminder of what being black in America may lead to. I see myself in every young black man who is unjustly killed. My thought is always “that could easily be me.” It’s a heartbreaking reality to witness and accept the fact that no matter what you do, no matter how safe you try to be that you can simply be killed for being black in America. I and many others have simply come to accept that infernal reality.
What hurts me as much as the unjust killing of black people in America, is the conversation that is always had after the fact. The conversation always revolves around: “What were they doing? Were they resisting? Do they have a criminal record? What have they done to society? Were they killed for the right reason? Where were they? Did they comply?” Those are the questions that are always asked. Always the character of the black man is heavily assassinated and any mistake they make or have ever made will be used against them. The conversation is never around: “This is human life, and human life is sacred no matter whose life it is, and that life should never be taken away so recklessly, that human life deserves the basic respect of trying to preserve it.” That is never the conversation around these killings because black life is simply not worth as much in America. The posthumous conversation regarding any black life that is unjustly taken is always that of dissection, justification, and disrespect. It breaks my heart and always makes me think. If I were to ever get unjustly murdered, what will they say about me?
