“Marquis, is one of your parents white? Because you speak so well.” This is actually something a white girl said to me during my freshman year at SUNY Oswego. At this very awkward and somewhat unbelievable moment, two things went through my head: one, she did not just say that, and two, that I was a black guy in central New York. My first year, SUNY Oswego and its community made me feel at home even though my family was six hours away and, for the most part, I didn’t have many friends.Never for a second was I reminded that I was a minority, although everyone around me was predominately white. I had white friends, white teachers, and a white girlfriend. I felt accepted. Don’t get me wrong, I love being black and I never tried to forget that I’m black. (How could I when the world never lets you forget?) However, at that moment, if only for a moment, my blackness felt like a handicap, a rift between other people.
That situation, to make a long story short, ended up with her being embarrassed. However, I wasn’t satisfied with that outcome. I found myself wondering why she would think that. Both of my parents had master’s degrees in their respective fields, and I had a great upbringing. My family did everything they could for me and made sure I was well educated. I spoke to the friends I had, especially to one of my best friends, Roberto. He reassured me that she was just ignorant. I agreed but I could not help but walk around with a bigger chip on my shoulder than what was normal for an eighteen-year-old. As I walked down the street and through the halls of SUNY Oswego, I wondered if people saw me differently than I saw myself. And, they did.
It was the little things. Like when my English professor asked me (and only me) how I felt about Obamacare and race relations. I was the only black male in that class. She continued to do this for the entire semester. It was in the looks I got from white men when they saw me eat lunch with my white girlfriend. It was hidden beneath the overtly nice and forced conversations a person would press on me so that they could lighten the mood. I was lighter than air though, with my Ontario Sunset from F.A.N.S in one hand, and my own business in the other. It clung to the words of those who thought I was overreacting when I said “Black Lives Matter,” because another one of us was killed unjustly. It hid itself in the silence when I asked , “What if that were me?” It, being the discomfort they felt from having to change with the times.
These things made themselves apparent throughout the past four years and it varied from person to person. Sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant, and all too often unsettling. I told myself during my sophomore year that this was just how the world was sometimes. As fast as that feeling came it was gone when I decided to not be a bystander to ignorance and to instead immerse myself into issues I was concerned about. This is when I started taking classes to better understand myself and the world I live in. I began talking to peers with similar and opposing stances; talks that needed to happen. I built a group of friends who never reminded me that I was black with negative connotations. We could have conversations on subjects that others might find too uncomfortable to bring up. It was a freeing experience.
As I continued through the next few years of my MTV2 dramatized academic career, more things came at me than I thought possible. Apparently, Mike Brown was a thug and Eric Garner had it coming the moment he decided to sell cigarettes on the corner. Also, my ex-girlfriend of over a year, told me it wouldn’t work out because of her parents. They’d stop paying her tuition, they’d practically disown her. They’d think this was some plea for help. I think that’s what hurt the most.
I was stronger though. I was getting used to these discrepancies because, although these instances arose, I still recognized the good moments. The moments that made me feel good about myself. I was reassured that not everything was like this; not everything had an underlying animosity. This reassurance came from the Black Student Union Variety shows, African Student Organization events, Two and a Half skits, and so on. All these different influences all held the same principles: patience and perseverance.
I believe we all stop for a moment after experiencing something that makes us question our perception of the good world we had in mind. It’s no different then figuring out at a young age that the light in the fridge goes off when you shut the door. We ask ourselves “how many other people are experiencing this same thing right now or in their daily lives?” Or, “How do they deal with it, confront it and move past it?”
This isn’t a piece in which I have an answer to a big question nor is it to make it appear as if this is something to always worry about, at least I hope it wasn’t. It isn’t a piece on microaggressions or a crusade to inspire more political correctness with a sob story. It is a show of camaraderie. A notice that there are people going through this same situation, this same wave of passive ignorance and assumptions based on closed-minded world views. It’s a hope that, when feeling this sense of being belittled by an aspect of race, sexuality, religion, you hold fast. We must remember that college is just a sample size of the real world; patience, perseverance, and good friends are the keys to keeping our heads above ignorance’s waters so that we may find a way to put an end to those rapid tides.