The Passion of the Amys
By Jude Jones — Thursday Network Correspondent
I cried three times at work during my career. Not tears of sadness, though I’ve shed those far too often. Not tears of failure, though I have (and hopefully will, for how else will I learn) failed time and time again.
I cried because I was frustrated. Angry. And I knew that if I let my anger out — even just a little — it could cost me my job. I had to police my face, my words, my eye contact, and my body language continually and continuously, contorting my features into a fun-house mirror reflection of my soul. And if I broke character even once, I feared I would be called “aggressive”, or “intimidating” or “threatening.”
Hearing about Amy Cooper, a white woman who called the police on a black man named Christian Cooper (no relation, though Skip Gates should have the final say) while he was bird watching (bird watching!), because he had the audacity to ask her to follow the rules was frustrating.
Watching Amy castigate this man while he offered her dog a treat (a treat!) was infuriating.
However, hearing her code switch from angry agitator to helpless victim at the drop of a dime to manipulate the power structure I her favor? That was triggering. That was familiar.
That was my reality and I fear the reality of all too many black and brown people, especially men in the workplace. We have always had to police our true, honest and best selves for fear we may cause discomfort or acrimony. We Modulate our voices. Alter our walks. Lie about our likes and hobbies. We participate in a sick waltz of deception and distortion, hoping to distance ourselves from their discriminatory perceptions.
In a way it’s heartening to see that even Denzel had to go through the same dance. Years ago, he had a heated discussion with Katie Couric. He was passionate and direct. She took his passion and directness as a threat. Read into that as you will. And as I read how he made a donation to her charity of choice, supposedly as a sign of good will but likely as a calculated acquiescence to blunt the effects of her passive aggressive antagonism, my fingers start to tremble.
We have always had to apologize for our existence in their space. We even have to apologize for our existence on our own.
Am I being dramatic? Possibly. Maybe probably. But am I wrong? Ask your black male friends. Ask them privately. In confidence. Quietly. Watch as the facade falls and the anger rises. Watch as a thousand Christians and Denzel’s arise from the ashes of a thousand dreams defeated by a thousand Amys and Katies.
Then you tell me who’s wrong.
But no tears allowed. Don’t raise your voice. And do it with a smile.
