“In California, for the first time of his life, he would be on his own, beyond the buffering influence of empathetic protectors who understood the psychological burden of crossing racial boundaries. In later years he would reflect at length on the difficulty of maintaining one’s sense of self and identity while negotiating this crossing. But in the late summer of 1961 he had only a vague notion of the challenges and opportunities ahead.”
Fantastic book about Arthur Ashe, the great tennis player. It goes into details about all the hurdles that a young black tennis player breaking barriers had to go through while the country was changing rapidly.
The psychological burden of crossing racial boundaries… I have never not been crossing racial boundaries. I’ve crossed those boundaries since I was born, landing in a foster white family as a baby and then in a white family and then into the world. I’ve had to understand everything about crossing invisible lines on my own.
I’ve crossed those boundaries a trillion times. I don’t cross them anymore; they’re just stuck and lingering on me like spider webs on a hoodie; they don’t exist. Make no mistake those racial boundaries are tough as nail, more persistent than a virus. They are still very much alive in 20 effing 22, mirroring to perfection the book’s 1962. I prefer not to think about that, as not to burden my already burdened mind. It lingers though. Those racial boundaries have prevented me from a lot of unity, community and a sense of being part of a group while witnessing all of those around me.
The multi-faceted, the code switching. Differences and similarities. Challenges and opportunities. The rules, the edge cases. How the fuck am I supposed to navigate that? It’s a lot to layer, analyze, act on, disregard. Trying to make the best move simultaneously for myself, for black people, for the way I was raised and to make my ancestors proud while doing my best, I guess. It is busy in my mind. It keeps me alert.
Crossing racial boundaries is like muffled and lonely fireworks in a dark city park when in some way, you don’t even know why it’s some kind of celebration. It shouldn’t be one. I just be.