Boys

The subway doors open and three young men step in together, huddling at that entrance as the train moves forward. I instantly recognize their youth, casual beauty, and modest affluence. They fit the label of college students with all these traits. Conversely, they are perfectly disparate from one another: the one in the center, facing me directly, is compactly built with a clean, clear, masculine, face–the bona fide “ladies’ man” of the group. On his right is the most laidback character with longer hair and facial hair–the “stoner” of the group if there had to be one; on the left is the tallest but most unorthodox member–with glasses, floppy hair and severe but pleasant facial features. If you shaved all of their hair and ordered them to don the same shirts and fatigues, they’d be uniformly attractive, yet retain more subtle vestiges of these distinctions. In other words: they’re all winners, but some more than others.

They speak to one another with purpose, inaudible to me at my distance. Yet–with my imagination, the knowledge that it’s early evening on St. Patrick’s Day, and the fact that the ladies’ man of the group is sporting a striped green scarf and bright green beaded necklace, I can fill in the gaps. Ladies’ man is reading his phone as the tall nerd asks him a question. Ladies’ man shows him the phone and answers. No doubt they’re on their way to some watering hole to celebrate the holiday. It must be one of their first–if not the first–since they became of legal drinking age. If I had any plans for that night, it’d be exactly two decades since I became of legal drinking age. The other difference is: I don’t drink anymore, and even if I wanted to, I have no posse to go drinking with anyway. It’s just one of the casualties I’ve learned that come with age on this earth.

I used to be one of these three young men, though. I used to be part of a group of men who looked similar to me in youth and beauty, yet were not similar. We had little in common with each other besides those traits, but that was enough at that age. It was enough to explore the world together and enjoy life.

I can’t help but ponder the fate of these young men: I guess I already answered the question of who would be most likely to get lucky that night, or any other night. But maybe I’m wrong, and I still wonder how they’d each pursue that primal goal, unique to each of their character, strengths, and knowledge. 

To go even further: unbeknownst to them as it was to me at their age, two decades will be snatched from them and they may find themselves in the most disparate circumstances. Will these doe-eyed, fresh-faced young men be hurtling towards the opposite of where they were going to at this very moment? I couldn’t help but pick the most incongruous scenario: would that seemingly mild “nerd” of the group be saddled with the ultimate responsibility–as a married man, with children? It’d be so different from the tender seedling he appeared today, in contrast to his more traditionally masculine companions. It’s possible. It’s as old as time. It seems to happen to nearly everyone to heed that ancient call.

On this day, I can’t help but wonder now: was there someone watching me and my friends and thinking the same thing when I was that age? I’m sure. In fact, when I got lucky with someone whom I had spied on, on my many ventures about town–he made an admission: “I always thought you were cute.”

He must’ve watched me from afar several times, analyzing the differences between me and my friends, and secretly creating stories for us in his head. How did I compare to my friends? Was I the cute one? The tall one? The funny one? The nice one? How much joy did he take in admiring my or all of our beauty? Probably as much as I do now, with these three young men. 

I could be bitter at the callowness on display today and their ignorance of the storm yet to come in their lives, but that’s not my nature. It’s neither here nor there anyway. If I’ve learned anything else in life, it’s that no two stories are exactly the same–similar, yes, but it’s foolish to make up your mind so surely about most matters. Life is as varied as the people in it. Sometimes we triumph, sometimes we fall down spectacularly. And when I did either one? Most of the time, beyond my mortal efforts–the rest was out of my control. I had my fun, and these young men will too. They will have these memories to look back on, as I do my own.

The Two Faces of “Woke”

Our nation is having a reckoning. It began half a decade ago, and is still proceeding like a voracious wildfire–spreading and regaining momentum over an extended period. 

Women, people of color, and other historically perceived “marginalized” groups are speaking out about the prejudices they face everyday–and their refusal to accept it silently any longer.

The public reaction to all of this reflects the broad, nuanced complexity of the subject: there’s a divide between christening it as an overdue revolution–and condemning it as a reactionary vehicle for blame, antagonizing, and reflective intolerance. 

I belong to some of the aforementioned “marginalized” groups, but I can see both sides of this response. 

As a person of color, the latter years of this reckoning do resonate with me. It increasingly demands more representation, encouragement, and acceptance for people like me in areas that were previously dominated by (Caucasian) people: media, certain professions, even just everyday social spaces.

Frankly, it’s true. I could write a book about all the experiences I’ve had where I was marginalized because of the color of my skin. I have been ignored, underestimated, and made to feel unwelcome in spaces where someone who looks likes me is simply uncommon. 

Sadly, I understand what my perpetrators felt in these situations: they don’t know how to react to someone like me wanting the same things in that same space, because it’s human nature to not know how to adapt to something new or different. It doesn’t excuse the veritable bias against me, but it’s a normal human reaction to be uncomfortable and ignorant.

The problem is that it may discourage me from being true to myself, just because my truth is “uncommon” and therefore makes other people “uncomfortable”. It compromises my inherent needs and wants, unfairly–again, because of the color of my skin.

If we take one thing from the current national reckoning, it’s simply awareness.

People like me simply want to tell our stories, because it is part of everyone’s story here in the U.S. We have to be aware of what we are all doing as a whole. These stories have been going on for hundreds of years, for millions of people. It is not something rare or inconsequential. 

And if I speak up about my litany of experiences with discrimination, I verify that it’s not to blame, antagonize, or spark animosity towards anyone or any group in particular–to “cancel” them as punishment.

This isn’t a call to arms against each other. It’s a call to arms against an abstract entity that’s equally possible inside all of us regardless of skin tone, gender, or sexuality: ignorance. This ignorance has gone unchecked for too long. 

It’s a call for communication. When you talk about a conflict with someone you have a relationship with: a partner, friend, sibling, parent–you aren’t doing so with the intent to end the relationship. You are doing so, because you want to salvage the relationship.

The same applies here. I am not seeking to destroy my alleged detractors, but to better understand each other and turn into allies instead.

However, I understand the skeptics who aren’t convinced that all these advocates of this movement are seeking alliance.

Frankly, there is truth to it. There are extremists who use this movement as an excuse to hate–implicitly or explicitly. Neither is acceptable. And it would negate my credibility to deny their existence. How could I claim to be fair, cognizant, and rational–and not acknowledge the existence of extremists? Unfortunately, there will always be radicals in every contingent who give in to their more base impulses: anger, vengeance, hate. 

I understand their rage; I’m angry too! When I think of the smug, self-satisfied, privileged people who instantly dismiss me as “less than”–not because of the content of my character but the color of my skin? It’s despicable. But I’m not going to hate them in return. I’m better than that. We can be better than that. They’re just poor, ignorant fools who should be pitied at best. 

What’s the solution to the extremists of this otherwise noble cause, then?

There is no easy answer. Again: awareness is the first step. If we deny their existence, we are only proving that we lack truth, integrity and soundness–and without that, why should we expect the same from our alleged detractors?

The other step is: time.

This movement will take time. There will be bumps along the road, as we’ve already seen. Anything involving humans will be flawed because humans are flawed. No great ideas are universally loved or embraced. All we can do is make our best efforts, and be open to criticism–and change.

Both responses to the movement can and have informed it. Those who believe in its best components can continue to preserve them; those who criticize it can help the movement shed its flaws and become better–if we are willing to be open to it. 

Together, we can work together in spite of our differences.