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Why Do You Hate Me?


In trying to understand the recent personal experiences with what they call “closeted racism” and trying to understand my loneliness amongst people, I wrote this. 

My body. What is it about the black body that people wish to cast their reservations about my body, onto me? What is about black people, that non-blacks who believe they are not racist and unsympathetic non-blacks, wish to cast their concerns, and their rage about us, onto us? They see us in public and mark us as animals; mark us as Christ; mark us as care takers. Mark us with that look—a look of suspicion and nervousness—of fear and discomfort. And then they talk to us. Talk to us, talk to me, as if we were nobody’s. Talk to us as if we didn’t have blood coursing through our veins. As if we didn’t have a million thoughts running through our mind, as if we were not late to work, stressed, or going to the gym to play ball with the guys, or go on a run with our girls. As if we don’t go home to cook dinner, or get into arguments with our spouse. They talk to us like they believe in our inferiority. They don’t care. They, the defensive non blacks who deny their racism and the unsympathetic non blacks, sit there and listen to the radio, read the news or watch it on TV and hear people talking about race—and they don’t agree. Not only do they not agree, they feel like it doesn’t mater. My life doesn’t matter. To people whom I have called friends or thought were friends my life doesn’t matter. How and why would a friend want to pacify you? Why would a friend do you harm? The rage. The hatred of black people is as real as running water. They don’t know us; nor do they want to hear about us; they just want to live in their own little world. And you call me a friend. Or, you may act friendly toward me.  We’re not friends. The only time you liked me or cared for me was when I was being nice to you. You don’t like me, don’t know me and you never  wanted to. I was your black friend. I was someone else’s  black friend. Or some other person’s black friend you met. I’m only a possession to you. I’m only black to you. I am nothing to you other than half a human who  should remain in their place.

The thing about white supremacy is that it’s infantile. Its basis is infantile. It sucks the life out of you so that it can sustain itself. That’s what you do to me. I have the capability of doing this, but I choose to be different.  I choose to be better—I choose to be more. The thing about it is that you don’t love me. The thing about it is you don’t love human beings. The thing about it is that you’re still an infant. You want someone to do something for you. You want to be heard so you build yourself off of my black body. You cast all of your “stuff” onto my black body. You propel yourself; you reach your pinnacle; you reach a climax. You have your cathartic episode on my black body. You realize you’re still alive because of my black body. Your realization comes at the expense of my black body.

You are a racist. Why? Because you look at me as someone to cast your rage, your hurt, and your failings onto. But when I have an issue, that issue is null and void. When I am threatened, when my people are threatened, it doesn’t matter to you. It’s nothing. Our relationship is one sided. You see me, you see black people, and you say he’ll understand–they’ll understand. They’ll get it. He’ll get it. And then you give me back very little, or nothing at all. The very fact that you think I will get it, means  you look down upon me. You believe in this white supremacy and you believe in my inferiority. You believe that I walk around not as human, but black. And when I try to assert my humanness, you bring me back down. Why do you hate the black body so much? Why do you do you hate the black body so much?


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