The Boot on My Neck

Now and throughout history, America has not been kind to those with darker skin. Being Black in America is like trying to breathe while someone has their boot on your neck—a pressure that fluctuates, occasionally granting the illusion that a full breath might be possible. In a country built on lofty, oft-cited notions of freedom and equality, people of color are still treated in a manner that makes a mockery of these ideals. And for all that, many of us love this country no less than those for whom it was built—even while recognizing the innumerable ways it has failed us.

Trump’s campaign and presidency sparked a new time in our nation’s history—a time when the boot applied a degree of pressure that, as a Millennial, I have never experienced prior. But it also, paradoxically, came as a relief.

To understand what I mean by that, we have to take a moment to think about where we were coming from. Growing up in a small, very white town in North Carolina, I remember what a revelation it was to see Barack Obama run for president. I remember standing outside the Mooresville Public Library on election day, telling passersby that this was their chance to cast a ballot for a president who would bring about a new era—one we’d been longing for.

These moments—Obama’s campaign, inauguration, presidency, and reelection—changed my life, for both better and worse. It showed me and the rest of the country that a Black man could become president—but it also made clear that, in our present day and age, only a certain type of Black man can become president.

I have a deep admiration for Obama, but I’m also profoundly troubled by many Americans’ assumption that his presidency indicates a new era of post-racism. In 2008, Obama’s election was an inspiration, a sign of things to come. Today, it’s increasingly probable that America’s first Black president may very well be its last (especially now that the most diverse Democratic field we’ve ever seen has dwindled, at present, to a handful of white candidates on the next debate stage). The fact is, the Trump administration has brought long-festering racial tensions to the surface: In social media, speeches, interviews, and policy proposals, Trump has taken overtly racist stances in a blatant effort to pander to his white supremacist base—and while this has terrifying implications for the Black community, it has also forced us to see America as it truly is.

In short, the Trump administration has accomplished something Obama would never have been able to achieve: It’s legitimized our insistence that anti-black racism is still very much alive, and that being Black in America is far from easy.

For me, at least, there’s something cathartic about this. As a Black child growing up in an overwhelmingly white community, I rarely thought about race and had only a fragile understanding of my own identity—of my own Blackness. But that’s irrelevant now: Whether or not you recognized your Blackness before the Trump administration, it’s now shoved in your face on a daily basis.

Young Black people are shot in their own homes, while walking down the street in their own neighborhoods, while driving in their own cars, just for being Black. In the Netflix movie American Son, Kerry Washington’s character notes that her missing son—a young biracial Black man—feels like the “face of a race.” That’s what you are when you’re the only person of color in your classroom, on your soccer team, in your group of friends—when you’re forced not only to wrestle with your own identity, but to translate it for the white people around you and help them feel at ease. To be Black in America is to carry the pain of an entire community—and, thanks to Trump, that reality is no longer something we can choose to ignore.

This past October, a Politicon panel in Nashville, Tennessee unpacked the realities of being Black in the age of Trump. It was a fascinating discussion—but what most impacted me was what was happening offstage. While the panelists talked about the difficulties that come with a Black identity, a group of white onlookers shouted back at them, calling them liars and deeming their experiences to be falsehoods. “Wow, white people can’t even give us one hour,” I thought to myself. And I realized, yet again, how far we have to go to get to a place where racism isn’t conflated with patriotism, where my Blackness wouldn’t be a hurdle to living well—to living at all—in America.

You can’t understand how painful that is unless you’re Black—nor would I want you to. Growing up Black in America is an injustice, and the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever see a time when America can be said to have transcended racism. Still, I hope to at least see a time when, as a nation, we can come together, acknowledge the rot at America’s heart, and make a choice to stand against it.