In Which the Real-Life Token Black Tries Her Hand at Justice and Requires Assistance with Internal Struggle

America, I'm having an existential, Black-ass, kinda white-ass crisis. Please help me.

At no point in my life have I ever been unapologetically Black. In 4th grade, my mother bought me a t-shirt that said, "CAUTION: Educated Black Child." She and my father were so tickled by the shirt, but I didn't totally understand what it meant. All I knew was that I felt uncomfortable wearing it at Ye Olde Princeton Day School. I wore it once to appease my parents, and then buried it in the back of my drawer, where it stayed until I outgrew it.

It has ever been an apology, my Blackness. I was very knowledgable and relatively proud about my heritage until I wore that shirt. I'd never felt "other" before. To me, the shirt was a stamp: "This child is different." I'd written 3rd grade poems about slavery and made red-black-and-green friendship bracelets, but it had never been out of fear or a battle for justice. My life was simply a thing where I was Black and my closest friends were white. I knew we had different histories, but every single person has a unique history, so how is that any different from a cultural experience, right?

Fast forward through my life. I was the token Black kid, and I made light of it. My privilege was everywhere (it still is). And it was easy to do that, to make light of it, because the environment of my childhood and college years was primarily engagement with upper-middle class white folks who don't, and can't, know the struggle. I was never angry. I didn't have a reason to be. I learned about history, sure, but the true implications of what it meant to be Black never quite set in.

I did what was probably my parents' worst nightmare: I decided that colorblindness was the answer. If we all would just stop making everything about racism, it would go away. I got frustrated when my grandmother wanted to know if the girl who was bullying me was white. (And yes, she was.) I constantly referred to my perspective as "the Martin Luther King to my father's Malcolm X." I became a mediator of sorts—"I can see where the white people are coming from because..." "Why don't we give them the benefit of the doubt, though?" "Why can't we all just be friends and love each other?" "But don't all lives matter?" (Embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.) I was irritated by many of my classmates of color, even through college, because they WERE unapologetically Black. They were hard, and they were strong, and they took no shit, and it annoyed me that they didn't seem to compromise or be interested in being diplomatic.

Fast forward to now, where the implications of being Black couldn't be clearer. Where the fear is palpable, where the rage is pouring out of us, where we are fighting daily to breathe.

Which brings me to my point: how the fuck are we supposed to have these conversations? And how can I, Kyle, do better?

I KNOW I screw up a lot with this. (Once more with feeling: embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.) And I know I'm not the only one. I'm writing this blog post and asking for input because I know that screw-ups are infinite. I'm still that mediator at heart, and though I'm learning not to be and have made progress, I'm still inclined to find some kind of neutral position to speak from. I'm still so careful with my words in these arguments. I tread on eggshells in them, afraid that I'll upset the person I'm arguing with so much that they'll entirely write off me and my viewpoint and my culture and our struggles. I don't want to do that or to be that. I want to do better. So how can we eradicate these kinds of internal struggles so that we can appropriately contribute to finding and helping provide solutions to the large-scale problems?

Here are the givens that we're working with in these scenarios—

• People on the whole tend not to listen and instead get defensive (or offensive) when they're confronted with rage. 
• Black folk are not responsible for the feelings of white people. 
• Dialogue can honestly and significantly be productive if it goes down in the right way.
• Black folk have no obligation to validate opinions that cause harm to themselves or others.
• Everyone is already incensed, and every conversation needs only a single little spark to ignite an argument where no one is listening.
• Black people are not responsible for educating white people, and there is no obligation to do so just because they ask.

With all that swirling around in my head, I ended up having the following delightful little conversation on Facebook this morning:

Me: "Thinking NFL players are 'protesting the flag' is like thinking Rosa Parks was protesting public transportation." 

Random dude: So you are saying i can take a knee and protest at my job and I won't be fired? lol dream on snowflake 

Me: I'm not sure who you are or why you're insulting me on my Facebook page, but these gentlemen are still doing their job and doing it well in addition to protesting, so... 

Rando: this is not a protest this is a resistance to our President. If any of these players really cared about racial injustice they would be doing something about it other then taking a knee. Sorry but once again liberals lose 

Me: It is a peaceful protest against racial injustice. What would you have Black men do? How would you have any POC "do something about it?" One of the major problems is that we don't have a way to combat injustice other than to protest. Our literal lives are in danger. Kneeling is peaceful and expressing freedom of speech, and isn't that what this country stands for? 

Rando: Get up and actually do something, Go to Chicago and work with inner city kids and try to get them to see that YES there is more to life then gangs and drugs that they can have an education and become something other then a body count after a long weekend...MOST black men once they become successful abandon the neighborhood they grew up in...change starts at home first.

So now we're at the root of the problem within this conversation. And so here's where shit gets sticky, because do I attack him, or educate him, or educate as though I'm attacking? I mentally went through all of the bullet points above, and ultimately chose to say, "But how does any of that take action against current injustice and racism? Yes, those are all valid things to do and I support them wholeheartedly, but those don't combat racism specifically..." 

But what I was afraid to add for fear of him getting angry and not listening at all, and what, thankfully, my friend Alana added later, was the direct thing that needed to be said: "It's not the obligation of 'most black men' to use all their resources to support marginalized communities." She's damn right. Essentially what he'd just said was, "If Black people would take care of themselves, this wouldn't be an issue. There'd be no need to protest if Black people fixed their own behavior and their own communities." And if Black people aren't responsible for white feelings, we sure as HELL aren't responsible for their racist behavior.

The end result of this dialogue—of him coming at it aggressively, and of me not clapping back—was actually a de-escalation. His final line was, "Hey I am not a saint and I know that and I get caught up in the BS. Best of luck to us all." That is better. That is some kind of step. Right? 

But man, was I annoyed with myself for not saying what Alana had said. I'm so glad she said it, because that is information that was necessary for a turning point for him, and I balked at sharing it. I didn't want to make him mad and then have him not listen. He did have his turning point based on the tentative things I was saying, but it happened ever so delicately because my focus was to get his attention in a quiet way. That is the epitome of caring about and catering to his white feelings, isn't it? And then, the flip side—I post these things because I firmly believe that dialogue is an important way out of this mess, and it's usually NOT a dialogue. It's usually people yelling. And dialogue is really, really hard when people use anger, their internal problems, irrelevancies, and insults to make their arguments. And so where this started off as him being flippant and insulting, it ended in some semblance of "respect" gained. Which is a step also. (There are no leaps and bounds here. Let's be real.)

And my latest strategy works, to some extent. I've been using two questions that really make these social media arguments easier: "Can I ask why you're insulting me?" and "What would you do differently?" If I'd thrown that guy's behavior back in his face, the likelihood of the encounter ending as "positively" as it did would be very, very slim. He gave an apology, and though it was probably the worst apology ever (second only to "I'm sorry you're reacting this way..."), it was more of an apology than these kinds of things frequently yield. But of course, then it's a situation of, why do I have to be the one to temper my rage? Why is it me that has to be the bigger person? Why don't I get to rail and gnash teeth and have that be effective? In the real world, marginalized groups don't get to be angry—we don't even get to own our individual emotions, not really—and ideally, we shouldn't have to settle for that. 

Can somebody please help me strike a reasonable balance with this shit? How to dialogue, how to respect, how to educate, how to be unapologetic and empathetic and passionate and logical all at the same time? And how can I get to a point where I can focus on the task at hand instead of this internal struggle where Kyle is always getting in the way? Seriously. I want to know how to do better. The answer may be obvious and right in front of me, but I don't have it yet. (Like I really honestly might be being stupid right now so please call me out on it if I am cuz I got a bigass mouth.) I know I might never have the answer, but it stands: I want to do better. Please help me.

The Shoulders We Stand On

I have 1,653 Facebook friends. Scrolling through my newsfeed today, I've seen roughly 12 posts about the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I have literally seen more pictures of David Bowie today than recognition of Dr. King.

I've seen that video of that hamster tucked into a blanket eating a carrot for the fifteenth time. I've seen about 89 things about Harry Potter that aren't even related to the loss of Alan Rickman. I've seen my idiot ex's drugged out face. I've seen the new (terrible) haircut of a man I'm terrified of and have gone out of my way to avoid. And I've seen the same damn video about how to create bacon cheese egg muffins, which, frankly, are wholly unnecessary.

And 12 posts about Dr. King.

What the actual fuck?

This man's bravery is inimitable. He was a martyr in the truest sense of the word: he died for his cause. He fought for change through peace and wisdom, knowing full well that he would die for it. He did it anyway. How many people do you know of that have fervently devoted themselves to a cause for the greater good, directly, unabatedly conscious every morning when they woke up that their lives would come to an end for it? I can think of three off the top of my head. One of them was a contemporary of Dr. King's. The other one died a few thousand years ago, and I'm pretty sure that the majority of the people in this country have his unauthorized biography on their shelves.

I'm not saying that Dr. King should be worshipped. He was a man, after all, and carried a man's vices with him even as he brought change down upon this world. But his bravery should be admired. The revolutionary political figure accepts that they might be assassinated. Black men walk to the grocery store at night, afraid that they might be assassinated. He knew. Without a doubt. And he did it all anyway.

"Pictured here is one of the last pictures of Dr Martin Luther King's loyal lieutenants inspecting their leader's mortal remains one last time.
January 12, 1929 - April 4, 1968. Dr. King was 39 years old at the time of his death. Lest we forget..."
—Chuck Hobbs

I have more white sisters and brothers than I can count. And I guarantee that had Dr. King not been born, I would not have those sisters and brothers, and they would not have me. Not in the way that they do. Not in the way that I do. My grandmother, born in 1925, couldn't vote when she came of age. And yet, she lived to see a man elected President of the United States who was the same race as she. Would that have happened for her without Dr. King's work? Would life as it is happen if not for his achievements? Look down, everyone. We stand on his shoulders, and on the shoulders of everyone before him.

I've shared this jarring, ugly photo as a reminder. This country rarely, if ever, gives all 100% of its citizens a common something to appreciate. But it has given us this day to remember that Dr. King was born, and what he did for all of us in his short life.

"We shall overcome someday." He believed that fully, and we of course have infinite chances to. But we haven't yet. Almost 50 years after this man laid down his life, we haven't. His life, and death, is not for nothing, not by any means. But if I met him right now, after all that he'd done, I would be ashamed to tell him that everything has changed and yet nothing has.

His death is not fresh in anyone's minds. It was half a century ago. But today, it should be.

We Mad? Oh, We Mad: POCs in the Acting World

Last night, something glorious made history. Let me show you.

Need it spelled out? That's cool, I got you. Little Black girls everywhere watched a Black woman—several, in fact—be a magical, beautiful queen. On live TV.

I loved The Wiz as a kid. I inherited it from my mom; she and her girlfriends loved it too. Of course, I loved The Wizard of Oz, because what little girl doesn't? (I assume.) But this was something special. This was for me. The Black stars that I knew from music, from TV, from my parents—they were all doing this age-old story. It meant that I could, too.

I didn't necessarily know I wanted to be an actor. In fact, I was kind of the opposite of a future actor, personality-wise. All I wanted to do, really, was sit in my room and read books. (Living the dream is real. I didn't think I would be broke when I grew up, but I'm still hiding in my house reading, so we good.)

But then I had that moment. I was standing center stage in a corset, where I'd been for about 6 hours for cue to cue, stripper heels totally destroying my feet, and the light hit. I opened my mouth and my ass-tired voice was like, "There's only now. There's only here. Give in to love, or live in fear."

That Beyoncé wig tho.
L to R: Michael Lorenzo, Kyle Boatwright
Photo credit: Kait Rankins, 2011, RENT, Exit 7 Theatre.

And I had this burst of energy. Suddenly, I knew what I needed to be doing with my life. I'm amazed that I had that moment. Do people have those sudden come-to-Jesus moments? I don't know, I've never thought that kind of thing was real, but either way, "NO DAY BUT TODAY" is permanently etched on my arm in ink to remind me to be true to that moment.

So, okay, so I had that sweet moment, that split second where I knew what my purpose was. And so here I am, five years later, having just watched some leaders of my community completely own this show that I watched as a kid—and I know they watched it back then too, just like that little girl with the Afro puffs. Just like me.

I went to the best liberal arts college in the country, and I have an interdisciplinary degree in music, theatre, and creative writing. I studied at Harvard with top professors from Moscow Art Theatre. I've paid my dues playing terrible parts and doing shit for free and letting the few Equity points I have expire, just like every other sad non-famous actor in the theater world.

So someone tell me why I work in a bookstore for minimum wage. Younger Kyle is thrilled to be alone, surrounded by books, but adult Kyle is broke and not pursuing her career.

I absolutely accept responsibility. I know I don't hustle enough. That's really the long and short of it.

Mostly.

The other teeny, tiny little aspect is that I am a Black woman. We all know by now that slightly obese Black bitches don't make bank, but it's not just about the basics of being overlooked as a minority.

The opportunities, both on stage and on screen, are shit. Hands down, they are shit. And we have people working hard every day to make less shit, for sure, but it's still a problem. A big one.

First things first: the Internet blew up last night because The Wiz is an all-Black cast (except for that one white dude in there who was WORKING). "How is that not racist?" is what people are essentially saying. (Check out this little gem on Queerty to see the actual idiocy.) Let me shut it down real quick.

THE OPPORTUNITIES ARE SHIT. The Wiz is not about excluding white folk. The Wiz is about creating opportunities where there are none. It is about every little girl with Afro puffs who wants to be Dorothy and about every little girl who is going to grow up to be strong, to do something, to exist in this world. It's not just about the art. It's about the example and the representation and the possibilities and the love.

Twitter be throwin' shade because ignorant folks don't know that I needed that. Mad about it.

So there's that, and then there's more. Obviously.

A few people I know around here want to do The Wiz. The show has been pitched a few times, but it gets turned down because leaders in our theater community are worried that we don't have enough POCs to fill out the cast. I could go either way on that. Some people think that new folks would come out if the opportunity were there. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't.

Then there's the one white guy that thinks we should do it with white people. Love him, but he wrong. This is how our conversation went.

Him: We should totally do The Wiz!
Me: With what Black folk? We goin' to Springfield?
Him: Psh, it doesn't have to be all Black anymore. We're past that. The country is past that.
Me: N**** don't you know that we ain't anywhere NEAR past that, because—oh wait right. Welp. Gotta go, love you, see you soon!

(I didn't actually use the N word at a white guy. This mess is complicated enough.)

Yes. Yes, we irate.

The point is, even with sympathizers and allies, the few opportunities that exist get taken. There's a new play going up about rape that was written for an all-Latino cast (with the exception of one random white character). Guess how many POCs were cast in it? One, and he ain't even Latino. Guess who he plays? The rapist. The drunk, angry, Black rapist. This was an opportunity created very pointedly for POCs, and yet that opportunity is now gone. It was an opportunity to explore a difficult topic for women, and it was cleverly engineered so as to not make race an issue. Now race is an issue, in the worst way. It's The Emperor Jones. It's even Training Day. It's the Black brute. It's yet another innocent blonde that we have to feel sorry for, because there's not even a question anymore: the Black guy done did it. And it's typical.

And let's not even mention the Kent State University production of The Mountaintop, a play about Martin Luther King...in which some fool cast a white man to play one of the most effective seekers of justice of all time. Okay, I mentioned it. At a college? A college? This is infuriating for all of the above reasons, and now we're passing this behavior deemed as acceptable on to our students—passing it right on to the future.

So here I am in my bookstore. This is not about playing the victim. This is fact. That show will go up, and no one will say anything, because the audience will be so blissfully ignorant that they don't even know that it's wrong. Idiots on Twitter will be outraged because there's no white version of The Wiz. (Literally, what. The. What.) White men will continue to be cast over Black men. And we will hunt for those opportunities that there are, and hope to God that we get the ones we deserve.

Also, sorry Queen Latifah, but you did not deliver. Love you, mean it, cast me instead.

What Really Matters: An Open Apology

I did something stupid.

I'm not going to make a list of the abundance of stupid things I've done, because it would invariably end in me hiding out in my bedroom avoiding any interaction with anyone for several days lest I inflict more stupidity on the world. However, this one is really, really stupid.

I uttered the words, "ALL lives matter."

Let's get one thing straight. Clearly, they do. I'm not going to get into that.

But that is not the point.

I've already posted a bit about my history—Hide your wife, hide your kids—but I'm reminded constantly of it during this particular situation. I learned to read when I was three. I cut my teeth on books about African folktale and books narrated by Danny Glover. I read books about little Black boys and girls that were heroes. I had biographies that those boys and girls who grew up to be bigger heroes; my favorite was one about Harriet Tubman. I read it over and over. It was blue and had a painting of her creeping through the woods at night, bandana pulled low over the scar on her forehead.

Then I got sent to private school.

Princeton, NJ. Home, naturally, of Princeton University—home of Cornell West and, for a brief time, Michelle Obama. Also home of a TON of white people. Rich ones. Collar-popping Republicans.

At Princeton Day School, I didn't learn to play double dutch or hopscotch like my mother did at her school in the city. I learned how to do my hair in a messy bun, how to love Hanson, how to pop my own collar and wear sweatshirts that said Yale. I had a North Face jacket and I shopped at American Eagle. My closest friends were Jewish girls and rebel white boys, and I was in love with all of them.

It should come as no surprise, then, that all lives matter to me. They matter deeply. Best friends, boyfriends, ex-fiancés, guys I consider to be my brothers, mentors. These are the people I think of when I say all lives matter, because they are people that I cannot live without. The large percentage of the population that is not sociopathic feels the same way. People matter. And—AND—I said something stupid.

Because it's not the point. These lives matter and it is not the point. The point is: Black people are dying through no fault of their own. It is literally. That. Simple.

I was not going to write about this. I stay away from the news because I'm already pretty freakin' suicidal. It is selfish but I can't take it most days. I don't want to hear about it. I know terror exists, and I know people I love and people I don't know are at risk. And I know my own limits, and they are small, and I am ignorant, and it is a fault that I hope I can fix.

But what irks me so, so much is that my own selfish stupid thoughts made me miss the point. Black lives matter. That is the cause. It doesn't mean that other people, other things don't matter. It means that finally, we are acknowledging openly, loudly, that police brutality toward the Black community is frighteningly and heartbreakingly real.

Stephen A. Smith,  a brother who has already made many sexist remarks during his time in the spotlight, has now posted on his Facebook, and I quote, "Where is all the noise about #Blacklivesmatter when black folks are killing black folks? There's nothing wrong when a presidential candidate [Martin O'Malley] says 'All lives matter'!"

Yes, Black folks are killing Black folks, Smith. Yes, all lives matter, O'Malley. That is not the point.

There is a (white, relatively well-off) guy who I deeply respect. Let's call him Bernard. Bernard is a friend, and I love him. Bernard is smart and talented and giving, and he is one of the most empathetic people I know. He is the one who called my attention to Smith, who I didn't even know existed to this point. Bernard called my attention to Smith, because HE posted Smith's comments on HIS Facebook page, saying, "I stand with Stephen A. Smith."

No. No! That is not the point.

I did something stupid, and I know now that I was wrong. And I'm sorry for what I said. I encourage you all to take a look at this. I encourage Democratic presidential candidate Martin O'Malley to entirely withdraw the statement and actually think about what he's saying, and I encourage Jeb Bush, who thinks this statement needs no apology, to sit the fuck down. Police brutality toward Black folk is the point of this cause. Supporting the American Cancer Society doesn't make the American Heart Association any less relevant. Our country has several illnesses. This is one of them.

Go ahead. Start with Trayvon Martin. Find the pattern in the illness. Say the names. I say them every day, and I'm sorry.