The less time I have left at Choate, the more time I spend standing in front of mirrors. I look at myself, trying to see just how much I have changed in the past two years, just how much of me Choate has brought to the fore. I also attempt to see what others see in me.
Some see an obnoxious social justice warrior that refuses to shut up about equality. They characterize me as a member of a “PC cult” that will stop at nothing to destroy free speech and coddle my too-like-minded peers. They might not understand that as I was growing up in Kingston, Jamaica, I was called “tar baby” or that I got used to my first name being mutated into “Blackeem” or that in my country, people are killed for professing who they are and who they love or that I never had the chance to speak out against the myriad of issues that affected me personally — until now, at Choate — and that is why I choose to be as vocal as I am.
I admit that there are times when my actions are not consistent with the open-mindedness that I champion. I can be both stubborn and quick to criticize, reluctant to understand those who disagree with me. I sometimes become condescending, judgmental, and aggressive in the face of dissent. I make mistakes, and there are times that I do not represent my community as well as I should.
I also admit that I work hard, but not hard enough to justify the level of praise that I receive on this campus. This realization first hit me when some of my female peers pointed out a strange phenomenon at Choate: while male leaders are too often celebrated, female peers who do the same work — and often better — are criticized and torn down. Esul Burton’s ’16 article in the last issue of The Choate News, “Follow The (Male) Leader,” articulates this issue better than I can. As I look back at my Choate career, it becomes obvious that I have unfairly benefitted from this form of sexism; ironically, implicit in this very article is my assumption that people will take my words seriously simply because I am the one writing them. Haven’t my female peers attempted to communicate similar ideas over and over again to disdainful audiences?
Gender, however, is not the only thing influencing how members of the Choate community perceive leadership. Racial identity is also a factor. I am a “safe black man.” I challenge the stereotypical image of a lazy, violent, uneducated, and dark-skinned male: I am not particularly loud, and I only dance in crowds or in my room; I wear button-downs and suits, with pants that aren’t baggy around the ankles; I have my grades and my clean disciplinary record to prove my safeness. I am “nonthreatening,” and if it were not for my vocal opposition to the racism I see in this community and in the world, I would transcend race in the eyes of my peers and the authorities. Ultimately, because of my gender and my perceived deviation from the dangerous black man, I receive undue praise.
The roles of gender and race in recognizing so-called leadership gives rise to the unique issue of black male elitism. This is the belief of society, or even of black men themselves, that high-achieving black men deserve more recognition than their black female counterparts. Black male elitism is particular to the black community, although various forms of it exist within every racial group. Why do I get recognized for SAGE, a club about feminism, more often than my female co-presidents who had the idea first? Why do I get recognized for Debate, as a vice-captain, more than my female captain? Why are my news articles met with near-unanimous praise for their critical-thinking and eloquence, but my female writers’ articles are disregarded or met with contempt? How can all of this not be the result of black male elitism?
Have you seen the black excellence videos on Facebook, with a group of “well-dressed” black men rapping over a beat about how high-achieving and different they are? How about Choate students’ own race to see who the next “black man at Harvard” will be? These examples are rooted in the very real — and rational — desire to prove that black men are not as menacing as they have been depicted to be. These men are often trying to lift up other members of the black community and to be positive role models; however, they often do so at the expense of black women. There is no need to continue the trend of excluding women from the success of the black community — especially since they often contribute to that very “success.”
My most recent encounter with black male elitism was during the formation of an affinity group for men of color at Choate. The group was an initiative that I led with two other black men. Our intention was to counter black male elitism and offer support to RISE, Choate’s group for womyn of color. Within days of its formation, Men of Color had received more recognition from the community than RISE, a group that is far more organized, and whose founding had required exceptional care and planning, as they were the first affinity group in Choate’s history. The leaders of Men of Color had even gone to RISE for advice about how to organize our own club, continuing the trend of men profiting from the work and success of women, while the women themselves are disregarded.
I have been struggling to write this article for weeks, failing to properly put into words my feelings about the sexism and racism I have so intimately been a part of at this school while also retaining my respect and gratitude for an institution I love. So, as I look into the mirror on my last days on this campus, I not only see someone who has worked hard, and whose hard work has paid off, but also see someone who is painfully aware of the women of color around him who have worked harder, but remain unsung and unappreciated.
