I Am Not The Same
“Now you’re in the sunken place”. These six words fell on my ears sometime in late February or early March 2017. Only a little less than 3 years ago. But let me paint the picture of who I was when I heard those words from my favorite film, Get Out.
In middle and high school, I was ridiculed for not acting or behaving “black enough”. And sometimes I would just be deemed as a white boy. My heart would shrivel up and shatter into numerous pieces everytime I heard these words. I felt unseen. I felt unheard. I felt like my holistic, complete and full self was not being accepted. These feelings would become so overwhelming for me that I would have to rush to the nearest bathroom for solace and comfort. Commence, balling my eyes out in a toilet.
Let me explain why this was, and still is, such a problem for me. When a white person calls you white or says, “you’re not black” or “you’re not black enough”, they are placing you in a box. A box that is built by them. For them. A box they created for understanding people that they don’t understand. This box simplifies things for them. It makes them feel comfortable. They dehumanize you and strip you of all the unique and various elements that one can experience as a black man. Growing up in Vancouver, WA in the early to mid 2000s, most middle school and high school aged white student’s understanding of black or what it means to be black revolved around the Hip Hop music they listened to. You’re objectively ignorant if you think that a 14-year old black kid from the suburbs living in Vancouver, WA is having the same life experience that a rapper from South Jamaica, New York is having. In short, we have another form of enslavement, another method of brainwashing, as well as a negligent and degenerate approach to understanding someone who is different than you.
Now, when a black person calls you white or says, “you’re not black” or “you’re not black enough”, they’re ALSO placing you in a box. But, it’s the same box that the white man built for them. They just either THINK they built it, or they built it following the white man’s blueprint for the box.
Truly, I received this kind of treatment from both white and black students. But the day came when, like any man with a bent back handing out free rides, I was over it.
I was sitting in a Pre-AP chemistry class working on an assignment when a “white friend” of mine asked, “Vincson, have you heard of this song?” I looked at the song title and placed the ear phones in my ear. Now, let me say that I took Christiainty very seriously at that young age (and still do). So much so, I intentionally only purchased and financially invested in Christian Hip Hop music. I found this music to be edifying, educating, and propping up the lifestyle that I chose to live by. Sure, I watched a music video on channel 475 (anybody remember that?) every now and then, but I wasn’t a prolific listener of what most people would consider real Hip Hop or rap music. Also, at the time, I never cussed. My parents never needed to communicate that curse words weren’t allowed in the house or anywhere else. It was already expected in one’s Christian walk. Like I said, I took my faith very seriously.
Now, back to my Pre-AP chemistry class. The artist was either Lil Wayne, 50 or The Game, I’m not quite sure. But I told my friend, “No. I haven’t heard of it. Sounds tight though.” (yes “tight” was a thing back then, in 2007). My “white friend” replied, “Oh, I forgot. You’re white, so of course YOU wouldn’t know it.”
It was in that moment, I had my first glimpse of a system that sought to control me. I liken it to when Chris Washington (for my slow readers, I am making references to Jordan Peele’s classic and legendary film Get Out throughout this reflection) has just been told by Missy to “sink into the floor.” Chris replies, “Whoa-whoa, wait, wait.” Please have that image in your mind. You have it? Good, let’s move on. After this “white friend” stated this, I was silent. Similar to Chris Washington, I was falling into the sunken place as I was left to grapple with my “white friend’s” comment. I was voiceless. Speechless. I found myself, once again, in a box. Specifically, THEIR box.
Now, I’m certain that if the story ended there and nothing occurred after that, then I wouldn’t be here today writing this. My back would still be bent. I wouldn’t understand the video in the link below. I wouldn’t relate strongly with the lyrics. I wouldn’t be engaged with Christ and this world in the way I am today. Yes, thankfully, the story doesn’t end there. What happened next was a turning point. A turning point that, I believe, was orchestrated by God’s grace.
Fifteen minutes ticked on by after this interaction. Although, for me, it felt more like fifteen hours. I couldn’t finish my assignment. I couldn’t finish the equation I was calculating or the sentence I was constructing (I don’t even really remember what I was doing, honestly). Time froze for me. I was a passenger in my own plane wrestling with the decision to kick the “white friend” out of the pilot’s position that he had just stripped me of.
The bell rang. Class ended. Out of fear and trepidation, I got up and ran out the door with my head down. When I looked up, to make sure I didn’t run headlong into anyone, I tried to recall where my nearest toilet was so I can ball my face out. But I became distracted. Struck by the unpleasant nature of the future in front of me. It was so bleak. Blurry. Uncertain. Hazy. Foggy. I couldn’t see past the moment that had just happened. I felt like someone or something had hijacked my vision. And finally. I decided. To do something about it.
I turned around, just in time to see my “white friend” walking out of class. I was so zero-ed in on him that everyone and everything else around me seemed to dissipate into the air. I walked up to him. I cut him off. I stared him down. Looked him dead in the eyes and told him (something along the lines of), “If you ever call me white again, I swear, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
Yeah. I said it. My “white friend” was picking up what I was putting down. He responded, “Vincson, I’m so sorry man, I was only kidding.” I simply replied, “Don’t do it again.” After that he said, “Okay,” he nodded and moved to the side; I let him pass as he walked sheepishly away. I watched him go in the direction that I was headed, before I turned around and decided to ram a trophy deer head right through his chest. Metaphorically, not literally, obviously (yet again another Get Out reference, please keep up). But, man, it felt like I had literally done that. I took my eyes off this new “white ALLY” and looked up to the sky. This future was bright, clear and inviting. I realized that I wasn’t even mad at him. I felt like a burden had lifted. I felt light on my feet. I felt like I had found the keys to freedom. I felt like… I had gotten out. Of the box.
Fast forward to me sitting in the movie theatre in 2017 with my African-American wife, and I hear those six words “Now you’re in the sunken place.” I never would have imagined that I would find the words and the images for how I felt in high school, 11 years later sitting in a movie theatre. I’m eternally grateful for cinematic story-telling because this medium finds a way to put into words and images our most bare and human emotions. At that time, in 2017, it was only a deep awakening of my understanding of what it means to be black in America on a racial and cultural level. Never in a million years did I consider that it was even deeper than that. Thanks to the video below, I’ve advanced further into what it means to be black, living in this world, on a racial, spiritual, and political level.
You see, Get Out told me to get out, but it didn’t tell me where to go. This video was a launchpad to a narrow path marked with earthly struggles, but leads to an eternal destination worth dying for. And because of this, #IAmNotTheSame.
https://youtu.be/CELQUdYtFyA