The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
This summer, my morning commute has become emotional and exhausting. Strangers yell obscenities and flip me the bird. They call me a Communist, a Marxist, a fascist. Neighbors tell me I am misinformed, I’m a terrorist headed in the wrong direction.
Only I’m not driving. During the pandemic, I’m spending what would have been my morning commute on a busy corner in Marana holding a Black Lives Matter sign.
When I first started, I saw double takes and mouths agape; it must have been unexpected and confusing to my fellow commuters. A lone BLM sign, down the street from their suburban homes, so far from the protests in the city. How dare I disrupt their daily routine by asking them to think about racial justice and equality, just until the traffic light turns green?
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There are the occasional honks of support but the hatred is far more memorable. The guy in the white pickup who leans into the passenger seat everyday so I can better see his middle finger. The bike-riding couple that added a chant of “white lives” to their exercise regimen. The woman driving the caravan with her thumb down while her child waves to me from the backseat. I just stand there quietly, and tip my cap. The one with the American flag on it. I’m never more American than during my morning commute.
Like many of my fellow morning travelers, some days the morning slog gets to me. There are days where I begrudgingly commute to that corner. I have found, however, that my new trip has given me something that I’ve never had before. This summer, holding my BLM sign, I have experienced the hate and anger of racism directed specifically at me. I have never been on the end of a direct act of racism. Which is interesting, because I’m biracial.
My dad is Black and my mom is white. I am biracial but appear white, with light skin and straight hair. Strangers do not perceive me as Black, therefore I have only experienced something best described as secondary racism.
Racist jokes in the workplace. The n-word dropped casually at a party. When I become offended and speak up, bigots are surprised as they think I’m part of the team. But during my new morning routine, I experience targeted racial anger for about 30 minutes. Nothing compared to what my father has experienced.
I grew up learning about racism, which imbued me with love and compassion for my Black community. This daily journey, however, has done something much more. That a biracial person can commute to a richer and deeper empathy for the Black community should be instructive for white Americans. I believe that even those suburbanites who consider themselves allies to the Black community will be moved to further action if they come on this trip with me.
Yet the most important lesson, the experience that I would like all white Americans to share with me, is what happens when my commute ends. I put down my sign and pick up my privilege. The ability to get into a car and travel from place to place in a country designed for people who look like me, by people who look like me.
Black Americans can’t put that sign down. At times, it seems like an endless commute for the Black community even though we’ve known the destination for hundreds of years.
So this is a call to white Americans to change up their morning routine. Pick up the sign and drive toward the right side of history. We can carpool.
Nelson Alexander
Nelson Alexander is a cancer researcher, husband and father.
