This Will Be My Undoing: Living at the Intersection of Black, Female, and Feminist in (White) America(26)

I texted my male friend with whom I’d gone to the jazz concert; I secretly wanted him to fall in love with me. I told him what happened, and he replied with a sad-face emoji. I was dissatisfied with his response, but what was he supposed to do? Take the subway up to where I lived, which would take two hours at that time of night, so we could go searching for Charlie? And besides, it wasn’t like we were dating. So what could I have done? How could I have better defended myself?

My friend is six feet tall and black. If he had been beside me when I went to that deli for those Mentos, I would not have been bothered. I hated myself for yearning for a man to be my shield. And I hated myself for wishing that I had told the police, because they would have tackled Charlie to the ground, and this was Harlem, and we were still black, and I could not have lived with myself had I done that.

White people do not have to reckon with the horror that black people carry in their hearts on a daily basis. I am living in a time when I ache for the son I have yet to conceive. I fear for the day he leaves my arms for the first time to play outside with friends, or to catch a school bus; for any time when he is out of my sight, when I cannot protect him. Whenever he leaves our home, he will be subjected to a law that was never constructed to protect him. Each time I see a black boy or black man, I do not know if that meeting might be our last. Each day that a black person lives is a prayer answered. We mourn continuously with no reprieve.

The summer has never been kind to black people. The Charleston massacre happened in June; George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin in July; Michael Brown was murdered in August. And now, that summer, the murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile.

I could not have lived with myself if I had reported Charlie to the police because who knows what they would have done? He could have gotten a simple warning, but they could also have tackled him and taken him into custody and done God knows what else. I would subject myself to a black man’s harassment a thousand times over rather than watch his face hit the pavement with a police officer’s weight on his back. That’s not justice. That is a betrayal.



Streets are democratic spaces—you cross paths with homeless people and blue bloods. In most of New York City’s streets it is easy to maintain your anonymity if you want. You can choose to ignore a homeless person asking for some spare change. Someone can choose to ignore you if you ask for directions. In Harlem, however, not so much. Black people are communal. If your braids or twists are looking fresh, someone will tell you so. If you are dressed well, someone, either a man or woman, will let you know. On the streets up here there are block parties, psychics offering readings, Cub Scout meetings, voter-recruitment tables, incense vendors, aunties selling sweet potato pies, uncles selling CDs and VHS cassettes, and children selling lemonade and water bottles. Harlem is a constant interaction. You won’t see that on the Upper West Side. White people are more protective of their spaces.

The street is also the place where most sexual harassment transpires. Once a woman steps out onto the street, someone can sexually assault her just as easily as someone can try to sell her shea butter. When I first moved to Harlem, it was hard for me to ascertain whether a man was being nice to me because we shared a background and a neighborhood, or because he wanted something from me. One morning while I was waiting on the subway platform, a man walking by told me that one of my earrings had fallen out and dropped onto my chest. I thanked him and assumed that would be the end of it. But as I was putting in my earring again, he stopped walking and told me how beautiful I looked, and asked if he could take me out sometime. I smiled and lied by telling him that I had a boyfriend.

He cocked his head to the left, obscuring the side of his face that presumably bore his disappointment, and said, “Well, he better be treating you right.”

In other words, He better be treating you right or else you gon’ be mine.

Another time I was standing on the train while reading a book and could feel a man’s presence hovering over me.

I looked up, and a guy said in a long, drawn-out manner, “Your height is sexy. How tall are you?”

When I told him, he boasted that he was six feet, five inches and then asked if he could take me out on a date.

“I got a boyfriend.”

“How long y’all been together?”

“Eight months.” I should’ve said eight years.

“Eight months? That’s it?”

“It’s very serious, trust me.”

That wasn’t enough, for he proceeded to offer me money to go out with him. At the next stop, more people flooded the subway car and so I moved to the middle and found a seat where I could read in peace.



In October of 2014, as twenty-four-year-old Shoshana Roberts walked around various New York City neighborhoods in jeans and a black crewneck shirt, she was catcalled and harassed by 108 men. The experience was recorded by Hollaback!, a photoblog and grassroots initiative to raise awareness about street harassment. The video went viral, and by 2016 it was reported that the less-than-two-minute video had received 40 million views on YouTube.

This video sparked many discussions, but the one that most struck my attention was that the majority of the men who catcalled Shoshana were black and Latino. Although I am not sure what Shoshana’s racial background is, she physically presents as white, and I am concerned with how easy it is to paint men of color as ruthless aggressors against an innocent white woman. Some of the instances in which a black man told her to have a nice day or called her beautiful did not seem like harassment to me. Sure, their intentions were probably underscored by their attraction to her, but is that harassment?