Over the years that I have spent working with young people, I have sometimes been confronted with questions that leave me speechless (at least for a little while). I had one of these moments again last week as I was talking with a young man who is navigating some legal troubles. Seemingly out of nowhere, he asked me: “Would you be scared of me, Ms. K, if you didn’t know me?” I just stared at him for what might have been 2 minutes. And that’s a long time to be silent during a conversation. I stammered and asked: “What brings this question on?”

“Well you know that I’ve been looking for work for over a year now and no one wants to give me chance. I’m big, I’m young, and I’m black. Most of the people that interview me are women and some are black women. So I wanted to know if you would be scared to hire me if you didn’t know who I was.”

This was another of those dagger to the heart moments and I have unfortunately had plenty of those in my years of working with youth. I took a breath and I told him that if I were being honest, I would not be afraid of him during an interview but I might be if it were 11 p.m. and we were the only two people walking down the street.

He looked at me for a while and then a slow grin spread across his face.

“You know something, Ms. K, that’s why you my peoples. You never lie to me.”

We continued with our conversation focusing on who he could reach out to for some legal help. However, I was now a bit distracted and I started to worry that despite his kind words I had hurt him with my admission. Toward the end of our time together, I asked:

“Gary (not his real name), did I hurt your feelings when I said that I might be anxious or afraid if you and me were on the street together at night if no one else was around?”

“Ms. K, I know how the world works [he’s 19]. I don’t blame you for being scared. First you are a woman so that’s one thing and I am a man. Second, in America, young black men, we’re, you know, we’re like Public Enemy #1. Damn, even I have my guard up when I’m alone and I come across a young black guy like me at night.”

He hugged me and said that he had to get going. I sat by myself for several minutes after he left and I hadn’t realized it but I was crying. I must have been crying as he spoke to me. I thought about what it was that was making me so sad and I guess it was the recognition that I cannot escape the effects of our culture’s demonization of young black boys. I, who spend so much of my time in the presence of these young men, have internalized racism. Of course, I know this intellectually but it is something quite different to be called out on one’s internalized oppression and to have to face the fact that I am just like everyone else in America: I am afraid of the “criminalblackman” (a term that Kathryn Russell has coined). The “criminalblackman” mindset is pervasive and entrenched. The idea of young black men as being “problems” is a historical fact that has infected every institution in the country as well as infiltrated individual hearts and minds.

There is so much to unpack in Gary’s words. It strikes me as a mark of the trust that he must have in me that he confided his own anxieties about fellow black men. He too has internalized the same racism that demonizes young men who look just like he does. So it feels like a vicious cycle and I wonder how we will interrupt it. Racism breeds suspicion, suspicion breeds righteous anger, and anger breeds fear. I often think about the cloak of hypermasculinity that I have seen so many young black men that I know perform. They put on an air of invincibility and invulnerability that serves as a protective mask. The performance is warranted and rational.

As a woman, when I am alone, I feel uncomfortable in the presence of any strange man of any color at night. Yet it is also true that my anxiety increases in the presence of young black men who are unknown to me. I chastise myself about it. I want to be different. After all, I have black brothers, cousins, nephews, lovers and friends who I know would protect me with their own lives. I work on being less oppressive and on overcoming the latent fear. Yet I know that I continue to contribute to the cycle of oppression and of fear.

Then I think again about Gary and I wonder if I should have lied to him for the first time. As W.E.B. DuBois asked so long ago, “What does it feel like to be a problem?” I think that each of us has our own answers to this question. For me, I think about my young neighbor who committed suicide last Fall. His final words to a friend still resonate: “I HATE MYSELF AND MY SKIN.” I think of him and once again ask whether I should have lied to Gary. If I had said that I was not afraid of young black men who are strangers to me at night when I am alone, would this have raised his self-confidence? What difference would this affirmation have made in his world? Perhaps if I hadn’t been truthful, he would simply have pegged me as someone else in his life not be believed or counted on. It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is. Even after 20 years of youth work, I am still mostly uncertain; always second-guessing myself.

Gary and I meet together again tomorrow. I am trying to decide if I will broach this subject again or if it is better left alone. We’ll see… We’ll see…