“You only got 2 bucks and give less than a f**k — then you a n—-
Got a nice home and a Lexus truck — you a n—-
World champions and you M.V.P — you a n—-
4 degrees and a Ph.D — still a n—-
To use your platinum card you need four ID’s — then you’s a n—-…”
-Society
“Perhaps I was addicted to the dark side
Somewhere inside my childhood witnessed my heart die”
-2Pac
In his writings, WEB DuBois coined three terms that we continue to use to understand the experience of the “other” in society: double consciousness, twoness, and the veil. While others have done the theories animating the meanings of these more justice than I ever could (see “The Sociology of W. E. B. Du Bois: Racialized Modernity and the Global Color Line” by Itzigsohn and Brown), I feel compelled to write about how they’ve become more salient in my own life as I navigate my tenure as an elected official. I’m haunted by the privilege that my status affords me. Uncomfortable by the deference I get from my elected office and frustrated by the constant reminders that no amount of money, education, or posturing will shield me from American whiteness, I, like Bruce Banner, hold the secret that I live in perpetual rage. I live simultaneously as an exalted politician viewed as powerful by those lobbying for reform in their interests and as an unfit and uncouth outsider that will never be fully American. How long can I walk this tightrope without imploding or exploding?
As a result of my elected office I receive invitations to all sorts of events and celebrations. I’m not remotely interested in most of these, but I recognize the value of networking and soft politics, so I attend some. Recently, I was invited to an event which I attended with my three year old son. When I arrived I purchased snacks for him and an overpriced beer for myself. We enjoyed the first half of the event and were prepared to leave before receiving an invitation, along with my colleagues, from the Senate Majority Leader to meet with the President of the organization. We obliged and followed him to the upscale area where the big shots were. When we got off the elevator, we followed the caravan of other elected officials and their families being escorted by the Leader until my son and I (just us) were stopped by security and told we were in the wrong place, it was off limits to us, and we needed to turn around. This was the first time I had been “put in my place” in front of my son. I instinctually grinned knowing what was about to happen. The Leader turned around, spoke to security, and clarified that we were “the President’s guests”. Security stepped aside and let us through the hall to the next room where the President stood prepared to greet us. As we continued on, a new colleague (white man) uncomfortably remarked “well that was weird” to which I immediately quipped “I guess we should’ve known better than to have someone that looked like us towards the front of our group” (a use of humor to diffuse what was obviously a disturbing interaction not just for my son and I).
Completely oblivious to what had just transpired, the President greeted me first upon entering, welcomed my son and I, made small talk to make clear that he knew who I was and invited us to have some of the free food and drinks available to all his guests in this area. We thanked him and kept moving along. Two others (including the only staffer of color) present offered us food but my son declined. One asked “do you like chicken tenders” to which my son replied “yes”. He said “do you want some?” “No, I’m fine.” He turned to me “Papi, let’s go home”. I obliged. Despite the best efforts of the host and his staff, the damage had been done and my son was prepared to rebuke any offer in response to us having been rebuked. I was simultaneously proud, impressed, and sad for my son. I was proud of his strength and resolve. I was impressed by his perceptiveness and capacity to understand what happened to us. I was sad because inside me I hold the same rage that inspired his rebuke. I worry that this will be the first seed of his bitterness. A bitterness that I drink, smoke, exercise, and therapize away with no success. A bitterness that is sure to destroy me before any of my vices do.
When we got to the car, my son asked me to “bump Bad Bunny” which I did until I noticed that he had fallen asleep. It was then that I started feeling tears of rage streaming down my face. I hated the security guard. Hated the President. Hated being an elected official. After all, I wouldn’t have even been invited to the event had it not been for the position that I hold (a paradoxical constant reminder of privilege and lack thereof). I thought back to those times when I was young and strangers would scream at my mother and tell her to go back to her country. Though I wrote the words years ago, I continue to wonder why America hates us and what it expects will come from such hatred. With a clearer mind, I understand that the guard was just doing their job. I understand that I look like an outsider in the spaces I travel. I’m reminded of work on immigrant incorporation in the US that shows folks in the second generation (particularly upwardly mobile ones) actually report more instances of animus than their parents because their social and professional spaces expose them to more white spaces.
In the weeks following the incident I’ve reflected on who I want to be in those situations and how I’d like my son to see me. Should I be the intimidating Latino that makes people feel uncomfortable as a Graduate School Dean has suggested? Should I be the Obama-esque diplomat who “goes high” when insulted? The truth of the matter is that I don’t know “who” I want to be. I know that in acting out I would’ve affirmed some of the stereotypes that security and society writ large ascribes to me. I also know that taking the high road would haunt me and make me feel like a punk. I want my son to stand up for himself, but I also don’t want him carrying around the rage that I do. I want a world in which we don’t have to wear white masks or be exceptional to be treated as human. Perhaps I want something that does not and will never exist.