Boyah J. Farah - America Made Me a Black Man

As long as you think youre white, Im going to be forced to think Im black.

James Baldwin

I have changed some names, identifying features, and circumstances in this book, including physical descriptions, occupations, and locations, to preserve the anonymity of the people involved. I have created composite characters and compressed timelines to maintain narrative flow. And while conversations come from my keen recollection, I have not written them to represent word-for-word documentation; rather, Ive recounted them in a way that is true to the real feeling and meaning of what was said. In all cases, I have upheld the integrity and essential truthfulness of my story.

Its a cold, snowy evening in Boston. Sleep does not come to bless me with relief.

A restless insomnia burns inside me from watching George Floyd get lynched by four Minnesota police officers. His dying words haunt me. I am George.

I have black skin.

As night turns into morning, peoplecops, former coworkers, all those who call themselves whitesurround me, prowl around inside me. Daily demons afflict me from within. I cant untangle myself. Night after night, my eyes refuse to listen. They wont close long enough to allow me a minutes rest. My suffering obeys its own law.

Theres no break for my mind. It gallops forward, relentlessly.

My eyes.

My eyes mutiny against me because Im on the run. I have to keep running from these racist ghouls. Something keeps dragging me backward, tightening its grip on my heart in the middle of the night. In daylight, I can name them. I know who they are and often find myself forced to interact with them. I am tired.

My body hurts. My legs. My back.

Now, this morning, its my neck. My stomach. Everything hurts.

I am even losing my hair. I am alive, but barely.

This was not my plan thirty years ago when I arrived with my family in America as a war refugee. To die is one thing, but to be torn apart and dismembered by constant fear is something else. The day is just falling into night again, and streetlights are beginning to illuminate the road. Driving on the highway seems to ease the hurt inside.

Driving and listening to music is my medicine, as calming as any therapy.

As I drive, I am watching everythingthe cars, trucks, coffee shops, buildings, anyone walking or sitting, hanging out.

I steer along narrow back roads. Then I get onto the freeway, a road to nowhere.

A road to anywhere. A road to everywhere.

I have no particular aim. I just want freedom. To feel the wheels under me rolling. It has been some months since George Floyd was executed. Driving while black at this moment is not a neutral act. Im fully aware Im in genuine danger. I feel trapped in the maze of my obsessive thoughts. So I get off the highway and cruise slowly through small-town America, through a vast white universe full of empty streets. In my rearview mirror, I notice a police vehicle and, without really thinking, I reach down to adjust my seat belt.

I want to make sure it is fastened.

I know instinctively that I am about to be pulled over. I steel myself.

Every cell of my body is getting ready. Sure enough, the cop car follows me to a traffic light. As the light turns green, I dont have time to press down on the accelerator before he hits his siren. It wails insanely loud. As calmly as I can, I signal that I am pulling over to the side. Then I come to a complete stop.

A white policeman steps out. He ambles up to the drivers side of my car. Standing aggressively, he bores the pinpoints of his eyes into me with a penetrating, pitiless gaze. License and registration, he demands.

His words carry the weight of my body in his hands.

I am alone. I feel alone in America because I know the mortal danger.

Sorry, Officer, I say, complying totally, trying not to give him an excuse to escalate. I reach for my wallet. His hand sits on his pistol. His eyes seem to laser through my being, alert to any so-called dangerous move on my part. Im so sorry.

My eyes, in turn, focus on him, conscious of his every move, as he is conscious of mine. He stands there motionless. Finally I offer him my drivers license.

Im just driving through, Officer. I have to find the registration.

I know that he has no reason to stop me, but my experience in America has humbled me. He can take my life in an instant, so I give him what he asks for, forcing myself to smile through my terror. He takes my license and stalks back to his vehicle.

My nervous eyes continue to follow him. I couldnt care less about getting a ticket.

As long as I am unhurt.

Looking around me, I see a white couple jogging under the streetlights. Nothing else disturbs the crystal silence of the night. I am desperately frightened. My lips begin to twitch uncontrollably, an involuntary shivering. Quickly, I put my hand up and rub my mouth.

After a few moments, he slowly returns, each step a deliberate move, anticipating trouble to erupt. He has readied himself to defend his white body against my black body.

Here you go, he says, handing me my license, along with the ticket he just issued.

Accepting it gratefully, I examine the amount. It is expensive. Two hundred dollars. Maybe I deserve this ticket for driving too slow.

Hmm, I murmur to myself.

My mind wants to argue. But my nervously quivering lips refuse to allow me to respond properly. He continues to study me, holding himself in a battle-ready stance to react to any false move I might make. Hes completely unaware of the quarrel he has provoked within my spirit. It is hard to digest this injustice.

You were speeding, he lies.

No way, Officer, I say, surprising myself. I wasnt speeding at all.

Tell it to the judge. He smiles.

The tone of his lying words, the pitiless glare of his white gaze. Right now, this mans eyes vibrate with whitenesswith confidence in his supremacy. The entitled posture of his body and the delicate but threatening way his fingers linger over his pistol instantly convey to me his intention, his manufactured and unapologetic justification for pulling me over when I have done absolutely nothing wrong.

Okay, Officer, I say, cooperating. Thanks. Have a good night, sir.

None of these words rise from an honest place in me.

Fear of having my body injured dominates my mental calculus, fear of what George Floyd was forced to experience as his life was suffocated out of him.

His sad crying out for his dead mother, his excruciating pleas for air, his haunting repeated I cant breathe, his awareness of imminent death, his submission beneath the brutal white knee of that white psychopath.

None of that is alien to black bodies living in America.

I can feel George Floyds words as if I am speaking them myself.

It could have been me. I could have been George Floyd that day.

If you have a problem with it, take it up in court are the officers last words as he struts back to his cruiser. I watch him snatch at the door, yank it open, and slip smoothly inside, like a snake.

I remain still. I place my hand on my forehead.

The sweat is dripping down my nose, the sides of my face, my chin.

It is cold, yet my body is soaked with perspiration, as if Ive been running for miles. I have been running, just not in the normal way with my legs and feet.

Alone, I talk to myself. How can my safety be left in the hands of a white cop?

I wait patiently for him to pull away. Only then do I hit the engine and roll out. I turn around, returning to the city.

Just going for a simple drive almost killed me.

George W. Bush was elected and 9/11 happened while I was in college, part of the educated class in America, a National Public Radio listener, and a reader of the