PROUD TO BE AN ANGRY BLACK MAN! FINALLY.

Last night I went out with a close female friend for dinner, drinks, and our latest round of Main Street news editorializing about our two degrees of separation existences. While waiting for her at a popular restaurant, I added our names to the “to be seated” list. The hostess told me, straight-faced, that the wait would be fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes? On the Friday of a holiday weekend, in a packed restaurant with at least fifty people ahead of me? I decided to wait outside with others who were told the same wait time, enjoying the unseasonably warm January weather in New York. By the way, if I hear one more person from Atlanta complain about the single snowflake they saw, I swear I might just drive down there and give them a good scolding. That last sentence probably sums up the tone of this whole post.

As I stood there, I overheard a conversation among four women just ahead of me. I share their ethnicities because I think it’s relevant — two seemed to be from Spain or Colombia, and the other two possibly Dominican. Their chat had shifted from men and relationships to politics, focusing on the upcoming Democratic primary. One of the Dominican women was pressed to reveal whether she would vote for Clinton or Obama.

She shook her head and repeated, “I don’t know. I’m still undecided.”

They prodded her again, and finally she said, “If it was just Obama, I would vote for him, but there’s a woman running too.”

At that, one of the lighter-skinned women, presumably from Spain, snapped back with a venomous tone, “What’s an Obama?”

They all laughed. Then, mid-laugh, another Dominican woman exclaimed, “I think I want to vote for him too. He’s colored!” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Barack Obama is colored. I swear I could not make this up.

Unconsciously, I took a few steps closer as that word left her mouth. I started to raise my hand, my mouth opening to speak, but just then the hostess shouted a name, snapping me out of my angry black man autopilot. I turned the corner before my rage fully took hold. I tend to pace when I get angry. It does nothing to calm me, but it’s what I do. My mind raced, replaying those words over and over. I tried to distract myself by planning a friend’s birthday celebration after he had been royally screwed by a last-minute cancellation, but I just couldn’t focus. Eventually, I leaned against the wall and tried deep breathing exercises I’d learned but rarely used when they were truly needed.

When my friend arrived, we went inside to wait for our table. I told her about the “discovery” from the nice ladies outside that Barack Obama was colored. She asked how I always seemed to be the one to witness such ignorance. I still don’t have an answer. That was only the beginning of the frustrations that marked our night.

I won’t go into the long story, but the short version is this: I made a reservation, added my name to the list, and yet was skipped repeatedly by the hostess. Each time she apologized and promised we would be next, only to be passed over again. After the third time, I was near my breaking point. Actually, after the second, but I’ve been trying to keep my temper in check since a not-so-great experience with my doctor and an EKG machine that falsely told me I was having a heart attack during my last annual physical. I hate being seen as “the angry black man” both on and offline, so I was trying to maintain my composure. Then she skipped us for the fourth time. That was it. I was done.

I walked into the dining area just behind the hostess as she seated two women at our fourth table. When she turned around and saw me standing there, big and visibly angry, it dawned on her what she had done. She offered an apology and a free juice as some form of appeasement. Free juice! She walked away before she could see me laugh in disbelief. Juice would not have been enough to stop me from losing it. But I thought I’d wait to be seated first and then deal with compensation for the insult, the hunger, and the frustration. The short story on that front: all she was willing to offer was juice. I told her that was not enough. She brought out the juice anyway and repeated her excuse that it was all she could do. I told her again it was not sufficient and asked to speak to the manager for the second time. She took the juice back. When the manager finally arrived, he tried to defend the hostess’s behavior and then called me a liar for the third time about being skipped four times, contradicting the hostess’s own admission to him that it was only once.

My friend sat silently as I exploded. When I realized it was reaching a point of no return, I remembered I was with someone who did not deserve to witness me unravel like this. I stood up. He jumped back like a scared child about to get a beating, and we left. Surprisingly, we were met with quiet applause and looks of admiration from the two people sitting near our table and others who had been in the fifteen-minute wait area just minutes before.

As we walked out, my friend turned to me and said something that took me by surprise: “You’re a nicer person than I am. I would have flipped a lot sooner than that.” That comment meant a lot. I have long been told I am angry by women who have seen me lose my temper over service issues. They think I am always ranting about something. One friend told me just weeks ago, after seeing veins bulge in my neck during a conversation, “Why are you so angry? You know you’re not running for office, right? You’re just an angry ass black man.”

The label “angry black man” is something I have grown accustomed to, though never comfortable with it. I have heard it enough to be used to it. The reason I share all of this is because I have been thinking about how much I hate being perceived as the angry black man and what it really means to be seen as angry when all I feel is passion. I have friends who are indifferent and calm while things fall apart around them, and I envy their emotional monotone as I nearly have an aneurysm from my outrage.

Here is the flip side and why I embrace being the “angry black man”: because I feel deeply for the bad and unjust, and I celebrate with equal passion when something good happens. When those same indifferent friends experience success, it is as if they feel nothing. To them, the good moments rate the same as the bad ones. But for me, I bask in the bright light of joy and achievement. I live fully in those moments and savor them.

I am never just angry. I have purpose and a target. When I scream or write — whether it is a blog post, a comment, a rant, an email, or a forwarded news story — it is because I am overwhelmed with passion and cannot contain it any longer. You might not agree with everything I say, but I doubt you will find anyone who questions the sincerity of my beliefs. Give me passion or give me death.

Believe it or not, this was supposed to be a one-paragraph introduction to a great post I found on the Field Negro’sblog today, which explores this very topic I have been wrestling with since last night. I guess I needed to get last night’s events out more than I realized. Below is an excerpt from the opening of the Field Negro’s post entitled Field Negro’s "The last angry black man", along with a link to the full piece.

“A friend of mine was introducing me to someone today, and for some reason he felt the need to tell her that I blog. He has a blog called Field Negro. I think he is the last angry black man left in America. Ha ha ha ha, laughs all around.”

“Of course dude was right. At times it seems that there are no angry black men left in America. I think the angry black man has been shamed into accepting his fate and his place in the American scheme of things. But there is nothing to be ashamed of. Not when your anger is driven by disappointment and not resentment. You see, it is like this: most people think that the angry black man, like yours truly, is angry because he feels left out and disappointed with his station in life. While this might be true of some angry black men, it is not the case here. Although to be honest, I could not blame any black man for being angry and pissed off at the state of his condition. The shit that some of us — and yes I say us because whatever that black man goes through affects me as well — go through, I would not wish on my worst white enemy. I am quite happy with pretty much all aspects of my life, socially and professionally, but I am still angry.” Continue reading here.

GVG
Happy to be angry

P.S. I am aware of the irony of sharing this on the weekend we celebrate Martin Luther King Day, the man who urged us to turn the other cheek. I guess I am more of a Malcolm guy.

P.P.S. After we left the restaurant, the night actually turned out great. You would be amazed what a great meal, a witty friend who can make you laugh until you choke, and a huge pitcher of sangria can do to soothe your troubles away.