Kaylin Dodson
Museum Trip
You go to the Whitney for a class assignment. You have to visit the Human Interest exhibit.
You stumble into the “protest art” section.
The first thing you see is Kerry James Marshall’s Souvenir I, a piece dedicated in loving memory to the Civil Rights movement and its activists.
You’re enraptured by the protest art until you look up and realize you’re the only Black face in the “Black” part of the exhibit.
You watch White faces exhibit your people’s pain like they’re in a goddamn zoo.
As they “ooh” and “aah” over ancestral pain, you feel like Zeke in the elevator scene in The Get Down.
“I’m a Black man in a White world.”
You’re wearing all black in an all-White room full of all-White faces.
You look down at yourself.
Are you supposed to be here? Do you belong here? Are you the beast amongst kings? Are you taking yourself too seriously? Are you being the angry Black girl and part-time SJW? Do any of these questions even matter?
You remember the time when that White boy made fun of your hair in high school.
His name was Gabriel. Voice and name of an angel. Personality of a demon.
You were in the auditorium right before vocal rehearsal, sobbing internally at the dreaded two hours of Mozart’s Vesperae.
First time wearing your natural hair out in years, and you thought you’d be prepared for the onslaught.
You weren’t. Not really.
His comment didn’t bother you so much as his “it was just a joke” excuse did when you called him out.
“What did you just say?”
You thought about reaching over. Grabbing his ugly, greasy, brown-blonde hair and decking him in the face. Over and over again until he either apologized or choked on his teeth.
You felt yourself take a step towards him. Boiling blood rushing in your ears. Potential violence flowed through your veins. Your hands were shaking with the need to make contact.
You were gonna beat his ass…You thought about the potential headline:
“Black Beast Attacks Innocent White Boy Over a Joke”
You heard your teacher yelling at you to sit down. You yelled back.
“I’m not gonna sit down! He just said something racist!”
Nobody listened to you. Instead, they all listened to the beginning keys of that damn Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose warm up.
You stopped. You sighed. You decided to leave and report him to the admins.
Middle finger to your teacher as he complained to himself about you leaving in the middle of class. You told yourself you’d probably apologize later. You never did.
You found yourself in the guidance counselor’s office, explaining weaves and braids to your all-White administrators.
“Wait, so you’re telling me those braids aren’t real?”
You gave your very clueless and very White Director of Arts, Mr. C, a look drowning in Black Girl Confusion.
“No sir. Those braids aren’t real. Black hair so magical that sometimes we have to add fake hair to it so we can tone it down a little bit.” You can’t help but let the sarcasm drip from your words.
“So it’s wrong if I ask her if her hair is real.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business.” He ignored your slight gibe and the change in your tone.
“So what about if it’s straight?”
You found yourself in the guidance counselor’s office, explaining microaggressions and racism to your all-White administrators.
“Not every racism is a White man calling you a nigger to your face. Sometimes it’s the classmate asking if you’re gonna ‘wear your hair like that to prom.’ Sometimes it’s the White teacher questioning you about Black hair, as if you know everything about Black hair.” You’re getting annoyed now.
“Are you saying that me asking you about hair is a microaggression?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re assuming that because I’m Black I know about all the odds and ends of weaves, wigs, braids, and Black hair.”
“But don’t you?”
“It’s not because I’m Black! What the hell?”
It took all your patience not to fully explode and curse this clueless man out.
“Woah. No need to get angry.”
And just like that, you were the Angry Black Girl.
You realized that your lack of comfort as a Black person isn’t a topic they particularly cared about, and “microaggression” is entirely too large a concept to comprehend.
You stopped. You sighed. You resigned yourself to your fate.
The boy barely got in trouble. He had to write an apology essay. It was 150 words.
It wasn’t even addressed to you.
Typical White-boy-not-getting-in-trouble-for-his-behavior bullshit.
You stopped. You sighed. You resigned yourself to your fate.
Back to the Whitney.
You decide you’re not taking yourself too seriously.
“Progressive” and “woke” White folk need to do better, and you decide this museum is some bullshit.
A museum with ticket prices that most underprivileged Black and Brown people from the hood wouldn’t dream about affording is not progressive.
A museum that makes Black and Brown kids feel like outsiders in exhibits with art for them and about them is not progressive.
A museum that presents Black art as “protest” art is not progressive.
White people that “ooh” and “ahh” at Black pain without ever getting out and marching or brainstorming ideas and reasons as to why this godforsaken country is the way it is and how they can fix it are not woke.
White people that don’t at least wonder what the hell happened to our 40 acres and a mule are not woke.
Retweeting Deray and Netta and wearing a Black Lives Matter tee once isn’t wokeness, nor is it progressivity, nor is it helpful.
You stop. You sigh. You leave the museum.
You decide you’re never going back to the Whitney.
Fuck them.