Black Lives, Voices, Opinions, Intelligence, Experiences MATTER!
It was my junior year of college, 1998, in Chicago on a class trip attending the Restaurant Show. I was with my Hospitality Management classmates/friends on a mission to learn and expand our understanding of the hotel/restaurant industry. One of the days we ventured out into the streets of the Magnificent Mile for a bit of shopping and exploration. Myself and one of my dearest friends who I will call my spit fire from Jersey was with me. She was always speaking her mind and never backed down from her opinions. She was also white but for me that never factored into our friendship. The understanding of that acknowledgement will come into play as this story progresses.
As she and I were walking into one of the multi leveled shopping centers, heading up one of the many escalators that seemed to go on for eternity, there was this older (60’s+) white gentleman that was standing in front of us. I only noticed him because of his outfit. He was impeccably dressed in a muted window paned grey/white double breast suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie with a slick chrome briefcase. As we were heading up the escalator, spit fire and I were in a fun joyful conversation about who in the hell knows. Out of the blue, the older white man turned around to us and said, “the war was fought for you”! Spit fire and I were caught completely off guard. I for one had no clue what he was talking about. Old man at this point was directing his attention to Spit Fire. He had turned beet red in the face and the visceral in his face was palpable to the taste. His rant went on and on and spit fire turned and said to me that he thinks we are together, and it clicked immediately with me, but I was still confused. Spit Fire was my dear friend and not in any romantic sense at all. But that didn’t stop old racist man from thinking this white woman was intimately involved with this black man. If she was what the hell did it matter to him. The war he was talking about I assumed was the civil war. I’m still not sure to this day but if someone can explain it to me so I can research, that would be great.
As we reached the top of the escalator to disembark spit fire shot into action and Jersey-Girl, ally, protect my black friend went into this man’s old racist ass. I don’t think I’ve heard someone curse like that before, but she called this old racist man every name, but a child of god and he instantly stopped talking. I didn’t have time to process what was happening. I had to calm her down and keep her from jumping on this man. I was able to get her to walk off and our experience the rest of the day was not the same. It was one of the most racist and traumatizing experiences I had experienced up to that point of my young life. I’ll never forget that moment, as long as, I live.
How spit fire has shown up repeatedly, not only as a dear friend, but a true ally was on full display at her wedding. Her wedding day happened to fall on my birthday. Halfway through the reception she and her newly husband came up to our table with a beautiful cake with candles singing happy birthday to me! To say I was shocked was an understatement. I was in tears with immense joy that she had made such a gesture on her special day. That’s how you show up for your friends that you love. I’ll never forget that spit fire. You then showed up for my wedding day crying with joy and my family fell in love with you! You continue to show up and show love in many ways and you see me.
Our experiences matter in life and shape the trauma we experience in life. If this time of #GeorgeFloyd #BreonnaTaylor #AhmadAubrey doesn’t push us Black Kings and Queens to reflect upon our experiences in life where racial undertones have presented themselves, then what will. In this moment the floor, space and mic are ours. Now is the time to share and release the trauma we have experienced. These experiences have many faces and levels to them. They are yours and no one can tell you the level of trauma they placed in and on your life nor how they have shaped how you show up to the world.
My voice and opinion matter within my work. There was a very traumatic moment I had at a regional work meeting a few years ago. This meeting pulls together all the sales professionals in our DMV region. Its typically a few days long with general sessions and breakouts during those few days. There is typically a Q&A session during the main general sessions each day. The questions are from the audience of sales professionals to the panel of executives from the top sales brass of the company. These questions typically are a cross section of themes about the company. I have never asked a question in this meeting and have never really felt comfortable doing so. My white counterparts are always quick to stand and speak no matter how simple or complex the question may be without what seems to be a care about how leadership will receive or perceive them. That to me is privilege. It also plays into the self-awareness most black professionals feel in spaces that we cannot speak up and share our true thoughts or feelings without that cloud of judgment that would hamper our career.
This day was different. The company enacted a policy months prior that had everyone up in arms. The policy inadvertently disenfranchised many of the sales folks at many levels. We were all speaking about it in our own silos and circles but not to upper management. Speaking about policies and procedures that come down to the sales force aren’t always meant to hurt or harm however sometimes when they are enacted they have a negative effect. That’s when our voices need to be heard to share that experience. I was sitting in this meeting and all the questions were about pie in the sky things that didn’t necessarily affect our day to day work life, like this policy. My frustrations stemmed from the wasted time on questions of things that don’t affect our day to day work life so let’s get to the tough questions so that we can have the policy addressed.
I knew in this moment that I needed to finally speak. I needed to pull from my 18 years of experience and stand and be heard, not only for me, but for my peers. I asked my question and the executive skated around it so eloquently. Mostly because he wasn’t fully aware of the policy so instead of saying that he skated and moved on. Not being happy with the non-answer I spoke into the mic and started to ask my question again but this time with more background information. I was sweating and nervous at this point. Part of me knew I was treading into dangerous waters. The executive said, “oh you have a follow up question”. In that moment I felt diminished. I felt like my voice, concerns and opinions didn’t matter. In that split second I thought back to the many times fellow white counterparts asked many questions with follow ups. A few asked so many questions that when they would stand up the room would giggle. In that moment I felt like I needed to sit down and shut up. Seen but not heard. I refused! I planted my feet and spoke. Again, my question was not answered, and I was told to follow up with my leader. My leader made a B-line over to me and whispered in my ear that I had committed career suicide. Imagine hearing that in that moment as one of a few black men in a room of hundreds of sales professionals. Why was my question the one that would be considered “career suicide”? The session ended and we were done for the day.
This is where I felt even more deflated and when I knew my career with this company was possibly in jeopardy. After my leader spoke those gut-wrenching words to me, I knew I needed to go into recovery mode. This was a career that I loved, and I had spent 18 years building this polished under the radar successful reputation and could this moment demolish all of that? I needed to get to my leader’s VP so I could apologize. Can we pause and take in what I just said for a moment? I felt the need to apologize for asking a question to the company that encourages you to be yourself and to share. I went up to her and I apologized for the follow up question. I didn’t apologize for the first question, but I did for the follow up. I was told that I should have left it at the first question and moved on. I felt completely like I didn’t matter in that moment. Like my voice and worth was no more than a revenue number that I produced for the company. I felt like my black excellence was to only be shared with my family and friends and not with the company that I love. I walked away with internal shame but with the cheerful, warming demeanor that I always presented.
Now to top off that moment of emasculation my peers started to come up to me. Now imagine how you would feel if every white person that came up to you asked if you were okay? Not okay as in wow that was crappy of the executive to treat you that way but asking in a way that made me feel like I did something wrong. One asked if I was angry today. Yep she asked those words to me out of her mouth. Another said I didn’t know you were so vocal and yes, they were both white. My fellow black colleagues had approached me in the complete opposite. One of a proud black moment. I say that because every black person in that room felt the same way that I did, that we walked on eggshells when it came to asking questions. That feeling is heavy and should not be carried by anyone. Our voices MATTER!
I received 2 phone calls before I could even get to my car from 2 fellow colleagues that were not even at the meeting that had heard about it. Yes, in that short amount of time the news was spreading like a wildfire with gusting winds. Of course, both white. One scolded me for something I had said in my follow up question that I do wish I had rephrased but in the moment its what I felt and whether it was right or wrong it was said. I owned it and tried to explain myself and my thinking, but she wasn’t having it. Our relationship was never the same. Not because I took offense to her chastising me but because she adjusted her interactions with me. I now realize that her fragility was not my burden to bear and that I should not have apologized for how I felt. We should have talked it out so that we both could explain our perspectives. Another call went about the same way. To say that I was hurt was an understatement. I cried the entire way home. Tears of pain, embarrassment, shame and like I had ruined what I had worked so hard over all these years to protect. My brand and reputation. What I failed to realize from that day was that I have been a beacon of hope and light for my black and brown colleagues. The calls, text and positive affirmations I received from them were overwhelming. If I needed to be the martyr, so be it.
The trauma from both of those experiences still sit with me today. I don’t honestly think our white counterparts understand the gravity of the weight we put on ourselves to show up and to work twice as hard to do the same thing they do. To be able to ask a question without feeling like you stepped on a land mine. In this moment of another round of #BlackLivesMatter movement we are tired. I’m tired. I’m tired of not mattering to some. I’m tired of having to work twice as hard to get a fraction or half of what my white counterparts get. I’m tired of feeling like I must watch how I show up. How I talk or speak. How I share my experiences or opinions. I’m tired of feeling uneasy when I drive and see a cop. I’m tired of feeling like I need to be a different person when I’m in a mixed crowd of people. Especially my white counterparts.
I’ve decided that I no longer will adjust myself. I will be my authentic self. I will ask my question and expect sensible and respectable feedback. I will share my experiences and not feel embarrassed or less than to my counterparts. I matter! My life matters. My experiences matter. My opinion matters. Travis Peterson MATTERS! #BLM