On Work, Safe Places, Safer Places, and White Supremacist Workplace Culture

I am 41 years old and have never felt safe in a workplace.

I have held down a job in some capacity since I was 13 years old, and I have yet to work in an environment where I’ve felt safe.

Not safe. Not safer. Nothing.

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I feel safe, hell, safer, and can share an opinion or viewpoint contrary to what white societal norms deem acceptable and not have the sword of Damocles swinging over my head.

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I feel safe, hell, safer, enough not to have to make sure I’m carefully wording my counsel and advice to others in ways that will not have anyone calling me racist to white people or “unwilling to understand what white people are going through.”

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I feel safe, hell, safer, enough to do the work that I went and obtained student loans and a degree for in a way that centers the humanity and mental, physical, and emotional well-being of others and challenges leaders to lead with empathy without having one or all members of the senior leadership team question my skillset or “fit” for “their” organization.

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I see other melanated, under-represented, unserved communities feel safe, hell, safer, enough to seek support when they are being harmed, they’re witnessing someone being hurt, or their needs aren’t being met without someone asserting they are “trying to stir the pot” or being told that they are the issue, not the workplace culture.

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I feel safe, hell, safer, around the idea that accountability is expected of everyone, not just those impacted by not having power, privilege, positionality, and proximity to or assimilation of white supremacist hierarchal ideology.

I have yet to inhabit a workplace where I feel like I’m doing anything but putting together survival plans and trying to make it to Friday.

Before the white “professionals” and those who covet the comfort and faux safety of white supremacist ideology chime in with their advice, I want to let you know that I’ve heard your advice, often unsolicited, since I’ve been a part of the workforce. It is always centered around assimilation or options with a history of not benefiting the melanated and marginalized. So, I’ll pass. I’ll also pass on the notion that, somehow, I’m the reason I don’t feel safer in the workplace, like my existence and unwillingness to sit idly by and allow myself or others to be harmed in “the problem.” I’m not “the problem.” People who look like me, talk like me, and bring their embodied identities to work like me are not “the problem.”

“The problem” is the systems and structures of whiteness created as the foundations of work that present us with the boxes we’re forced to fit into.

”The problem” is that so many people do not feel safe, hell, safer, anywhere, yet we have to get up every day, try to earn a living, and survive in another space where we cannot rely on safety and stability.

At 21, I began understanding that workplace culture in the United States works as designed.

At 31, I intimately understood that workplaces were not designed for someone like me.

At 41, I firmly understand that I will never inhabit a space designed for someone like me.

And I know that if I want any form of safety, it will be up to me to build it because I will never work anywhere that will dismantle or create a new design because of the whiteness-driven revolt that would ensue.

Challenge accepted.

This Week's Opening Thought: September 11, 2023

This week's opening thought: A white "professional" recently asked me why I often describe what I was wearing when I share my daily encounters with racism and anti-Blackness. It's simple.

I want to negate the "talking point" that somehow my dress or choice of clothing could be construed as "dangerous" and that it's somehow my fault that people of pallor feel like they're "in danger" when they see a Black man with pink headphones and a Kill Bill t-shirt walking toward them, smiling and saying hello.

I want to negate you telling me it's my fault if the unmelanated kill me for no discernable reason.

How detailed I am in describing what I'm wearing in a potentially dangerous and life-threatening situation shouldn't be what troubles you.

Black people having to build a damn detailed court case to convince you that we did nothing wrong, yet still have to defend our right to safety and survival because whiteness by default feels like we had to do SOMETHING to incur the wrath of whiteness because, you know, whiteness has never harmed or killed anyone with melanated skin without cause should be what troubles you.

But what the hell do I know?

I’m just a Black man with pink headphones and a Kill Bill t-shirt.

This Week's Opening Thought: August 28, 2023

This week's opening thought: The amount of anti-Blackness, white supremacy, and white privilege it takes to pass education legislation in your state that calls for teaching the youth of your state that chattel slavery was a “character-building moment” that gave enslaved Black bodies “useful skills” and then show up at a Black community-led vigil after a white supremacist intentionally murdered three Black people in your state in a pre-meditated anti-Black hate crime and think you deserve the right to speak at said vigil is peak whiteness. Hell, that’s beyond peak whiteness.

That is quintessential, old-school classic whiteness.

That’s some forefather shit.

To not care about my life or what your people have inflicted upon mine over 400+ years, then see the murders of my people as a photo op for your Presidential campaign and pop up to share “thoughts and prayers?”

That is vintage whiteness, like an original Ted Nugent t-shirt at a KKK rally.

Harm now; act as if you will apologize later while doubling and tripling down on the damage you’ve caused and supported.

That’s that classic apple pie white supremacy right there, y’all.

A la mode.

On Nat, Magical Girls, and the Intersection of Justice

Sometimes, my energy is magical girl energy.

Sometimes, my energy is Nat Turner energy.

Either way, understand that justice is always at the center of who I am.

Also understand that you do not wanna come around me with hate and bigotry and catch me on a day where the Nat Turner in me pulls out his Sailor Scout wand to dispatch you and your ugliness.

Believe that.

Black Poetry Tuesdays (August 22, 2023 Edition): "Sanctuary” by Donika Kelly

The week’s Black Poetry Tuesdays piece is from Donika Kelly. Donika Kelly is a Black American writer, poet, and Assistant Professor of English at the University of Iowa, specializing in poetry writing and gender studies in contemporary American literature. Kelly is the author of the chapbook Aviarium and the full-length poetry collections Bestiary and The Renunciations. Bestiary is the winner of the 2015 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, the 2017 Hurston/Wright Award for poetry, and the 2018 Kate Tufts Discovery Award, and was longlisted for the National Book Award in 2016 and a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award and a Publishing Triangle Award in 2017.

The following piece is called “Sanctuary.” In this piece, Kelly draws parallels between womanhood, the ocean, and its inhabitants, all strong yet mistreated and shackled by societal norms. The tones of liberation and the turn of phrase to act as if her words were fumbled when referring to the ocean and woman make this poem resonate on multiple levels.

Sanctuary

The tide pool crumples like a woman

into the smallest version of herself,

bleeding onto whatever touches her.

The ocean, I mean, not a woman, filled

with plastic lace, and closer to the vanishing

point, something brown breaks the surface—human,

maybe, a hand or foot or an island

of trash—but no, it’s just a garden of kelp.

A wild life.

This is a prayer like the sea

urchin is a prayer, like the sea

star is a prayer, like the otter and cucumber—

as if I know what prayer means.

I call this the difficulty of the non-believer,

or, put another way, waking, every morning, without a god.

How to understand, then, what deserves rescue

and what deserves to suffer.

Who.

Or should I say, what must

be sheltered and what abandoned.

Who.

I might ask you to imagine a young girl,

no older than ten but also no younger,

on a field trip to a rescue. Can you

see her? She is led to the gates that separate

the wounded sea lions from their home and the class.

How the girl wishes this measure of salvation for herself:

to claim her own barking voice, to revel

in her own scent and sleek brown body, her fingers

woven into the cyclone fence.

You can learn more about Donika here.