Black Hoodies in the Moonlight
On Race in Chicago on Juneteenth. 06.19.22.
It’s weird being Black in America, not for the token reasons: the overt racism, the killer cops, the disparities with incarceration, etc. Never mind that, I’ve gotten used to all of these items in my American Dream combo and my meltdowns regarding these issues happened earlier on in my teenage years.
When I led protests and formulated BLM responses in reaction to the infamous senseless slayings.
I got a great deal of my anger out—which was really just a masked sadness/depression—when I was the designated spokesperson in my honors and AP classes in Calabasas—where I went to high school— and was typically the only Black kid in any of my classes. Nevertheless, De Facto discrimination is my least favorite kind of racism. Sucks for me, it’s the most common type of racism in major cities. At least with De Jure, I’m in combat with a loud and obnoxious enemy. With De Facto, the enemy is a silent and unpredictable one.
Now, for me, it’s weird being Black in America because of the night time. Because of the moonlight. And this is dismaying because I was born on a Saturday in October at 10:27 PM, I’m a proud night baby, through and through.
Don’t get me wrong, night time is fun when I’m within the confines of my home; I’m whoever I want to be. Or out with a group of trusted friends; I just have to be Tobi. However, when I am alone and I start to head out that door into the public, the anxiety builds and while it’s a bit crippling—I don’t want any sympathy points— it’s an anxiety that can be concealed or controlled fairly well. I don’t shake (most times) and I’m not frantic (most times), but that’s only through practice and by “practice” I mean after being forced to leave the house enough times, you’ll be able to conquer your fear of leaving the house. Kind of like that one SpongeBob episode, “I Had an Accident,” aired in October 2003.
But it’s specifically weird at night because before I leave to go anywhere— a 7-Eleven, the gas station, or even for a walk—I do an outfit check in a way that I know my white friends don’t have to do. I’ve witnessed them just confidently leave their homes at this time with no hesitation. I usually follow their lead, taking a sip of their carelessness, faking it till I make it.
In the rare moments where they stop by a mirror to check their appearance, they usually just double-check to see if they’re color blocking appropriately or trying to see if their hair looks good and all those things I, too, partake in. You might see someone you know. Just normal human stuff. But at night, sometimes during the day, I have to add another box to check off.
“Don’t look suspicious. Look Inviting,” my brain tells me like clockwork.
Even when I’m not feeling inviting. If I’m having a bad day or week and the sun has already set and I want to go to the store, I have to change out of my comfy baggy clothes that we all love to wear. The ones you throw on when you’re not feeling your best or when you need a hug but there’s no one around so you resort to the comfort clothes.
While I look cozy, cute, and cuddly in my living room, my silhouette with nothing but moon and street light is something that people are terrified of. It also doesn’t help that I’m 6’1 and built like a right tackle who’s late to the NFL Draft. That, the comfy clothing, in combination with the darkness, makes even the nicest puppies growl from a hundred feet away, unable to make sense of my largeness and blackness, I suppose. Or perhaps, feeding off of their owners’ energy, who knows. All I know is, in turn, I feel vilified. Not because I’m a villain, I’m far from it, but because I know others might perceive me to be one.
And it’s not through their experience with me that these people or their dogs feel that way— they don’t know me—but through conditioning. And odds are I won’t get spoken to by anyone I pass, I won’t be able to introduce myself—which is unfortunate because they can’t hear through my mostly tender and low-projecting voice that I couldn’t hurt a fly. That I got booted from tackle football because I wasn’t aggressive enough my freshman year of high school.
So I change, mostly all of the time. I don’t really like pink but I’ll wear the pink hoodie my friend M. gave me a while back. I associate pink with friendly. So, narcissistically but rather practically I assume others will associate pink with friendly as well. This serves as my makeshift disarming technique to alert any passer byers that I mean no harm. That I’m just out for a stroll. That I just need fresh air.
This pink hoodie becomes my armor and the best thing about it is that I can put the hood on and not look so much as a menace while still hiding away from the world. And while most of my friends think this is my stylistic choice resembling my warm and bubbly personality; that I just like the color pink and I’m challenging gender norms. To me, it’s very little about those things. I perceive it as a survival tactic.
It’s a way for me to trick myself into believing that if I look or dress more effeminate that I have less of a target on my back. I practice my walk. I add more hip. I try to jiggle my glutes with each step. If I can be perceived as flamboyant enough, it might enable a softer response from any potential white woman I cross paths with. She won’t be as quick to cross the street immediately as she sees me. Her thumb won’t achingly hover over the “SOS” emergency button. She’ll be able to loosen her grip around her purse. I do this for protection but it inadvertently makes people more likely to have positive interactions with me, maybe they’ll throw in a head nod or a quick smile. That they’ll feel safer at the expense of my lack of authenticity and comfortability.
But this sucks because I really want to wear my favorite black hoodie. The one with no labels, that’s comfy as hell. I got it from a guy I had a crush on in the 10th grade. It hits my waistline just right. It’s been my companion through my various breakups.
I want my dark navy blue sweats hugging my hips and not hurriedly kicked to the side before I change into light washed jeans to go grab a pack of cigarettes.
I just want to be comfortable. But physical comfort over mental comfort have to be measured out on a scale as a Black man and a Libra. I have to make a decision. And I would feel more comfortable with the chafing from my Levi’s and side-eyes for my bright pink hoodie, knowing there’s a lower chance of me being perceived as a potential looter and, God forbid, a potential suspect. I’ll take the mental peace of mind over the physical any day but it just sucks that I feel like I have to choose between the two.
And this might be all in my head but it’s one of the millions of things I take into consideration being black and leaving anywhere at night time.
This Juneteenth I think of my happiness instead of posting on social media about how amazing it feels to be Black.
My personal heaven is somewhere I can wear my black hoodie in the moonlight.
RIP Trayvon Martin for testing the waters. Happy Juneteenth.
