A Negro in Disguise

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When I first came to New York City in 1986, a black co-worker questioned my ethnicity. I told him I was mixed. He then wanted to know which side made me angry. I had no answer at the time. When I decided to write my first memoir, Face It, You’re Black - Growing Up Colored in an All-White Indiana Town, I found the words to fill the pages as I remembered my childhood racial dilemma. I never expected the skin color issue to follow me into adulthood, but it has. Most of the animosity I’ve faced in New York has come from American blacks, especially black men, and I could never figure out why until my wife explained the situation. She said, “Honey, you haven’t been around black people as long as I have; you grew up surrounded by whites in the Midwest. In the black community, light-skinned women are preferred, but the men must be dark. Your mixed appearance provokes a hostile reaction in dark-skinned black men. Besides their self-hatred, they fear sexually desirable females will favor you as a partner instead of themselves.” 

Now, I understand and want to share a typical experience as a racial outcast. Since the pandemic, I started taking long walks through Central Park and north to Malcolm X Boulevard. Twenty years ago, I sold books right in front of Mart 125, which has stood vacant since 2001. Nobody recognizes me anymore, although I still get stares. Skin color politics haven’t changed much in Harlem. Recently, I went uptown because I needed someone to repair or replace a frayed cord on an old pendant. I stopped at this man’s table, packed with beads, African figurines, and Egyptian-style jewelry. Decked out from head to toe in mud cloth, he called himself Amenhotep and the pleasant aroma of sandalwood filled the air. He eyeballed me suspiciously while talking (with an American accent) to another dude who didn’t purchase anything. You can always spot the type, killing time, pretending they’re interested, yet because the man was dark-skinned, Amenhotep was courteous and helpful, “Yes brother, that’s correct brother, here’s my card brother,” etc. When the guy walked away, I said, “Good morning, brother.” No return greeting, just a slight nod of his head. I showed him my brass-colored ankh necklace, which was more intricate than anything on his table. He examined it briefly, handed it back, and asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”

“I was wondering how much you’d charge to repair the cord.” He held out his hand, gesturing to take another look. I complimented him on his collection, but he still didn't respond.

“I’ll have to remove the old string,” he said.

“Go ahead. I don’t need it.”

He took out a small pocket knife, extracted the frayed piece, and cut off a new length from a black spool clamped to the side of his table. He stuffed the cord and my ankh in a small plastic bag and said, “That’ll be two bucks.” I wanted him to show me how to tie and knot the cord correctly so it wouldn’t fall off, but he didn’t offer, so I didn’t ask. “Thanks, brother,” I said and walked away. Silence.

What an arrogant, pretentious fuck. I should have returned, bowed my head, and said, “Amenhotep, it’s been an honor standing in the presence of a pure-blood African such as yourself. I’m not so fortunate. 42.4% of my DNA flows from Northern Morocco and West Africa. While the other half, 48.9%, is from Great Britain and Ireland, by the same people who once cracked the whip in Georgia, Tennessee, and Kentucky. By the way, where are you from, my brother?” He reminded me of this ghetto predator I read about who, back in the early 1990s, raped and robbed numerous black women. The authorities finally arrested him only after he assaulted a white couple in Brooklyn. While in prison, he changed his name to King Zulu Sankofa, “found God,” and now masquerades as a jailhouse activist. Sorry, Amenhotep, or whatever your real name is, you can’t fool me or God with your phony African costumes and mannerisms. You’re just a negro in disguise.