Do you want White toast with your OJ?

When Arizona passed the immigration reform law, allowing officials to stop anyone they deemed as “possible immigrants”, I decided that we had gone too far. After Obama was elected in 2008, everyone was screaming for a new, “post-racial” America. But it’s not true. If we were in a post-racial climate, we wouldn’t have people stopping other people. We wouldn’t have a person calling 911 on a Greyhound bus because they heard someone speaking another language and thought they heard the word “bomb”. We wouldn’t have American citizens being forced to carry around passports to prove they are citizens. And as for me, well, I wouldn’t have to feel like a second class citizen in the airport.
I was flying home from my trip to Spain, waiting for my luggage at Boston’s Logan airport. It finally came up the conveyor belt and I grabbed it, ready to bolt for the door. I was in a rush because I had to catch a bus back home; also because I saw a TSA agent lurking around and I knew that because of my skin color, I was probably a person of interest. And I was right. The agent approached me, just as I had my hand on my big, black bag. “What is your nationality and country of origin?” the TSA man asked me in a bored tone. “I’m American.” I handed over my passport. “How long have you been a US citizen?” What kind of a fucking question was that? I pay taxes, I go to school here, I am a contributing member of society, I have spent all of my life in the US and I sing the National Anthem just as loud as everyone else. But I didn’t say any of that. “I was born in Dallas, I live in Maine, I was gone for a two week vacation.” He didn’t say anything, he just gave me my passport. This was after being frisked and double frisked in Dublin, after having my bags searched in Barcelona and having to go through security twice in London.
I had had it. That night I was staying in Portland, ME with my then-boyfriend and his roommate Sean. My boyfriend Dylan was white, his roommate Sean was black. He was always talking about black issues and watching black comedians and the whole nine yards. That night the topic of OJ Simpson came up. The thing is, nearly everyone I have ever talked with is understand the impression that I, like many blacks, think it was good that he got off. I thought he should have been convicted, he should have gone to jail. Sean disagreed. “Think of all the times that white people have killed black people and they got off. It’s not that I think OJ didn’t do it, it’s that you know blacks have been prosecuted for so long.” I understood this. But when you do something, when you commit a crime (we all know he did it, guilty or not guilty) one deserves to bear the punishment. But, I was the sell out, I was the one that didn’t want to be black, that wasn’t embracing my culture. And instead of standing up for me, my then-boyfriend took his roommate’s side. It wasn’t even about OJ. It never is. The next week, Dylan broke up with me, citing my new job offer and the two hour long distance.