#SWCO: Black In America

“One ever feels his two-ness; an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.”  ― W.E.B. DuBois

I love watching the kids at Star Wars Celebration. Completely gripped by this powerful world that was passed onto them. They're so enthused, so bubbly, so full of raw energy that I find it contagious. I find it encouraging. Empowering. Enabling. I go out of my way to smile at them, nod affirmatively, strike a conversation, commend the particularly stellar or bold cosplay choices.

Some kids don't know what to do with that. They usually look shocked, but upon seeing my earnest expression, that confusion quickly melts away into pure delight. And for the less abashed younglings, their eyes immediately light up. Which warms my heart. Because that's the whole point. Out there... immediately outside the great doors of this massive hall... I'm an adult. And they are children. I am the ranking officer, the authority figure.

But in here? Inside the pulsing heartbeat of Star Wars Celebration? Beneath the surface of this carefully contained, euphorically sustained moment?

We are equals.

And I would never violate the wonder we share here. Never do anything to shake you from your reverie, to rid you of the trance from this endearing story flowing through us all binding us together.

Until today.

Today a young child crossed the line. It was during the overnight portion. Backs were worn thin from prolonged futile attempts at comfort, rolling on that unforgiving concrete floor. There was no comfort. Just purpose. We wanted to see The Last Jedi panel live and so we were all here. Children were everywhere. I had been used to them, of course, they really didn't even register on my radar anymore. Not quite invisible; more like... present in a way that didn't matter because it didn't intrude upon my personal equilibrium. I love the kids. Have no problem with the kids. So if I'm compelled to intervene, you can trust that the transgression was with the kids.

This was the point of the night where "The Last Jedi" director Rian C. Johnson made a surprise appearance to us overnighters. He was immediately swamped by the very people he'd come to oblige. Everybody thrusting items in his face to be signed, clamouring right here! right here! a selfie!, trampling the sleeping materials of their already discarded neighbors. The frenzy, debatable in its innocence, was unanimous in its ubiquity, sweeping through everyone in the room with equal fervor.

But there was one child... Soon as I set eyes on him, I knew he was going to be trouble (or was it that I always considered children a natural reservoir of trouble?). The crowds descended on Rian like vultures, but this particular kid had me riveted. I could see him quivering with excitement and anticipation, going through the crazed evaluation process of whether to follow the crowd who waited or dart in like the crowd who couldn't contain themselves. He'd been weaving back and forth on the outside of the group, trying to politely find his opportunity, until he'd finally circled wide and dived into the fray. Right near me. His shoulders shifted. Hips twisted. Heels lifted.

As he launched himself into fan orbit, my hand shot out, voice cracking like a gunshot.

"HEY! Get back here! He's COMING! You need to wait!"

The betrayal shining from his wide eyes as his shoulder yielded to my hold would've melted steel. There was only one statement in his silent eyes.

I thought we were equals.

Silly me.

I felt rage. I felt hurt. I felt swelling violence. I felt exasperated. I felt thin, bony fingers pry back the outer veneer of this great place known as Star Wars Celebration.

Because, of course, the kid was me.
Is me.

And "he" was one of Rian's security guards.
In the midst of complex crowd control, trying to let Rian have his moment, while quelling the surrounding chaos, he only felt compelled to shout and put a hand on one person.

Me.

I'd been weaving. I'd seen how the guards were doing their thing. I was fighting to be respectful. And even in my excitement, had I seen anyone get yelled at or laid hands on, I definitely would've been a little more self restrained. But they hadn't done that. They'd been pretty resigned to the fact that the crowd was nuts, and had settled for making sure Rian was at least moving forward. And through the swirling emotion, a single thought arose clear as day.

Oh yeah. I'm still a black man in America.

This meant no arguing back. No physical altercations. No getting in his face and asking him what imagined right did he have to put his hand on me. Nothing. NOTHING. Nothing.

And then the file opened. It's the file all black people have. It's where we store all the passive assaults against us, because if we took the time to engage every insult and offense, society would literally never progress (what a country, where the progress rests upon the humility and grace of the abused!). I began to recall all the tiny moments that had transpired here at Celebration in the last 24 hours. Hadn't even been here two days. Security slowing their patrol dogs as they passed us... being discarded in conversation in favor of the two white people who jumped into it... uncertain glances from female cosplayers... 

I closed the file.
And took a breath.
I filled myself with memories. Star Wars memories. My Star Wars memories. The good ones. I let the love and the light and the amazingness fill me up until this moment and even the conscious awareness of the file were pushed out- totally obliterated by the spirit of Celebration once again.

Or nearly so.

Right as Rian approached me, and I again made my move, I clearly saw the guard in my mind's eye... and my exhale back into joy held a single phrase in it.

I thought we were equals?

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