Go to a primarily-white institution (PWI), they said. It will be fine, they said. It strikes you as soon as you arrive. Wow, there really are a lot of white people here. They have their funny ways of talking and dressing and socializing, and you are slightly uneasy. You smile at the first person of colour you find, nudging them to make a joke. “Sometimes, if there are too many white folks, I get nervous, you know?”
Their response is unexpected. “Oh no! No, no, no, no, no, no…That’s not my experience. Not at all.” Hmm. Maybe they are adopted or something. You start to meet the white people. There are men who tower like trees, like walls closing in. There are people who think pyjama pants are fine to wear out if you wear a sweatshirt on top, and walk around residences with their dogs fully out. Nevertheless, they begin to charm you. They begin to befriend you.
“By the way, I would’ve had Hamilton win Best Musical for a second year, if I could. Best musical in my lifetime, hands down,” says something Feral. “I’ve also really gotten into Yellowface.”
“Sorry, what?” You respond.
“The book!” Ah. Interesting. It starts slowly. This white Mr. Feral asks, “Hey, could I get your apartment after you leave?” That seems fine. But then he starts to shadow one, then another of your part time jobs. He appears back from a break donning a new hairstyle. Your hairstyle. Suddenly, you fear your dog may be kidnapped in the night.
You realize quickly that you need to get out. It was a white man (NO!), and what did they do about it? Nothing. Typical.
