You Don’t Have Black Friends. You Barely Have Black Acquaintances.
“I’m against racism. Heck, I have black friends.”
She proceeds to list four or five names before including me at the end. The argument inevitably ends this way. They tack me on at the end of their list and dare me to take back whatever I’ve lobbed their way as if it will ruin our non-existent relationship. It would be funny if it wasn’t so common, but as it stands, even my morbid humor can’t find the punchline.
“I’m not your friend.”
My sentence hits her in slow motion as her face scrunches up and her eyes water. Trying to get her point across by making it personal. We’re sitting in the front office, and everyone else has gone to lunch.
“Well, I thought we were friends.”
“What do we talk about?”
The wind is whipping in my chest, heart pounding in my ears, but I’m calm on the surface. I wasn’t having it. She studies me warily for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what have we talked about in the past few months that wasn’t a work project?”
She wipes at her eyes, juts her chin out a bit, and her face darkens a tad.
“I don’t know, Miyah. We talk about cats, our weekends, music, a lot of things.”
