
THEY GOT OFFENDED AFTER I GOT OFFENDED AND THEN I CALLED THEM RACIST BY WENDY THOMPSON TAIWO
Growing up during the era of colorblind
racism, my father told me that once I got my
first serious job, I should document everything.
It was a phrase that would summarize what it
meant to be Black in America: Document
everything. Even before they stole my food
from the lunch room fridge and spit in my rice.
Even before they reported me for sending a
personal fax and told everyone in the office
how much I made a year when I forgot to peel
my W2’s off the printer glass. Even before they
called me difficult, said I’m hard to work with:
Document everything. He didn't have to explain
white people’s pettiness to me. Didn't have to
hear my fear rattling inside my chest inspired
by the memory of bodycam footage whenever
I came to a full stop next to a police car. Didn’t
have to curse the excuses I made to avoid public
bathroom stalls for fear that they would say
something racist. Didn’t have to take off his
glasses and sigh when the parents at my
daughter’s school—a good school, a white
school—thought they could gather their
administrative clout and weaponize the
principal, teacher’s reports, and witnesses to
destroy me and my child. Didn’t have to shake
his head at me when the same principal
changed Black parent involvement day to
all-family involvement day. Didn’t have to put
on his shoes and jacket and show up to my aid
when I pointed my finger at a room full of
colleagues, hunched over their taupe-colored
guilt and nursing their white privilege with
antiracist book clubs, and asked, Why am I the
only Black face in the room? To which a few
would later huddle together, drawing a salt
circle around themselves, whispering that
my outburst during the meeting had been
“offensive” and “disturbing.” Didn't have to
start the engine nor get his gun because I
became a master documenter over the years:
Every email saved, printed, CCed, BCCed, and
forwarded. Every play and record button ready
to mass-distribute video proof to employers.
Every Black person, a file cabinet, a database,
an archive. But also every Black person,
including your one friend: The knife slit in your
back, the bottle hurled at your riot police, the
fire in your Target, the spill and dream of
looting. From 1619 to the checkout line, there
would be no boat sturdy enough to carry us
safely across this ocean full of whiteness.