I would ever use that term to refer to another black person, or anybody, for that matter.
My dad not only preached to me about what it meant to be a man, but he also showed me what hard work and dedication looked like. He woke up every morning and put on a suit, saying, âDress for the job you want, not the job you have.â My mom, the high school principal, was equally impressive in my eyes. The two of them showed me that hard work pays off and that itâs not about where you came from or how you look.
For so long I struggled with my identity. If Iâm blessed to have kids one day, Iâll be damned if I ever let them feel as conflicted asI was growing up. I will do my best to guide them on the important things in life. Not their ethnicity, religious identity, sexual preferenceâthose are just labels. All that matters is being a good person and putting in the work.
Of course, issues of race still play a major role in my life today. There are stigmas that come with being a black man. One example would be the women I choose to date. Iâm obviously aware of the stereotype of black men who date or marry white women, and why it would upset many black women. But my love life is a personal choice, not a political statement. Iâve dated black women, Iâve dated Hispanic women, Iâve dated Asian women, and . . . Iâve dated white women. I donât know what color of skin the woman I marry is going to have. I do know that she will be kind, loving, intelligent, and that Iâll cherish her as much as possible.
I am not blind to racism. Iâve been pulled over by police for no reason down in North Carolina more than once. In college, I remember when a group of us decided to spend a weekend at a friendâs home in South Carolina. On the drive down, we stopped at a bar in the sticks. We were underage but thought weâd try to have a drink anyway. The place had an antique popcorn machine and reeked of sour beer. I noticed the camouflage shirts on the patrons as they stared me down, but I didnât think too much of it. I was too busy rehearsing my order, fake ID in hand.
âWe donât serve your kind here, boy,â the bartender said.
I thought he was referring to the fact that I went to Duke or that I wasnât of drinking age yet.
âExcuse me?â I said, with as deep a voice as I could muster.
âWe donât serve niggers,â he clarified.
I just stared at him in disbelief. After waiting a moment tosee if it was a joke, I came to the conclusion that he was drop-dead serious. I turned around and we quickly exited the building. Thankfully unharmed.
Black does not mean ignorant. White does not mean âthe correct way.â Iâve had some peopleâpeople I still love to this dayâsay in front of their friends, âCome on, Jay, you know you arenât really black.â Ignorance.
When I was in college, the public saw me through the lens of a story created by the media, one they thought they knew.
I guess we know now that things werenât so perfect around the Huxtables, either.
4
Rafters
I had never been invited to the ABCD Camp until the summer heading into my senior year of high school. It was an All-American camp held at Fairleigh Dickinson University, in my home state of New Jersey. I always held a grudge against them for overlooking me, so, being the spiteful person I was then, I chose to accept an invite to the Nike All-American Basketball Camp, in Indianapolis, instead.
In high school, I played every position but point guard; go figure. That position belonged to Nick Cerulo. My high school coach, Mark Taylor, thought I was better off focusing my attention on scoring. I went to the Nike camp wondering how I would be able to differentiate myself from all these other top players. The thing was, everybody there could score . Some of those guys were averaging 35, 40 points a game in high school, and here I was, averaging a
My dad not only preached to me about what it meant to be a man, but he also showed me what hard work and dedication looked like. He woke up every morning and put on a suit, saying, âDress for the job you want, not the job you have.â My mom, the high school principal, was equally impressive in my eyes. The two of them showed me that hard work pays off and that itâs not about where you came from or how you look.
For so long I struggled with my identity. If Iâm blessed to have kids one day, Iâll be damned if I ever let them feel as conflicted asI was growing up. I will do my best to guide them on the important things in life. Not their ethnicity, religious identity, sexual preferenceâthose are just labels. All that matters is being a good person and putting in the work.
Of course, issues of race still play a major role in my life today. There are stigmas that come with being a black man. One example would be the women I choose to date. Iâm obviously aware of the stereotype of black men who date or marry white women, and why it would upset many black women. But my love life is a personal choice, not a political statement. Iâve dated black women, Iâve dated Hispanic women, Iâve dated Asian women, and . . . Iâve dated white women. I donât know what color of skin the woman I marry is going to have. I do know that she will be kind, loving, intelligent, and that Iâll cherish her as much as possible.
I am not blind to racism. Iâve been pulled over by police for no reason down in North Carolina more than once. In college, I remember when a group of us decided to spend a weekend at a friendâs home in South Carolina. On the drive down, we stopped at a bar in the sticks. We were underage but thought weâd try to have a drink anyway. The place had an antique popcorn machine and reeked of sour beer. I noticed the camouflage shirts on the patrons as they stared me down, but I didnât think too much of it. I was too busy rehearsing my order, fake ID in hand.
âWe donât serve your kind here, boy,â the bartender said.
I thought he was referring to the fact that I went to Duke or that I wasnât of drinking age yet.
âExcuse me?â I said, with as deep a voice as I could muster.
âWe donât serve niggers,â he clarified.
I just stared at him in disbelief. After waiting a moment tosee if it was a joke, I came to the conclusion that he was drop-dead serious. I turned around and we quickly exited the building. Thankfully unharmed.
Black does not mean ignorant. White does not mean âthe correct way.â Iâve had some peopleâpeople I still love to this dayâsay in front of their friends, âCome on, Jay, you know you arenât really black.â Ignorance.
When I was in college, the public saw me through the lens of a story created by the media, one they thought they knew.
I guess we know now that things werenât so perfect around the Huxtables, either.
4
Rafters
I had never been invited to the ABCD Camp until the summer heading into my senior year of high school. It was an All-American camp held at Fairleigh Dickinson University, in my home state of New Jersey. I always held a grudge against them for overlooking me, so, being the spiteful person I was then, I chose to accept an invite to the Nike All-American Basketball Camp, in Indianapolis, instead.
In high school, I played every position but point guard; go figure. That position belonged to Nick Cerulo. My high school coach, Mark Taylor, thought I was better off focusing my attention on scoring. I went to the Nike camp wondering how I would be able to differentiate myself from all these other top players. The thing was, everybody there could score . Some of those guys were averaging 35, 40 points a game in high school, and here I was, averaging a
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