12:30am. I’m hot. Its hot. I know its hotter in other places. I think about that constantly. If I’m so hot here, what about muthafuckas in Atlanta, or Guyana, or Rio, or Australia. Man this shit is crazy. It was so hot today I didn’t really leave the house. Maybe its a combination of the heat and the fact that I sweat more easily now than I ever have in my life. Everybody tells me its healthy — good metabolism, gets rid of toxins. But its still uncomfortable. Not just because I feel hot and my shirt gets soaked, but because a hot sweaty n*gger can’t be a good thing.
I mind my business. Carry myself in the most respectful manner possible. I live in the most ethnically mixed neighbourhood in NYC, but am one of a handful of black people. I like the fact that I have a chance to represent my people and demonstrate how amazing we truly are whenever I leave my house. What’s crazy though is that I feel that a “non-sweating” chilled out version of me can be perceived in a completely different way than a hot and uncomfortable me. A sweaty me could have just committed a crime and is on the run. A sweaty me could be on drugs, experiencing withdrawal and looking for a fix or a person to mug in order to get that fix. A sweaty me could be sexually aggressive, unable to control his urges or just horny enough to be a problem that requires police activity. Maybe I just didn’t feel like dealing with all that today. Those many things that black men have to consider as we live and breathe.
I know it’s hotter in other places. In Brazil, home to the 2016 Olympics, people of my complexion suffer in ways I couldn’t possibly understand. In France, people as dark as me are only “French” when competing in athletic events. In the Dominican Republic, dark-chocolate colored brothers and sisters are currently being deported from the only country and home they know.
I can’t imagine these levels of heat. When it’s hot and muggy in New York I am miserable. Only comforted by the fact that everyone is just as miserable during a heatwave. I try to keep it in perspective though. I try to remember that even though black people in the US risk their lives everyday just by simply living here, a lot of people around the world have it worse — hotter. But I’ll be damned if I don’t still feel the severe discomfort of hot winds coming through my window, fans blowing hot air, store clerks looking at me suspiciously or police officers keeping me in their periphery (just in case). I know police raid favelas in Brazil and carelessly murder people who look like me. I know that even though I run through the script in my head over and over, there is a chance that I may slip, speak normally, man-to-man to a police officer. And I know that this could mean the end of my life. My accomplishments would mean nothing. My achievements. My family. How I have overcome adversity. How much I want to share with the world and contribute and how many lives I want to help. My art. My purpose.
None of this means anything to a system that perceives me as an inferior, disposable problem. A system that is remarkable in its precision of destroying the hearts, minds, souls and dreams of millions of people who look like me. A system that is so driven on greed and power that human lives are immaterial.
I can only try to manage this heat. Live with it. And think of others around the world who are hotter, sweatier and more powerless, more subject to the whims of their oppressors. Keeping it in perspective helps a little.
But still, here I am. Hot as fuck.
