In the autumn of 2013, shortly after I relocated to Detroit, I reported on the tragic death of Renisha McBride. Her story was deeply unsettling. McBride, a 19-year-old Black woman from Detroit, had been in a car accident late at night in the predominantly white suburb of Dearborn Heights. Seeking assistance, she approached nearby houses and knocked on the door of Theodore Wafer, a white middle-aged man. His response was to fatally shoot her through his closed screen door.
The day I received my assignment from editors in New York, I was scheduled to meet Justin, a family friend and Detroit native working at Ford. Justin, feeling protective of me in a new city far from home, quickly assumed a brotherly role. I jokingly called him my fairy godmother.
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We were an unlikely pair. Justin stood tall at 6ft 5in, weighed 300lb, and had the imposing presence of a former football player. He was Black. I am a white woman of medium build, with blonde hair and a distinct British accent. He volunteered to drive me around Dearborn Heights as I interviewed neighbors of the shooter, community members, police officers, and activists.
However, as we entered Dearborn Heights, a predominantly white suburb, I noticed Justin would drop me off but never accompany me. At the police station, he seemed to shrink within his car. We shared lunch, and the white waitress frowned when we said we would share a soup.
“What you don’t realize, Rose,” he told me, “is that I am in danger here.”
Despite working nearby, Dearborn Heights was a place Justin deliberately avoided. Driving through carried the risk of being stopped by the police, at the very least. He explained that a history of housing discrimination had taught him he was not welcome there. Detroit activists later described Dearborn Heights as a “sundown town” – a place where Black people historically knew to avoid being after dark. They asserted that little had changed.
At the police station, white officers greeted me warmly. They laughed and joked when I mentioned living in the heart of Detroit, a city as overwhelmingly Black as their suburb was overwhelmingly white. They questioned my safety there.
Here I was, a young, single white woman, and everyone was concerned about my well-being. Yet, it was Justin, the 300lb man beside me, who was constantly minimizing himself, silently altering his behavior to ensure his safety, to protect his life. He was the one whose body was perceived as unsafe. Societal constructs and prejudice dictated that being Black and male was a dangerous combination for him.
The recent killings of two Black men, Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, by police officers, brought back the lessons from that day.
Historically, Black men in America have been portrayed as aggressive, hypersexual, and violent – needing to be controlled, exploited, and subdued. This stereotype, fueled by racist fear and used to justify subjugation, has had a counterintuitive effect: Black men in America are, in fact, deeply vulnerable and constantly at risk.
“My emotional connection [to the news] is the realization that it could be me at any time, any day,” says William Jones, a 22-year-old New Yorker working in high-end retail.
Every Black man I spoke with for this article echoed Jones’s sentiment.
“Every day, I live with that feeling of fragility, that feeling that I could be taken out at any moment. I am a chokehold away from being Eric Garner,” states Ben Saunders, a 37-year-old psychology professor at Long Island University.
Saunders admits to being constantly vigilant in public. He consciously avoids causing any disturbance, even when justified. He suppresses any strong feelings of anger and refrains from speaking out. His white wife sometimes questions his restraint. “Black people have been killed for saying less than that,” he replies to her.
The consequence of this enforced behavioral modification? “A loss of dignity,” he explains.
Joshua Lott, a 37-year-old renowned photojournalist who has traveled across the US for major news organizations, shares that his experiences have taught him to be constantly on alert when arriving in a new location for work.
“I am extremely cautious, especially when I am in places with few minorities. I know I am a potential target. I am a target because I am a journalist, because I am a Black man, I am tall, and I wear bright colors.”
People have called the police on him while he was on assignment, he recounts. He remembers police sirens and cars racing towards him in a quiet Arizona neighborhood where he was covering the housing crisis. A woman had told him he didn’t belong there and called 911.
In addition to his press credentials, Lott always carries a copy of the New York Times featuring one of his front-page photos. This, he knows, is a frustrating but necessary precaution for his safety.
“I shouldn’t have to carry newspapers to justify what I am doing and who I am.”
Lott says he has had numerous unprovoked “police encounters,” including a serious case of police brutality during a Chicago demonstration, which was settled out of court. Yet, he considers himself fortunate.
“I am extremely lucky; the cops could have pulled a gun and killed me. They could have fabricated any reason.”
Michael Oppenheimer, a 39-year-old public defender who has practiced in New York City, Washington DC, and Baltimore, notes that it’s common in his profession to meet Black or Brown men arrested for misdemeanors who have suffered broken noses, stitches, or black eyes at the hands of the police.
There is often little recourse for justice for these men, he says. “The common charges, particularly in New York, that raise red flags are disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer – that’s code for the cops beat you up and now need to justify it.”
Oppenheimer explains that his commitment to becoming a public defender stems partly from the realization that as a Black man, regardless of education, attire, or behavior, mistreatment is a constant possibility. There is no escape.
“This isn’t Black people saying we feel discriminated against. It’s statistical,” he emphasizes, citing data showing a disproportionate number of Black individuals killed or subjected to force by police.
Oppenheimer himself had a police officer draw a gun on him while paying for a taxi with his credit card in New York after a night out. The officer, after speaking with the cab driver and realizing his mistake – that the lawyer was not robbing the driver – simply told him “you know how it is around here” as explanation.
“His response was basically, you know what, Black man, you should expect this. My only option in that situation was to shut up and accept it. But I was terrified. You can’t know what someone else might do. He could have fired.”
[The Counted: people killed by police in the United States – interactive
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“Everyone has a story. It becomes a perverse rite of passage for Black men in America.”
Saunders, the psychology professor, reiterates that in any situation, he is always aware of police presence. If officers are nearby, he consciously modifies his behavior, attuned to how he might be perceived.
William Jones, the 22-year-old, stands at 6ft 6in. He understands he can be seen as threatening, a perception he deems unfair. He points out that racism is learned, not innate, and therefore can be unlearned.
Jones, knowledgeable about history, reminds me, as we sit on a sidewalk in South Harlem, that not long ago, interviewing him would have been forbidden for me. “It’s not just that we couldn’t talk; I could be killed for you talking to me,” Jones explains, emphasizing the proximity of this history. In 1955, 14-year-old Emmett Till, an African American, was lynched in Mississippi after interacting with a white woman in a grocery store.
“It’s like we are viewed as animals. Treated like animals. It’s not easy.”
Jones’s words echo the description by Ferguson, Missouri, police officer Darren Wilson, who shot and killed Black teenager Michael Brown. Wilson described Brown as “aggressive,” “angry,” and like a “demon” moments before ending the 18-year-old’s life.
A 2014 psychology study by Phillip Goff at the University of California found that police officers consistently perceived Black children as older and less innocent than their white counterparts.
“We found evidence that overestimating age and culpability based on racial differences was linked to dehumanizing stereotypes,” Goff stated about the study.
“Stereotypes always undermine the individual experience, or the experience of being in a group,” Saunders, the psychology professor, elaborates. He shares that in the past week, seeking community and understanding of current events, he has seen many of his Black male friends break down in tears.
“The reluctance to see Black men as vulnerable is projected onto them through stereotypes and prejudice.”
“People think of Black men, and vulnerability is not what comes to mind. Black men are rarely given the space to show vulnerability,” he continues.
However, for Saunders, this moment feels like a turning point.
The outrage and despair he feels have reshaped his approach to the world.
“Philando Castile was killed for cooperating. I realized you can be killed for cooperating. That was liberating because I no longer feel the need to prioritize cooperation,” he explains, referring to Castile’s shooting while reaching for his identification as instructed.
Referencing Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poem, Wearing The Mask, he declares he is done with wearing a mask.
“Through this unconscious cooperative mindset, I’ve built goodwill with many white people. They’ve seen me as the ‘good negro.’ I am ready to cash in every bit of that goodwill in this fight for social justice, even if it means alienating people. I am willing to risk everything for this,” he asserts.
“I used to approach social justice from a position of cooperation; now, I approach it from a position of demands.”
