A Trifling Anecdote
Except it happens all the time.
I went to a wedding in Hilton Head, South Carolina, in the early ‘90s.
Lovely wedding. I was just there as a partner of the sister of the groom’s. Which meant I was, essentially, an afterthought. A part of the background noise.
I am sorry. I lied. I have no idea if it was a “lovely wedding” I am merely presuming it was “lovely” because it was in a beautiful place with expensive decor and I know the bride and groom could afford a lavish event with hundreds of well-dressed guests.
I don’t remember the wedding.
If the couple, since divorced, reads this, I apologize. To be honest, I don’t remember a couple of my brother’s weddings. I don’t remember many high school highlights that my class mates remember either. I don’t remember prom, homecoming or graduation.
My theory is that our brains simply run out of random access memory and have to reject terabytes of information daily just to keep our sanity.
But it’s often quite interesting what they retain because I do remember a part of that wedding.
The setting was the South, but it could have been anywhere.
During the party after the ceremony, there was a small jazz and blues band playing while folks were lined up for the wedding reception line, as well as the wedding cake. The band had one black musician and he was dressed to the nines. In other words, he was very smartly dressed. He could easily fit in with the people who were paying for him to be there along with their wedding goers.
Except, of course, he was black and we were a crowd of white faces.
People were dancing and having a great time and I think he was on the trumpet or the bass, or both. He was front and center on the stage playing his heart out and getting everyone to let their guards down a bit in that staid, old country club or wherever it was being held. I remember being impressed with the band’s sound and energy. They certainly energized me to dance.
Meanwhile the self-serve line for the wedding cake was moving slowly.
The band took a break. The trumpet player was invited to get a piece of the wedding cake along with the other members of the band.
The groom’s mother might have even suggested the band cut into the front of the line, so they didn’t spend their break standing in a line.
The trumpet player cut himself a slice of cake, or maybe he just picked up a cake plate from the table but, in any case, the next thing you know, and I am not really sure how this unfolded, he was posted at the table handing out cake slices for those behind him.
He had morphed into the role of butler.
Dozens of people behind him in line, none of whom batted an eyelash, took the wedding cake from him and walked off as if there was nothing odd about the guy hired to be a musician was now performing as a servant. As I try to look back into these hazy memories, I can’t recall if he decided to take on that role, or if the person behind him automatically presumed he must be ‘the help’ and took his cake slice and then the next person stood waiting for him to serve them, and so he did.
I don’t think it matters.
Either scenario paints a telling picture. White people saw the black guy as their servant, even though they had just witnessed him doing an excellent impression of Louie Armstrong.
After a while, the groom’s mother noticed what was going on and, indignant and aghast, she marched over to the table and relieved the trumpet player so he could leisurely enjoy his cake break and maybe have time for a smoke.
This is a small, trifling anecdote. But multiply it by millions every single day over years and then decades and then centuries. While you are at it, throw in all of the other indignities, beatings, slurs, lynchings, framings, killings and cutting slights.
Heterosexual white males can’t imagine that kind of systemic oppression. But every other subset of human can imagine, or has glimpsed, what that kind of oppression would be like. Every other subset you can think of.
We need something to pierce their veil of indifference.
Sustained protests are a start. Something to keep media from changing the narrative. Because you know that’s coming.
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I think this is a powerful message. It definitely comes from the heart.
Also, this is my favorite version of “The Sound of Silence”. Sorry, Paul. Art.