The Apology Wasn’t for Me
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
In a past life, when I still had aspirations to conquer Hollywood as a screenwriter, I vividly recall stumbling into our writers’ room at Culver Studios for what would eventually become Strange Angel for AMC Networks.
However, on that particular morning, I had no desire to be there.
The execution of Philando Castile was freshly seared into my soul, and if my 30-plus years as a Black man in America had taught me anything up to that point, it’s that the last place I wanted to be was in a room full of white folks—meandering about their Monday morning, completely oblivious to my rage.
I skipped my usual breakfast of bagels and banter to avoid the exuberance of my colleagues in the kitchen. Instead, my anguish and I sank behind the desk in our conference room.
The silence was comforting.
At least it gave a shit.
To my surprise, one of my fellow scribes noticed I wasn’t my hungry, jovial self. She peered into the conference room from the kitchen, then joined me at the desk. There was an awkward silence as she mulled her approach, but eventually, she lured me in with eye contact.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned away. “For?”
“I saw what happened. You must be so angry.”
I was so astonished at what was happening—that a living, breathing white person was actually expressing concern over yet another murdered Black body—that I could barely process the words tumbling out of her mouth.
“I don’t know how you do it every day,” she continued. “Murdered in cold blood. You must be so afraid.”
I just stared in silence. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I had spent my entire drive to work that morning dreading these people; their blissful ignorance, their perpetual state of apathy. I was the only Black dude in a writers’ room brimming with privilege, tasked with cranking out a hit TV series with living, breathing human beings who looked and lived nothing like me.
I was used to feeling invisible. I was used to being othered.
But this? To finally feel seen?
I sorted through my thoughts, brushed aside my consternation to speak, and—
“I’ve been telling you to watch House of Cards!” she yelled. “Frank is so good!”
Laughter poured into the room, with fistfuls of caffeine not far behind. Laptops and backpacks collapsed onto the desk in front of us. The rest of our writing staff had arrived.
I watched as she smiled and cackled away with our colleagues. Uncontrollable laughter, devoid of a single care in the world.
I was invisible again.
What happened to Alex Pretti and Renee Good is appalling, but they aren’t isolated incidents.
And maybe—just maybe—if white folks started listening to us sooner instead of laughing, they’d still be alive.
All Lives Matter better get to work.