So I’m black.
I’m reminded of it every day.
To be black is to endure the death of your humanity by a thousand paper cuts.

So when a white man cut in front of me in the checkout line yesterday, I found myself enraged by the questions I had to ask myself before I could react.
1/

What might he do if I confronted him?
What might he say?
Would he yell that he felt threatened?
Would he get violent?
Would he call the police?

What harm was he capable of in this moment?
2/

My wife stood next to me.
Would her presence be a help or a hindrance?
Was I willing to put her into the middle of this confrontation?
Was raising my voice for a modicum of respect worth the safety of my family?
3/

All of these questions and more, in the span of one second.
The result: I did nothing.
I dropped my head, let out a long sigh, and endured another minor slight.
This is what it means to be a black man:

Knowing that your existence is both a threat and a sign of powerlessness.
4/

I am an Ivy League graduate.
I am a surgeon.
I am an author.
I am a teacher.

I have achieved what I'd hoped would afford me the right to be heard and understood.

And yet.

Always 'and yet'.
5/

I have been taught, and internalized, one thing above all: my manhood and my humanity are not mine to keep.

They are to be offered up to white people for evaluation, trimming, pruning, dismemberment and death.

Every. Single. Day.

Of my life.
6/

Now I ostensibly have allies.
Lovely white people who want to "listen and learn".
But I shouldn't have to teach you about the pain of learned silence.

Because you created this trauma.

You feed it daily.
And you never see it or think about it because my trauma keeps you safe.
7/

I am black. I am a man.
And I die just a little bit more each day with every paper cut slice through my skin.

So that’s it. No hopeful analysis. No uplifting message.

Some days blackness just hurts.

And you’re thankful that the thousand paper cuts never bleed all at once.