Zinzy Waleson Geene

There are many things I’m scared to do as a Black person. The pathways that hold the reasons why have been visited and revisited so many times that, by now, I barely remember why I do some of the things I do.

Don’t wear track suits, use slang, or do anything that makes people think you belong on a 90s R&B song. Don’t go into White spaces where your otherness is an unwittingly casual topic of inappropriate comments and questions. Don’t display anger, because a White man at the office will use it to ignore the point you’re trying to make.

Don’t eat with your hands, because people will call you an animal.

This is the hypervigilance of a brain on racial trauma. They are daily choices I make to prevent myself from experiencing danger; some colossal and perceived, though the bulk of it real, ongoing and usually too small to count as what feels like a true argument for protest.

On Saturday, I’m going to be the plus one at The Black Archives Bijlmer Book Club, where we’ll be discussing None of the Above. It’s a beautiful and good book that confronts the reader with questions of genre, of inclusion, of otherness, and of the intersection of Blackness, queerdom, and poverty.

The Book Club team is best described in one word: intentional. They are impressively well-organized, and think deeply about this text and the ones they have read in the four seasons of working on this project. We came together on Tuesday to cross some Ts and dot some Is.

Wally, the Club’s founder, calls ahead to take our food order. Roti chicken, I say, feeling silly for barely knowing what that actually entails.

Don’t eat Surinamese food, lest people think you’re… Black.

In the meantime Meredith and I chat away about our days, being Black at the office, about De Bijlmer, about being adults ready for summer break.

This is my first time actually being at The Black Archives. It’s a rich tapestry of writing of a wide variety of genres. Periodicals, books on music, (auto)biographies, books on racism, depictions of racist cultural artifacts.

Anja has been wanting to go with me for years, but every time she tries I find a way not to. For some reason, looking trauma in the face in a public venue on a casual Saturday while trying not to cry-and-never-stop is not my idea of a good pastime.

But now that I’m here things feel so different. Here I am, sharing a meal with two Black people who have seemingly mastered the skill of being unapologetic about their heritage.

They open their roti takeout, unfold their pancake, and start eating. Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it. I ask them if it’s okay that I watch them eat before I start, so I can see how in the world I’m supposed to eat sauce without cutlery.

It’s easy, really. I just have to be willing to get it everywhere.