Taylor, a white woman of Jewish descent, turned to me and said, “Are you okay? Do you want to go in? It’s okay if we don’t.”
I looked over at Shahzeb, a Pakistani Muslim who is in the U.S. to learn more about American journalism and politics. Despite the inflammatory anti-Muslim rhetoric that has marked many Trump rallies, Shahzed was raring to go in the building to report. Seeing his resolve and Taylor’s willingness to give up the job just to make sure I was comfortable, I decided to steel myself and proceed.
I turned to them and said, “Let’s go in.”
I could feel stares on me – beady, suspicious and unwelcoming – as we wandered the fluorescent-lit halls, looking for Johnson’s private event. We said hello to two men who were walking in our direction. They said nothing. They simply leered at us, their eyes lingering as we walked by. These glares reminded me of the looks my grandmother told me she received in her childhood if a black person found themselves on the “wrong side” of Rankin County, Mississippi, a county with a reputation of discriminating against people of color.
And the stares reminded me of my own hometown, a place with a history of racial segregation and racial oppression. I was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, a city and state where racial hostility isn’t exactly hidden.
Mississippi has the kind of history where if a black child allegedly whistles to a white woman, he would be lynched by members of the KKK. The type of racism where a civil rights activist is assassinated at his home, a home that is just streets away from the one on which I grew up. The type of hate where the first black student who enrolled at the University of Mississippi had to be escorted on campus by U.S. Marshalls, only to be met by white students blocking his path, calling him “nigger” and telling him to get out. The type of deep-seated racism that exists in a state where you still find confederate flags flown with pride, while the statues of the black students who integrated Mississippi institutions and the memorials of black civil rights activists are regularly vandalized.
My southern sensibilities have made me attuned to the glares of people who seem to not want people like me around. So after one too many glares from the Johnson faithful in Wisconsin, I told Taylor and Shahzeb, “I feel it.” The feeling that you are being scrutinized based on your melanin content or the way your hair curls. Shahzeb told me he felt it as well.
Taylor turned to both of us and said she, too, had “a weird vibe” about the place.
But I didn’t stop to reflect on the feelings. We came here to do a job, and I was resolved to complete that job.
We reached a table with “Trump for President” décor and another table with campaign materials promoting local republicans running for office. No one was sitting at the table. A man passed us silently, turning his nose up as he breezed by. A woman with blonde hair wearing a dark jacket with a bright red “Make America Great Again” button affixed to the lapel soon approached us at the table.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
We all froze until Taylor asked, “should we go over?”
I snapped to attention and approached the table to greet the woman.
“Hello, we are reporters from Medill News Service, a Chicago-based media outlet. We saw that this is an event for Sen. Ron Johnson from Facebook and wanted to know if you guys wouldn’t mind us covering the event.”
The woman wore no expression as Taylor and Shahzeb approached the table. She turned her eyes from me and toward Shazeb. She scanned him from his feet up to his face. She then turned to-me. She just stood there before her lips moved. She said that she had to ask the event’s coordinator if press was allowed and retreated to find her.
“Thank you,” I replied, wearing yet another smile.
As we waited, I noticed the doors to the event were open. The room was filled with a sea of white faces. From our vantage point, I saw not one person of color. On stage, I noticed Rep. Jim Sensenbrenner, who represents Wisconsin’s 5th Congressional District, speaking. Taylor immediately asked if we were okay. I asked if she could do the talking when the woman returned. She did just that. When the two women arrived, Taylor informed them who we were and why we were at the event. The event coordinator’s eyes never came in contact with mine, even though I was positioned directly in front of her. She just stared at my press pass and said, “No.”
I was unsure if we were being denied access because I was a black man, Shahzeb was a Muslim, or because the three of us were journalists.
But as journalists, we are conditioned to take a different approach when someone says no the first time. I chimed in, informing her that our organization is Chicago-based, and that I was personally covering the voter ID law in Wisconsin, as well as select Senate races, and this event came across my radar.
The entire time that I was talking, the woman, who we first encountered, was staring at Shahzeb with her lips pursed and her eyes piercing through him as though they could cut through glass. The event coordinator then gave us a final no, but that did not stop Taylor from proposing that we attend as spectators.
We were well aware that there would be a charge to attend, and we were willing to pay.
“I think not,” the coordinator immediately said.
I realized that there was no point in continuing the conversation.
“Well, thank you and have a great night,” I said.
They both replied simultaneously with a snort.
“That back there was thick. I felt that,” Taylor said as we were exiting the building and heading to our car.
“Welcome to being black in Trump’s America,” I replied.
