Shelby

I met Shelby this morning when he rescued me. My car had a flat tire, and he works for a roadside assistance outfit. As he took off the flat tire, inflated my spare with a compressor he keeps in the trunk of his car, and put the spare on, he told me he’s from New Orleans. We talked about neighborhoods we both know and love; he knew the school where I used to teach, and most of his family went to the University of New Orleans, where I got my BA and MA, though he went to Tulane. His family home was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, and after a period of displacement and turmoil, he and his mother and siblings ended up “in a trailer on a little piece of land in Mississippi.” He shook his head. No words.

He heard about Portland, came up to check it out, found work, and sent for his mom and siblings. Now they all live here, he’s married and has a son, and his brothers have found jobs here. His little sister will start school at the University of Oregon next year. He loves it. “Yes, it’s a lot more expensive to live here than in New Orleans, but it’s also easier to find work with decent wages. That’s what I care about. I have friends back in New Orleans who went to Tulane with me, and they end up clerking at hotel desks for $12 an hour if they’re lucky. I’m doing much better than that.”

Coming from the workshop on the weekend, I asked him if he doesn’t find Portland oppressively white. “It’s white,” he laughed, “there’s no question. But that’s not a problem for me. I get along fine, keep to myself, go to work and come home. Maybe I stop for a beer on the way home after work, but for me it’s fine here. I feel like I have a lot more safety and freedom here than I had back home.” 

I think about the complexities of race, class, and geographical location. I think about relativity, and about Quanice Hayes, killed by Portland Police last February; about the people of color I met at the workshop on the weekend, who find well-meaning “liberal” Portland full of superficially friendly people who engage in micro-aggressions and worse. I think about statistics (scroll down past the first few; the more troubling ones are further down the page). I think about my African daughter who refuses even to think about living in a place as white as Portland. She tells me, “If I walk in a restaurant and I’m the only Black person in the room, I walk right back out again.” I think about relativity, about the racism of Portland and the racism of Mississippi or New Orleans. I’m glad Shelby’s happy here, and I know it’s complicated. 

If you'd like to laugh, here's a Bangladeshi standup comedian with an Australian accent, talking about what would be required for "reverse racism" to exist. Marvelous.