Love/Hate
Why I Won’t Hate Racist White Boys
Should I have spoken up when my teammates used that word?
Man, I was tired. Tired from running up and down soccer fields in Poughkeepsie like a madman, chasing boy after boy, ball after ball. I was 13, and it was my ability to run, paired with unrestrained aggression, that had earned me a spot on the team. But on that day — during a tournament in upstate New York — I wasn’t used solely as the boy to run and get the ball. On that day, I set plays, I did my best to make sure we did more attacking than defending, I slaved out there in the hot sun. And it paid off. We came in second place. My teammates, their parents, and even our coach said I had done a good job: something I’d always wanted to hear.
I remember trying out for the team. One of our final drills was a sprint. I placed my toes on the field’s chalked line, looked to my left and right, and saw only white boys. Once the whistle blew, I leaped down the field, strides ahead of the closest boy, and crossed the finish line with a grin. Some of the boys congratulated me. One told me I won only because I’m black. I asked what being black had to do with winning, and he patiently explained, “You have an extra muscle in your leg, so blacks will always be faster than whites.” I didn’t respond because I didn’t know if it was true. All…
