Black or White

    It was a totally American street, in the centre of New York; most of the people working here were rich and white. Skyscrapers pointed into the immense space, seeming like people screaming out with their hands up. Lavish as they were, those rich who came out of the Burberry passed by the black beggars and precisely threw a Kennedy into the tin full of the same things.

    The sun dizzily stayed in the sky and wouldn’t leave. It was six o’ clock in the evening, with the briskly fading away of the sizzling air of July.

    I took a deep breath, trying to face something might happen later. And then I decided that it was time to go home.

    I called a taxi driver on Uber and he came within 5 minutes. He was a tall, strong, white man, and said, “Hey, your standard English is so good!” I smiled politely as usual and told him that the destination was XXX, which made him feel a little bit confused. He hesitated for a second, and asked me that if I would like to repeat the destination again. I said, “XXX.” His glimpse of surprise swiftly slipped my simple, leisure wear and made a decision.

    He started the car. We didn’t talk to each other much. I stared at the CBD passing away through the glass window, which was a long time, like a ceremony, where I, the main character celebrated the escape of city life, the white city life. Cloud-kissing buildings replaced by the pastoral rural fields, I took a deep breath again, relieved---I was home.

    I paid the driver and tipped him. He was still in shock that I, a black, lived in such a big house and owned a vast area of land. I was not satisfied with the journey home, for there were still so many people who had prejudice on the color of the skin, or the fixed opinion rooting in generations during hundreds of years of American history.

    True, I am a black. However, my living style is white, what I eat was different from my other black friends, my English is standard without “Yo wassup”, and even my social status and money are not like normal blacks. But the whites don’t really accept me because of the appearance, which can’t be solved by the idea of dismissing racism. The blacks, nor accept me because I am living a better life while they are still suffering in the lowest part of this society.

Titus Kaphar, Another Fight for Remembrance, 2015. Oil on canvas. Yale University Art Gallery, Purchased with a gift from the Arthur and Constance Zeckendorf Foundation

    I always want to scream. I always feel that there is something strong deep in my heart. In one aspect I want to live a white life, but from the other I want to speak out that I am a black. Some of my rich black colleagues are also confused with the position we are in in our society.

    Every day I dream about the same thing, that me and my black siblings putting our hands up. Tearing down the white outside judged by others strugglingly, our eyes look into people's, and our black bodies are being shown.

    That how we can find a way to reconcile the opposite two parts of our life will always be a problem. And we are still searching, searching…

    I wake up from my dream. And it is three in the afternoon, I standing in front of the canvas.