Originally written August 2022
This weekend I had an “ah-ha” moment—one of those realizations that many Black people may already know deep down, but I hadn’t fully connected the dots until now.
I now have irrefutable proof that Black people are invisible to white people. Or worse—we’re ghosts.
Here’s what happened.
I’ve lived in my neighborhood for almost 24 years. There are about six or seven families of every race who’ve been here just as long. But like most neighborhoods in Evanston, it’s becoming less and less diverse.
Saturday morning, my wife and I were headed to Menards (Home Depot lost my business, but that’s another story) to grab materials for our front and backyard project. On the way, we stopped to chat with some longtime neighbors who were also out working in their yards. One of them mentioned they’d had a truckload of mulch delivered—and told us not to buy any because there was plenty to share.
Later that afternoon, I walked down the block with my wheelbarrow to the mulch pile. The same neighbor who invited us was there, along with two other moms who were already shoveling and filling up their carts and wagons.
Not once did they acknowledge my presence.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t until Sunday that the moment fully landed.
On my second trip to the mulch pile, I decided to speak—introducing myself. And there it was. That look. I’ve seen it hundreds of times but never quite had the words for it. It’s the look of someone hearing a voice they didn’t expect, followed by that split-second where you suddenly become visible.
It only lasts a moment, but it’s unmistakable. The startled eyes. The slight jolt. Then the word that always comes next: “Oh.”
In that moment of becoming visible, there’s also a flash of fear. Sometimes it passes quickly. Other times it lingers (see: Amy Cooper). And sometimes it calcifies into something much worse (see: Derek Chauvin).
In this case, the young moms recovered, smiled, and introduced themselves. We talked about the neighborhood, swapped the usual pleasantries. Once you’re visible—truly visible—most people relax. You become familiar, no longer an aberration.
But later, I returned to the same mulch pile. A man had joined the effort. I was still the only Black man there. Once again, I initiated the introduction.
Same look. Same startled pause.
Same word: “Oh.”
Same return to business as usual.
You’d think invisibility would be an awesome superpower. Top two, maybe, right behind flying. But when you’re Black—invisibility isn’t power. It’s danger.
Because when you materialize—when white folks finally notice you—some get scared. And fear in this country, in the presence of Blackness, can be deadly.
We’re like ghosts. People have been taught to fear us before they even see us.
And let’s be honest—what color was the only friendly ghost?
The recent, senseless deaths of Black people have made us more visible in the headlines. But as I found out this weekend, in the day-to-day lives of some folks—we’re still completely invisible.
