I can’t make heads or tails of the poll (yet), so I didn’t answer it.
But I suspect my answer is the same as it usually is in threads like this. “A little from column A, a little from column B.”
I had a friend in grad school. I call her a friend because that’s the best way of describing our relationship, but in retrospect, I don’t really think we had a real friendship. But anyway, Jenni was my friend. She was several years older than me and had a mean sense of humor.
As soon as she learned I was 1) black (she thought I was Puerto Rican or something at first), and 2) not a “militant” black (meaning, I’m not quick to fly off the handle), she would regale me on a regular basis with racial jabs. Everything from “Why do black people do X?” to Rush Limbaugh-esque lecturing about how I need to thank white people for “rescuing” me from Africa, rather than demanding reparations from them (which I’ve never done before, but I did tell her I was sympathetic to the cause). The undergrad student who assisted her on her projects would also throw in a few jokes at my expense. And me, trying to be goodnatured about everything and NOT be “militant”, would laugh and do my best to punch back. Which was pretty hard for me to do. My sense of humor doesn’t bend in that direction.
Every evening, I’d ride my bike through the slums of Newark and I’d see people–black people–mired in poverty, crime. And then I’d reflect on how I was the only black doctoral student at my school. And then the sting of Jenni’s jokes would sink in.
Once, around 9-11, an Indian guy told me that Newark residents were all niggers. I’d just told him that I lived in Newark, and here I was giving the dude a ride home. But I said nothing.
I went to a conference down in New Orleans with a bunch of fellow grad students. The humidity did a number on a sista’s hair, and I was in a sour mood about it. One of the guys in the group had been making fun of me all day and I didn’t say a word. But when he started poking fun of my hair, I flipped out and threatened to throw his ass off the balconey. I’m sure I confirmed all kinds of stereotypes about “angry black women” that day. Those people saw me freaking over something as trivial as my hair. But they don’t know that I don’t “freak out” over the million other paper cuts that I endure. Every time I read your typical comments section, I get pricked. But I don’t even flinch.
I really do think most members of stigmitized minority groups quickly learn from an early age how to let shit slide. Especially folks who are ambitious and end up being successful at something. But everyone has a tipping point. What looks like “hypersensitive” is often someone who has tried to be patient, but they’ve had their fill.