The Incident

After three months of marginal employment, I'm happy to announce that I will soon re-enter the American workforce. I accepted a staff writer position at a weekly newspaper in North Carolina. I start in October. I'm excited about the new gig, but also worried that my new coworkers won't accept me as one of their own. Unfortunately, my worries are not unfounded.

The paper I'll be joining is part of what's called the alternative press. For the most part, the alternative press (free, weekly, tabloid-style papers) publishes journalism from the liberal/left perspective. The papers are openly concerned with social justice and aren't timid about expressing an opinion or searching for truth, pursuits which are too often taboo at more conventional daily papers. But despite their progressive agenda, the staffs of these papers are almost always entirely white -- there's nary a Negro in any of the newsrooms. It's a hypocrisy that's ironically overlooked because of the papers' liberal politics. "We're good white people because we're liberal," the thinking goes. "We don't work with black people, but we write great things about them."

In my longstanding role as the token black integrator (at papers in New York, Houston and now, North Carolina), I've gotten the chance to give a few of these papers some credibility on the issue of newsroom diversity. Still, I haven't always been welcomed with open arms.

The last day of last November was the first day of my new job at Houston's alternative weekly. After a long day of settling into the new cubicle, I left the office in the early evening to head home. The smog-polluted sky had that beautiful pink orange haze that reminds you of romance. When I left, there were only a few cars remaining in the parking lot. I walked to mine, opened the door and got in. I fumbled around with the removable face for my stereo. I cranked the engine.

Unbeknown to me, one of my new coworkers, a white lady who I hadn't yet met, left the building just after I did. I didn't notice her until I was comfortably in the driver's seat listening to some music, which was probably Outkast. I looked to my right and saw her staring at me from her car, a red Miata convertible, which was a couple of spaces away from my green Honda. She had a quizzical look on her face like she needed directions. After a few long seconds of avoiding her gaze, I let down my window to see if I could be of assistance. She stared silently, penetratingly. I let my window back up, pulled out of my spot and headed for the parking lot's exit.

Before I could reach the street, she swerved her Miata in front of my car to block me. Oddly enough, I thought nothing of it. If she was in that much of a hurry, I thought, she could leave first -- no big deal. But she didn't move; she just sat there. I still figured that she was just a little confused, so I sat patiently. Outkast really soothes the soul of an Atlanta native.

When another few seconds passed without her moving, I tapped the horn a few times. Nothing. Growing frustrated, I tried to drive around her. When I moved, she moved. For some reason, she wasn't letting me out of the parking lot. I let down my window again.

"What's the problem, lady?"

"I'm not letting you out of here!" She screamed.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not letting you out of the parking lot with that car. That's my friend's car. You're stealing my best friend's car!"

I paused, baffled, then took a few moments to retrace my steps. I entered the car with my key. I cranked the engine with my key. I played my Outkast CD. Yes, yes, it was definitely my car. "What are you talking about. This is my car!"

"No! That's my friend's car. This is a private lot. You don't work here."

"Does your friend have Georgia plates?" Don't ask me why I tried to reason with her.

"Yes, she does! This a private lot. I've never seen you here before!"

"Today was my first day!" My patience had run out. I gunned my engine and headed directly for her car. Sensing that she was no longer dealing with a polite car thief, but an angry black man, she moved out of my way. I sped away from the parking lot ready to run over the next white lady that crossed my path. A couple of blocks away, the red Miata pulled alongside me. The white lady again stared at me, but this time she was blushing. She motioned for me to let down my window.

"I'm soooooo sorry," she pleaded. "I thought you were stealing my friend's car. She has that same car. I feel sooo bad. Pleeeeeease forgive me." She went on until the light turned green and I drove away.

The next day, she stopped by my cubicle to apologize again. She brought her friend with her -- the one whose car she'd accused me of stealing. They both apologized and apologized and apologized. "We're not racist, we promise. We're not racist!" Of course, you aren't. This is the alternative press.

I hope things will be different at my new job. They better be. I'm not as nice as I used to be.