You walk into the break room Monday morning to grab a cup of coffee. You overhear your direct supervisor and two of your colleagues, all white men, talking about their weekend golf game.
You mention to them that you golf too and next time you'd love to join the fun.
Your supervisor says he didn't realize you golfed, but they'd definitely invite you if they ever play basketball. The three of them laugh. You don't.
You are black. You don't play basketball. In fact, you don't even watch basketball.
You try to decide how to respond.
Do you say, "That's messed up, you racist motherfu**ers!" and be accused of being the angry black man?
Do you say, "You do realize that you are making racist stereotypes based on the color of my skin. . ." and be accused of being too sensitive or playing the race card?
Or do you say nothing – maybe even join in with the laughter – while resentment and bitterness and anger eat away at your heart and soul from the inside, the perpetual microaggressive onslaught devours your spirit and crushes your motivation day after day after day after day after day. . .
Before you can respond, the three of them leave the room. You're alone – a black man with a black coffee in a black humor.
Hell of a way to start the week. Again.
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