I was earning nine dollars per hour as an employee with the Mental Health Center of Denver fifteen years ago, assiduously trying to cobble together a semblance of a professional career a few months after obtaining my release from the psychiatric wing of a hospital.
Eighty percent of my job responsibilities revolved around driving clients around the city of Denver. Clients, in this case, were mentally ill members of society subsisting on a diet of alcohol and illegal drugs. For many of these individuals, the Mental Health Center of Denver is the conduit to an escape from a harrowed existence on the city’s meanest streets.
They labeled me as a peer assistant, because I was diagnosed with a mental illness, and the label frustrated the hell out of me. I’d come to grips with being diagnosed as bipolar-depressive, but I was unlike the people we served, the poor unfortunates roaming the streets, strung out on drugs and alcohol. I lived at the house with my mother and father, had obtained stable employment, and could brandish evidence of a prestigious college degree (Boston University).
The social workers at MHCD, the majority of whom were young and attractive white women, knew I was also a current client. I was way ahead of my peers though, successively surpassing markers signifying recovery from mental illness daily. My coworkers looked to me as a model of effective recovery.
And I was twenty-eight years old back then, so I was objectively young and clear-eyed about prospective goals. After receiving notification of my acceptance to the University of Colorado at Denver Graduate School of Education, I enthusiastically informed my coworkers of the good news. My concerns about their perception of me were somewhat allayed, as they knew that I was on their intellectual level, which dulled the impact of the humiliation I endured daily — one afternoon, a client pointed a finger at me and said “chauffeur”.
In addition to being relatively smart, I was a strapping young lad. As a six-foot tall, two-hundred forty pound muscular black man with a bald head, I drew favorable attention from the female social workers who populated the office.
I ended up dating one of my admirers, Lori, a giggly and bountifully bosomed redhead from Nashville, Tennessee. We ended up spending a night at her place, a two-story chalet on my hometown’s east side.
Framed photographs of young black children dotted Lori’s living room walls. These children could not belong to my paramour, as Lori was a single female set to attend graduate school. Still, I was curious to know her reasons for positioning these photos on her wall.
Lori smiled and said, “Oh, them? Those are my kids.”
“They’re your kids?” I said, confusion manifesting itself through my furrowed brow.
“Well, they are not my kids in the traditional sense. I did not birth them or anything like that. I am sort of like their sponsor, you know. I contribute money to a monthly fund.”
“I think I know what you’re saying. It is one of those “Save the Children” type things. A charity organization asks for a monthly donation during a commercial. Is that right? They use these videos of poor children to pull your heart out of your chest.”
“It’s a little bit more than that, Eze. I do more than just give money. We exchange pictures and send letters to each other. I am involved in their upbringing in a sense, which is why I refer to them as my kids. I’m helping to give them a better life.”
They’re not your kids.
“That’s a nice thing you are doing.”
“Thank you.”
I had not cared much for the commercial appeals, deliberate attempts to extract money from unsuspecting marks. I smiled down at Lori, the perfect target for this type of scheme, an economically well-off southern girl who had grown up among other privileged folks. My fondness for her grew in those subsequent moments, although I felt she was misguided. It was not just about giving money, writing letters, and exchanging pictures. Most of those kids were descendants of individuals who had been victims of extensive colonization and the slave trade. In addition to proffering money, Lori should have acknowledged the history responsible for producing desperate black children.
Lori smiled back at me as she stroked my chest. “Do you want to go back to bed?”
“Sure.”
Lori left MHCD for graduate school shortly after we had finished engaging in our romantic pursuits, leaving me to navigate an expansive pool. After Lori’s departure, I developed close relationships with an assortment of female coworkers, often accompanying individuals on evening excursions. One of the women, Jane, a flaxen-haired and bespectacled woman from Boulder, Colorado, expressed an affinity for me. When gifted an intermission from our hectic work schedules, we found each other and talked about some of our shared interests for the allotted duration.
One afternoon, I was standing in Jane’s doorway, the subject of race and social justice dominating our conversation. Obama had already announced his intention to run for the presidency, and the implications of his decision reverberated throughout the office space.
“I think he can win,” I said. “It will be very important if he does.”
Jane sighed and said, “I know it will be if he does. But I wish it wasn’t though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just hate the fact that the color of Obama’s skin will be a factor.”
“It would be a big deal for the country, though. We are still a relatively young republic. If we elect a qualified black man as president, it will show that the country is ready to start growing up, you know.”
Through a frown, Lori said, “Obama’s qualifications are what he should be judged on. Not his race.”
“And we’ve had forty–three other presidents, all of them white men. You don’t think that white people cited skin color when evaluating a candidate’s qualifications to be president.”
“That’s the wrong way to decide though.”
“It may be wrong, but that is how people have made their decisions. At least Obama will be black and qualified. He is a graduate of Harvard Law School, cut his teeth in politics as a community organizer, taught constitutional law, wrote a few best-sellers, and became a United States senator all before the age of forty-five.”
Lori emphatically pointed a finger in my direction. “See. Listen to all of those qualifications. We should be focusing on that.”
“Yeah, but his story as a black man will also be taken into effect by supporters and detractors.”
Lori’s face fell. “That’s a shame.”
“I don’t think so. It’s a chance for us to be honest as a country.”
Lori sighed and said, “I don’t know. I just don’t see color.”
I put in my best effort, but I could not stop myself from physically responding to Lori’s comment. My eyebrows arched before I heaved a sigh. I was not as educated then about the importance of acknowledging race, historically a social construct that is utilized by the majority to create a brutal caste system in the western world. Nevertheless, I knew deep down in my gut that Lori was wrong to deny the importance of race. In fact, I believed that she was being dishonest.
“What? I don’t.” Lori’s eyes were wide as saucers, reflecting confusion and fear for the first time.
The words yeah and okay were superimposed at the forefront of my consciousness.
About eighteen months after Lori and I had our discussion, Obama stood before America and John Roberts, the conservative Chief Justice serving on the United States Supreme Court. Obama mirrored Robert’s pose, raising his right hand in the air as he took the oath of office. Roberts and Obama were not exactly coordinated for the duration of the process, and this desynchronization caused President Obama to skip a word as he swore to protect and defend the United States of America.
I watched the whole thing on television, blaming John Roberts for causing Obama to slip up.
John Roberts took his seat as Chief Justice in 2005. He has projected a gregarious and measured persona, giving the impression of a reasonable conservative. In many ways, he was like Obama, painstakingly employing incrementalism when handing down decisions from the bench. In 2012, Roberts was the only conservative justice who voted for the nascent Obamacare Health Care Plan, sparking full-throated condemnation from conservatives around the country. Moreover, he recently voted to uphold a watered-down version of an abortion rights mandate, once again splitting with the other five conservative justices. Justice Roberts is an institutionalist, a man focused on preserving the legitimacy and balance of the highest court in the land.
I could certainly stand him if not for his simple, unyielding, and unconstitutional application of constitutional law in matters of race. Because Mr. Roberts wants to bring about a colorblind society, one in which race is tossed to the wayside when considering issues such as college admissions and voting rights.
Roberts and the other conservatives presiding over the court are persistent in their quest to interpret constitutional provisions through a colorless lens. This jaundiced and ignorant perspective has led to many unfortunate decisions for people of color. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 has been chipped at and become hollow, unfairly gerrymandered districts have been reaffirmed, and affirmative action is on its way to being jettisoned for good.
The Voting Rights Act and affirmative action laws brought about a more inclusive America, allowing for traditionally marginalized members of our community to claim their piece of the “American Dream”. Nevertheless, racism remains an intractable part of life for many people, a pestilence embedded in America’s brick and mortar. Black Americans and other traditionally marginalized communities of color have relied on the Voting Rights Act and affirmative action for protection against racial animus. John Roberts and the other conservatives on the Supreme Court are removing these protections, claiming that a colorblind interpretation of the constitution requires the eradication of laws and policies that create a level playing field.
The newest member of the Supreme Court, Ketanji Brown-Jackson, a black woman — you should always heed the words of a black woman — tried to explain the constitution to Roberts and the conservatives, insisting that the framers of the constitution were not blind to race. Jackson cited provisions in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteen amendments. These amendments were included in the constitution to ensure the viability of freed slaves, requiring the application of laws that explicitly considered the race of these individuals. But in his zeal to adjudicate America as colorblind, Roberts has chosen to ignore erudite and astute textual analysis coming from Jackson, choosing instead to enact his worldview through an application of law that will protect the powerful and do further harm vulnerable Americans.
John Roberts is sixty-seven years old and Jane was twenty-five, two people with a wide gulf in life experience, but with the same views on race. They have approached the race debate intending to be well-meaning, but their perspectives on race are insidiously misguided, dangerous, and harmful. This is especially true of John Roberts, an individual who has been apportioned enormous power as a Supreme Court Justice. Roberts will use his considerable influence to rescind any programs that benefit traditionally disadvantaged Americans, citing colorblindness as a means to add polish to decisions that enhance racism in our society.