y friend, "And you're all friends withoutput: title: I Am a Token Black Friend

The black one in the group of white people. This title is not at all a comment on the depth of my relationships; I certainly am blessed to have the friends that I do. But by all definitions of the term, I am in many ways its poster child. And given the many conversations occurring right now around systemic racism, it would feel wrong not to use my position as a respected friend within a multitude of different white communities to contribute to the current dialogue. I believe my story speaks directly to the covert nature of the new breed of racism — its structural side, along with implicit bias — and may prove helpful to many I know who seek a better understanding.

asked me, "And you?" I answered, "I went to school in the Boston area with some of them." He then asked, "And why are you here?" I answered, "I came up to school with them in New Hampshire for a bit before we all went to college." The officer then asked, "And why did you leave Boston?" I answered, "I went to school in Roxbury, and my family lived in Dorchester at the time." The officer then asked, "And why did you leave?" I answered, "I went to school in Weston through METCO." The officer then asked, finally satisfied, "And why did you leave?" I answered, "I went to school in Roxbury, and my family lived in Dorchester at the time."output

I am a black man. I am a token black friend. I am the only black kid in the photo. I know all the words to "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers. I have mastered the well-timed black joke, fit to induce a guilty "you thought it but couldn't say it" laugh from my white peers. I am able to code-switch seamlessly between my black friends and my white friends. I can navigate both worlds with ease, and I often feel like I am the only one who can truly understand both sides.

But I am also tired. I am tired of being the only black kid in the photo. I am tired of having to be the one to explain racism to my white friends. I am tired of having to code-switch between two different worlds. And I am tired of having to be the one to stand up for myself and my people.

I am not asking for pity. I am not asking for special treatment. I am simply asking for understanding. I am asking for my white friends to be willing to listen to me and to believe me when I tell them about my experiences. I am asking for them to be willing to stand up for me and for my people, even when it is uncomfortable.

And I am asking for all of us to be willing to work together to create a more just and equitable world for everyone.

Here is my story:

I grew up in the inner city of Boston, in Roxbury. I attended school in the suburbs through a program called METCO — the longest continuously running voluntary school desegregation program in the country, which began in the late 1960s. My two siblings and I attended school in Weston, Massachusetts, one of the nation's wealthiest towns. The place quickly became our second home, and alongside Boston, I would count it equally as the place I was raised. All three of us did very well by all standards. We had all been co-presidents of the school, my brother and I were both football captains, and all three of us went on to top-end universities.

For those wondering about the structural side of systemic racism, I'd ask you to consider a few questions. First: Why does METCO still exist? Segregation ended more than 60 years ago, yet there is a still a fully functioning integration program in our state. We haven't come very far at all. Many of our schools remain nearly as segregated as they were in the 1960s.

Second: What is the point? Weston improves its diversity. Without us, most of Weston's students would go through all those years seeing possibly three or four local black faces in their schools (and that's the reality for many white people in this country). As for the Boston students, most of whom are black, they receive a much higher-quality education. Property taxes, a structural form of racism meant to allow segregation to endure, have ensured that while schools have grown increasingly better in our suburbs, the inner-city schools continue to struggle with resources, attendance, and graduation rates.

Lastly: Why was I able to be so successful? A major criticism of the METCO program is that it doesn't produce better outcomes for its students than the city schools, so it just acts as a brain drain from the city. I am an exception. I held leadership roles in the school, was an accomplished athlete and student, and went on to what was, at the time, the best public university in the country. What's easily overlooked, though, is how my circumstances differed from the average student of color coming from the city. I came from a two-parent household. My mother was able to work from home our entire life, so she could take us places when we needed. Compared to other black families, we were relatively well-off financially, which afforded me a car in high school and thus allowed me to be highly involved. I had a stable church and home life and food security. This combination is uncommon for a young black kid in America.

In a piece my brother wrote reflecting on the current situation, he considered whether black privilege was real. He and I have both considered how