Ed Note: The following commentary, submitted by Jim V., New York, was incorrectly attributed in THE TOPLINE yesterday. We are rerunning it today with our apologies to Jim for the error.
Recent events across the country are showing White people that being Black in America carries daily burdens we never think of. But I learned this over 50 years ago.
Growing up in Queens County, New York—far from Donald Trump's Jamaica Estates, in Archie Bunker's much less affluent but more multi-ethnic Astoria—the consistently best-dressed of my mostly White bunch of high school friends was one of the few Black guys in our group.
We would often take the subway into Manhattan on summer days or spring or autumn Saturdays to visit a museum, go to a "first-run" movie, or just walk around Rockefeller Center to look at the tall buildings and the pretty girls, and he always dressed as if he were going on a first date or a job interview.
No T-shirt or tank top. Or shorts or jeans. And always sensible, dress shoes…never white high-top Converse sneakers and drooping blue-ribbed tube socks.
One warm summer day, I ran into him on the subway coming back from Manhattan. He was wearing a crisp, button-down, pinstriped shirt, dark trousers, and sturdy shoes. He was obviously not dressed for comfort.
I asked him why he always dressed so well when he went into Manhattan. I presumed it was in case he met a girl. When I was 17, I assumed everything my friends did was related to helping them meet girls.
His answer has stayed with me for more than five decades:
"The police are less likely to hassle a Black guy if he's well-dressed."
Instantly I understood. And although I thought we were really so similar—we had the same interests, after all: baseball, rock and roll, the TV show "The Fugitive"—we really did look at the world very differently…because the world looked at us differently.
And then he added, "When your mother wants you to dress well when you go out, it's because she doesn't want people to think her son's a slob. When my mother wants me to dress well, she's also thinking about my own safety."
I am now in my early 70s. God willing, so is he. And if he is now a grandfather, I can picture him boring his grandchildren with obscure baseball trivia, citing specific songs to demonstrate why the music of the sixties is superior to the garbage you hear now…and reminding them to always, always, dress well when you go out in America. —Jim V., New York
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