On July 16, 2025, I posted a video short titled “Black Generation X: The Danger Wasn’t Always Clear.” That post came from a deeply personal place. Growing up as part of Generation X meant stepping into environments where the rules around race and safety weren’t always obvious.
When I was younger, my family shielded me from the harshest realities. I lived in communities where I was nurtured and protected. I was also part of the first wave of kids who went from kindergarten through high school entirely in desegregated schools. In that space, I don’t recall any overt instances of racism or bigotry. And while that was a blessing, it also left me unprepared—because I didn’t know what danger looked like when it wasn’t wearing a hood or shouting slurs.
Once I left home, the uncertainty began.
The Barber Who “Couldn’t”
\When I arrived at the University of Tampa in the fall of 1987, I needed a haircut before starting ROTC training. I had just completed Army training that summer, so I was sporting a military-style cut. In my mind, a haircut was a haircut—race shouldn’t have mattered.
Without a car, I walked off campus and stumbled into a barbershop a few blocks away. As I waited, the barber looked up at me and said, “I don’t know how to cut your people’s hair.”
I was confused. I had just left a military environment where barbers—Black, white, and Latino—cut everyone’s hair. Was he being racist? Or was he just being honest about his limitations? He apologized, but his phrasing—“your people’s hair”—lingered. It left me wondering:
Was that bigotry masked as politeness, or just inexperience?
Was I being singled out, or was he just nervous about messing up my haircut?
That moment stuck with me. It was the first time I questioned the space I was in and whether I truly belonged.
The Campus Cop
A few weeks later, I was walking around campus late one night, as I often did. I didn’t know many people yet, and as an introvert, walking with my headset helped me unwind. The University of Tampa was small and beautiful, with just under 2,000 students—95% of them white. There weren’t many Black students on campus.
That night, a campus police car pulled up beside me. An officer rolled down the window and asked, “Where are you going?”
I replied, “Just walking.”
Then came the question: “Are you a student?” Followed by a request for ID.
I handed it over, and after verifying that I was indeed a student, they drove off. But I couldn’t stop wondering: Why me?
Did they ask everyone that?
Would they have stopped a white student walking the same path?
Was this racism, profiling, or just campus security doing their job?
Again, I didn’t know how to process it. I had no reference point. I just knew it didn’t feel right.
The Truck Stop in the Deep South
That same academic year, during spring break, I took a road trip home to Arkansas with my best friend Frank, who was Black, and our white friend John. Somewhere in rural North Florida, we broke down in a small town along I-10. It was the kind of place you don’t see on postcards—quiet, isolated, unfamiliar.
We were three broke college kids trying to figure out how to fix the car and get home. The mechanic quoted us a price and told us to let him know when we were ready. We scraped the money together and waited overnight at a nearby truck stop.
To be honest, everyone we encountered treated us kindly. Nothing bad happened. But that’s what made it so strange.
Should we have been worried?
Were we naïve?
Was danger there and we just didn’t recognize it?
Growing up in the Deep South, I’d been taught to stay aware of my surroundings. But in a post–Jim Crow world, the threats weren’t always obvious. That night, I kept wondering: If something had gone wrong, would I have even seen it coming?
Confused or Cautious?
After I got back to school, I started to reflect. I realized that moving through this new version of America would be unlike anything my parents experienced. They grew up knowing where the dangers were—segregated schools, white-only counters, clear lines.
But me? I was walking into a world where the lines were blurry.
I didn’t know how to spot racism when it wasn’t overt.
I didn’t know whether to trust my instincts or tell myself I was overreacting.
Was it bigotry or was I being too sensitive? Was I being cautious or just paranoid?
That’s the emotional cost of being Black Gen X in a time of transition—we inherited access, but not always clarity.
Final Reflection: Seeing Without Being Sure
Those early experiences—at the barbershop, on the campus sidewalk, and in that rural truck stop—helped me understand just how disorienting it could be to move through the world when the danger wasn’t visible.
For Black Gen X, the absence of obvious racism didn’t mean racism was gone. It just meant we had to learn how to see it differently.
And sometimes, even now, I’m still not sure if what I’m seeing… is really there.
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