The "Black Tax" is a term my friends and I jokingly throw around from time to time. It's basically shorthand for how African Americans have to work ten times as hard as white people do to get the same things. But there’s a lot of truth in this joke — the Black Tax is very real. A good example would be the fact that Angela Bassett doesn’t have an Academy Award, but Ben Affleck has two.
Look at the last two presidents. Imagine if Barack Obama had said women should be grabbed by the p***y, if he had lusted over or flirted with the idea of dating his own daughters, hidden his taxes, trashed his staffers on Twitter, skipped reading his presidential briefings, was accused of cheating with a porn star and having his attorney pay her off while Michelle was pregnant, and called Meryl Streep overrated, all while being a black guy in office.
“Barack who?” is probably what we would all be saying right now. Obama had to be beyond squeaky clean to become and stay president for eight years. Everything was perfect about the dude, from his credit to his teeth.
There's also the matter of our biased court system and our underfunded schools, along with every other potential barrier to success that comes with having black skin. But acknowledging all of this can instantly earn you the title of conspiracy theorist.
“This is America!” various Uncle Toms have said to me over the years. “Any hardworking person can achieve whatever they want.” And then they start talking about bootstraps.
The problem with the people who go off on those respectability tirades is their inability to imagine another person’s situation. They’re grossly shortsighted, only able to see their own successes and to use them as a measure when judging others, no matter where that other person comes from.
It's a failure to fully appreciate history to repeat a platitude like “slavery was so long ago!” when the Emancipation Proclamation was a mere 155 years ago, and blacks were enslaved in this land for well over 400 years.
After slavery came the Black Codes, a set of laws passed in many states during 1865 and 1866 that placed limitations on black freedom. Some of the laws prohibited black people from owing firearms, voting, gathering in groups of worship and learning to read and write. And then Jim Crow, or separate but equal laws, dominated until the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964.
In theory, this all sounds like old news. We did elect that black president with the perfect teeth, and he served two terms, which means that equality is finally real, right? Wrong. It is 2018 and Emile Wickham went out to celebrate his birthday at Hong Shing, a popular Chinese restaurant in Toronto. After he and his friends ordered, they were instructed to pay their tab before they ate. The server lied, saying this was a new policy, it wasn’t. Wickham and his friends were the only people in the restaurant instructed to pay —and they were also the only two black patrons.
Going out for dinner and having to pay before you eat is a Black Tax.
Wickham isn't alone. Rashon Nelson and Donte Robinson were waiting for a friend in a Philadelphia Starbucks before they ordered, and the store manager called the police on them. They were arrested for trespassing. How do you get arrested for trespassing in a public place? That’s a Black Tax: the inability to enjoy a latte or an americano while being a negro.
These stories happen over and over again and unfortunately, not enough of them go viral. I honestly feel like that's the only remedy for racism; it's not foolproof, but right now it's all we have.
The other day I sat alone at the bar of the restaurant across the street from where I work. A nervous server made me two horrible mixed drinks. I didn’t complain, I just watched the Cavs game and waited for my ride. The melted ice made the second drink taste a little better.
“Can I get my check please?” I asked. She nodded, but then ran off to wait on another table.
“D, how doing, my man?” said a squared-faced guy who was dressed like a coach as he approached me. “It’s been a long minute since the last time I saw you!”
I had no idea who he was. I just smiled and said, "Wassup, champ?"
He flopped on a stool two chairs down from mine, screamed out his order, and started spilling everything to me — his jobs, his baby mothers, his record label and the secret business that he wasn’t ready to let me in on. Dude had the timing and facial expressions of seasoned stand-up comedian. I couldn’t stop laughing, but it was time for me to go.
The waitress came back and filled his drink order. “Can I get my check please?” I asked again. “I gotta roll.”
She walked over with the leather booklet, I extended my arm and she bypassed it, placing the bill on the table. I didn’t complain; some don’t like to directly hand other people objects. And then I looked at the bill. Not only did she put the food and drink ordered by this dude who I barely knew on my tab, but she included an 18 percent gratuity.
“Um, excuse me,” I said, waving in her direction. “I didn’t come here with this guy. Why is his stuff on my bill? He didn’t even get his food yet.”
“Oh, I saw you talking to him” she blushed. “I thought you guys were a party.”
“But he's like two stools down," I said. "Anyway, what's this 18 percent gratuity about?”
“That’s our new policy,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to do it, but I have to.”
I didn’t believe a word this lady said, but she saved me some money. Her added tip was $6, when I probably would’ve slipped her $10.
I asked the other guys at work about a new included gratuity policy, and of course none of them have heard of it. They are white. I am black. And that is a real life tax.
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