To be black in America gives one the ever-present feeling that you have to explain or excuse why you are occupying spaces that are meant — or feel as though they are meant — solely for
white people, crouched in a posture of defensive vigilance, susceptible to the intended occupiers’ insults, condescension or violence when our bodies occupy those spaces. When those spaces are
particularly wealthy, there’s the expectation that you’ll be additionally subjected to a host of snide insults or barbs aimed at your
expressions of race, while asked to both stand in for all members of it and be able to joke about how you aren’t like “those people.”