Racish

Jam me up, and I’ll coin a term then turn you into a cautionary tale—just like the Karen who works for my landlord and threatened to not renew my lease on some racish bs.

Racish (adj.) – Behavior that isn’t overtly or maliciously racist, yet still rooted in racial bias or racial power dynamics. It’s a casual, opportunistic kind of prejudice—treating someone worse simply because you know you’ll probably get away with it.

When Karen called the police on the Black man for existing, claiming she felt “threatened,” her actions weren’t overtly racist, but they were nonetheless racish.

∞

In my experience, no demographic has treated me differently to my detriment because of my skin color more often than unfamiliar white women—and it’s not even close. Most of the time, it’s not about a burning desire to do black folks dirty, and everything about a presumption that they can get away with it. 

They don’t have to harbor deep racial malice. All it takes is a bias they don’t recognize, a belief that consequences won’t touch them, and the confidence that authority will take their side. Way more often than not, they’re exactly right.

That’s why these days I don’t go beyond basic pleasantries with unfamiliar white women unless a trusted mutual friend makes a warm introduction. Over the years, I’ve had several of them call the cops or security on me simply because the mere sight of a big, black brother made them uncomfortable, and at some point I realized that engaging with them wasn’t worth the hassle.

This isn’t coming from someone who hates white people. I love white folks—my mother, bless her soul, was white. Half my family is white. And I love them. But love doesn’t negate my reality.

To be fair, my homeboy Nick Dawg—rich, white, handsome, silver-tongued—refuses to even make eye contact with any random women these days just to avoid misunderstandings. But here’s the difference: if someone falsely accuses Nick of impropriety, odds are law enforcement hears him out. If it happens to me, large armed men trained for violence with a propensity for using it might show up ready to hurt or kill me, as that’s been my reality since I was a lowercase j.

I had to accept that legions of white women who don’t know me perceive me as dangerous before I even open my mouth, as that’ll mess with your head if you let it. I often think about Sully from Monsters, Inc.—a gentle, misunderstood giant—and his refusal to let others define him has helped keep me from spiraling into bitterness.

But sometimes prejudice still cramps my style, my peace, and my safety. The worst part? Most folks who do it have no idea they’re doing it. They don’t see themselves as racist—they’re just acting out of instinct, entitlement, and trust that they’ll get the benefit of the doubt. Folks call it unconscious bias, implicit bias, microaggressions, or even insidious prejudice. I call it racish.

Racish rarely comes with slurs, mobs, or tiki torches, but it still runs on prejudice and racial power. The classic “Karen” scenario—calling the police on a Black person for simply existing—is a racish act: no burning crosses or n-bombs, but full of entitlement, bias, and faith that the system will back her up.

Usually, I let racish stuff slide because calling it out never leads to accountability, just denial.

But when it threatens my ability to care for my family, I have to pipe up.

Last winter, I repeatedly asked the corporate property management company that oversees my duplex to show me where the water shut-off valve was located, or at least send a plumber, because the pipes were about to freeze. They ignored me, and the pipes burst. Plumbers came out in the middle of the night in subzero weather, tore open the ceiling to get to the pipes, and we lived with a gaping hole for months.

After that, plumbing issues multiplied and the water bills jumped into the hundreds. Instead of taking accountability for not preventing the damage, the white property manager who ignored my requests accused me of water misuse.

This week, she told me that unless I agree to start paying the water bill for the rest of the lease, she won’t renew it when it expires in July.

She knows the lease requires the landlord to pay for water. She knows I’m a lawyer who represents folk who get bodied up by the corporation. And she also knows I’m Black. In her mind, that last fact meant she could probably get away with throwing me under the bus. Not because she has any personal animus against me. 

It’s because she hella racish. And I said it to her face.

Fortunately, Minnesota law prohibits landlords from retaliating against tenants who assert their rights, so I’ll have a good case against mine if they carry out this threat. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Between the cars that go boom, six seven absurdity, and now my landlord jamming me up on some racish bs, the Universe is speaking loudly and clearly: It’s time to level up and leave the Malice at the Palace behind for greener pastures.