So I'm in a job interview,

and the interviewer asks me,

"Talk about a time you've been
a victim of racism or discrimination."

I smirked because I knew
to expect this question,

and smugly, I said, "I've never been
a victim of racism or discrimination."

(Laughter)

Three months prior, I was sitting
at a table with a group of colleagues,

and we were talking about
privilege and prejudice,

and I said, "You know, I don't understand
this privilege and prejudice thing.

People are successful
because of the hard work that they put in.

I'm successful because
of the hard work I've put in.

And if anyone isn't successful,

that's because they just
haven't worked hard enough."

I'm sure we've heard these things before.

I grew up in Pikesville,
a suburb of Baltimore.

It's an upper-middle-class area, Jewish.

My parents were young
when we moved to this neighborhood,

and I remember there being a real sense
of pride when we moved to the county.

"Wow, we live near
white people now! We made it!"

(Laughter)

And even though I lived
in an affluent zip code,

the mansions that I saw
you couldn't find exactly on my street.

I went to school with many of the people
who lived in those big houses.

I was in advanced classes in school,
and so most of my classmates were white,

and I made real strong, awesome
relationships with many of them.

They would say things like, "Jabari,
tell us about how black people do this."

And, "Why can't they swim?"

(Laughter)

And all of these things.

So I would joke and laugh,

and try and, you know,
give them some knowledge.

I began changing the way I dressed.

I was wearing American Eagle
and Abercrombie - when I could fit it -

(Laughter)

and listening to pop and rock,

and for the most part,
my family just made fun of me.

But one thing that my parents said -

that was pretty important,
that I learned that it was -

they said, "Jabari,
sweetheart, you're black."

(Laughter)

"And that means something.

You can have white friends,
you can love them and you can trust them,

but at the end of the day, you're black,
and that means something; racism is real."

Well, at that time, I thought these were
just black people talking about racism!

Again!

Little did I know that it was
much more than that.

So I ended up getting
a job at a nonprofit.

I was doing low-income LGBT work
in Baltimore city.

And I had this brilliant black
queer woman as supervisor.

I was networking with leaders
all over the city,

and I was really learning
how systems interacted in people's lives:

housing, juvenile justice,
education, transportation, healthcare.

I was also in school at the time.

I was a Gender and Women
Studies major at UNBC,

and this program really helped me
deeply study concepts

that I didn't really spend
much time with in high school.

I learned about redlining.

I learned about state-sanctioned violence,

and how gender violence
is often underscored by racial violence.

At the same time, this was 2015.

I had lived through the news
of Eric Garner and Tamir Rice.

My lens was changing.

I was no longer a black boy
going to school in Pikesville, Maryland.

I was becoming a black man,
living and working in Baltimore city.

So for one of my job assignments,

I put together a training conference
for colleagues all over the country.

I was the coordinator.

And when they arrived here in Baltimore,
I got off the bus and I said,

"Hey, I'm Jabari! I'm the coordinator!"

And they looked at me
and became confused

and visibly uncomfortable.

I remember it was raining that day,

and so I rented a van so that folks didn't
have to walk around the training site

in the rain.

I said, "Come on in the van!"
They said, "We'd rather walk."

The folks who were in the van with me
referred to me as their chauffeur.

They told me I should hold doors for them.

At meals, they sat with me and they said,

"You know what? I'm going to sit with you
so you don't think that we're being weird

or, God forbid, racist."

They were saying stereotypical things,
comparisons, statements,

and at the end, I felt
so emotionally drained.

I referred to my brilliant supervisor,

who happened to be
a participant of the training,

and I said,

"Was that racism?"

And she said, "Yes, baby.

It is."

(Laughter)

And immediately, years
of suppressed memories came back.

I remember laughing it off with my friends
when they used the N-word.

I remember black peers making fun of me

because of the way I dressed
and the way that I talked.

And most importantly,

I remember that message that my parents
told me when I was young:

"You're black. Racism is real."

And I guess I never wanted to believe
that we could really live in a world

where we treat each other this way.

So afterwards, I was studying

and learning of what I can do
about this thing called racism.

I learned about internalized racism.

Internalized racism happens
when black folks, people of color,

start to behave or act in manners
that uphold whiteness and white supremacy.

Donna Bivens,

who is a consultant and a writer
for the Women's Theological Center,

says that internalized racism
is a system all in itself;

it has its own life,

and therefore, its own system
of rewards and consequences;

and that black folks
are unconsciously rewarded

when we participate
in internalized racism.

And I read that and I said,
"You know what? I feel that."

We are rewarded when we embrace
white-standard English

and abandon African American
vernacular English.

We are rewarded when we start
to adopt white life styles

and styles of music which are almost
always characterized as more luxurious.

These are things that I realized that
were going on in my own life for ever.

I grieved for a really long time
after that training.

Not only did I realized
that racism exists,

but I was embarrassed!

I thought, "How could I learn it this way?

How could I abandon the narrative
that my ancestors set forth?

How could I reject all
of the wonderful evidence there was

that racism was real?"

But I've realized that there was
no degree, no job, no pair of shoes,

no preference for medium-rare steaks

that's going to protect you
from the violence of racism.

And I felt embarrassed
that I learned in this way.

Even as I was preparing
this speech, I wondered,

"How is this going to be received?

'Black kid grows up in rich,
white neighborhood,

white people were mean to him,
and that's how racism is,

that's how he learned it.'"

But it wasn't how Eric Garner
or Tamir Rice or Rekia Boyd

or Korryn Gaines or Maya Hall
or any of these people learned it.

So there was some privilege
in how I grew up,

and I had to learn about that,

but that doesn't absolve me
from being shot down in the streets,

because at the end of the day, I am black.

So today, I am a nonprofit
leader in Baltimore.

I'm executive director of an organization

where I get to give back
to LGBTQ youth every day,

particularly LGBTQ youth of color.

I'm also president of Baltimore's
LGBT Community Center.

Being a black gay man, you really start
to see how whiteness operates

even in spaces of inclusion and diversity.

I saw the millions of dollars and droves
of support for marriage equality

but today hear the deafening silence

when we talk about the deaths
and murders of trans women of color.

So this gay rights movement,

I wonder, what would the gay rights
movement look like today

if being gay as something
that only someone black could be?

So I've learned a couple of lessons.

First,

racism is real!

Internalized racism is real.

I'm a victim of it, and I'm learning
to be a survivor of it.

Today, it's probably the most
important lesson that I've ever learned.

I've learned to love myself in ways
that I never thought that I could.

Because that's what
internalized racism does,

it seeks to decimate your own culture.

But today, I walk proudly
down the street as a black man,

as a gay man.

Two, I learned that black folks
or people of color

can be operants of white supremacy
if they're not checked,

but to no fault of their own.

Whiteness is pervasive, it's powerful,

and sometimes we don't even know
how it shows up in our world.

But most importantly, three,

I've realized that being black in America

is one of the most unique, amazing
and beautiful revolutionary things

that I could ever do.

And black love and black joy is something
to be cherished and honored,

and I'm so proud that I've learned
that lesson, and so grateful.

Thank you for listening to me.

(Applause) (Cheering)