How to deconstruct racism, one headline at a time

My parents gave me
an extraordinary name:

Baratunde Rafiq Thurston.

Now, Baratunde is based
on a Yoruba name from Nigeria,

but we're not Nigerian.

(Laughter)

That's just how black my momma was.

(Laughter)

"Get this boy the blackest name possible.
What does the book say?"

(Laughter)

Rafiq is an Arabic name,
but we are not Arabs.

My mom just wanted me to have difficulty
boarding planes in the 21st century.

(Laughter)

She foresaw America's turn
toward nativism.

She was a Black Futurist.

(Laughter)

Thurston is a British name,
but we are not British.

Shoutout to the multi-generational
dehumanizing economic institution

of American chattel slavery, though.

Also, Thurston makes for
a great Starbucks name.

Really expedites the process.

(Laughter)

My mother was a renaissance woman.

Arnita Lorraine Thurston

was a computer programmer,
former domestic worker,

survivor of sexual assault,

an artist and an activist.

She prepared me for this world
with lessons in black history,

in martial arts, in urban farming,

and then she sent me in the seventh grade
to the private Sidwell Friends School,

where US presidents send their daughters,

and where she sent me looking like this.

(Laughter)

I had two key tasks going to that school:

don't lose your blackness,
and don't lose your glasses.

This accomplished both.

(Laughter)

Sidwell was a great place
to learn the arts and the sciences,

but also the art of living
amongst whiteness.

That would prepare me
for life later at Harvard,

or doing corporate consulting, or for
my jobs at the Daily Show and the Onion.

I would write down many of these lessons
in my memoir, "How To Be Black,"

which if you haven't read yet,
makes you a racist, because

(Laughter)

you've had plenty of time
to read the book.

But America insists on reminding me

and teaching me

what it means to be black in America.

It's December 2018,

I'm with my fiancé
in the suburbs of Wisconsin,

we are visiting her parents,
both of whom are white,

which makes her white.

That's how it works.
I don't make the rules.

(Laughter)

She's had some drinks,

so I drive us in her parents' car,

and we get pulled over by the police.

I'm scared.

I turn on the flashing lights
to indicate compliance.

I pull over slowly

under the brightest streetlight I can find

in case I need witnesses
or dashcam footage.

We get out my identification,
the car registration,

laid out in the open,
roll down the windows,

my hands are placed on the steering wheel,

all before the officer exits the vehicle.

This is how to stay alive.

As we wait, I think
about these headlines --

police shoot another
unarmed black person --

and I don't want to join them.

The good news is,
our officer was friendly.

She told us our tags were expired.

So to all the white parents out there,

if your child is involved
whose skin tone is rated

Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson or darker

(Laughter)

you need to get that car inspected,
update the paperwork every time we visit.

That's just common courtesy.

(Laughter) (Applause)

I got lucky.

I got a law enforcement professional.

I survived something
that should not require survival.

And I think about
this series of stories --

police shoot another
unarmed black person --

and that season when those stories
popped up everywhere.

I would scroll through my feed,

and I would see a baby announcement photo.

I'd see an ad for a product

I had just whispered
to a friend about yesterday.

I would see a video of a police officer
gunning down someone

who looked just like me.

And I'd see a thinkpiece
about how millenials

have replaced sex with avocado toast.

(Laughter)

It was a confusing time.

Those stories kept popping up,

but in 2018, those stories got changed out
for a different type of story,

stories like,

white woman calls cops
on black woman waiting for an Uber.

That was Brooklyn Becky.

Then there was, white woman calls police
on eight-year-old black girl

selling water.

That was Permit Patty.

Then there was, woman calls police
on black family BBQing at lake in Oakland.

That was now infamous BBQ Becky.

And I contend that these stories of
living while black are actually progress.

We used to find out after
the extrajudicial police killings.

Now, we're getting video
of people calling 9-1-1.

We're moving upstream,
closer to the problem

and closer to the solution.

So I started a collection

of as many of these stories
as I could find.