The Black Butterfly Effect

A White co-worker walks up to me as I arrive at my office and asks me accusingly,

“Did you know that Antoine Walker’s broke?!”

Antoine Walker played in the NBA for twelve years. He was selected to three All-Star teams, won one World Championship, and made more than one hundred million dollars in the process. He is now bankrupt and penniless. As my White co-worker stated judgmentally at exactly nine in the morning, ‘broke.’ This is all four-year-old news to me. My White co-worker, unfortunately, has just found out and the contempt in his voice makes it clear that he wants answers.

His cold glaring eyes almost scream, “John, how did you let this happen to him?”

First of all, let me be clear, I don’t fucking know Antoine Walker. I’ve never met him in my life and I was never really — no disrespect — a fan of his. There is nothing in Antoine Walker’s nor my childhood, upbringing, history, career, nor life in general that would connect us in any way possible. None of this, however, stops my White co-worker and, in some psychotic way, me, as well, from feeling like I should take every ounce of the blame for his financial irresponsibility.

This is what I like to call The Black Butterfly Effect.

It is a confusing mathematical racial equation, more complex than the problem Matt Damon solved on the Harvard chalkboard in Good Will Hunting; simply put, it breaks down like this:

He’s Black. You’re Black. He fucked up. You fucked up.

A nameless Black guy robs a liquor store at gunpoint on the six o’clock news. I become a violent thief.

Michael Vick goes to jail. I become an animal abuser.

Ray Rice knocks his fiancée out in an elevator. I become Ike Turner.

Strangely, this phenomenon never works in the positive direction. Barack Obama has been President for almost eight years now. Sadly, during that time, no one has ever asked me for political advice.

“Did you know that Antoine Walker’s broke?” my White co-worker impatiently asked again.

I have been staring blankly at him for the last two minutes as I struggle desperately to keep the base level parts of myself from telling him to kiss my ass. I would never do that, of course, for fear that every Black person in Michigan might lose their job as a result.

It happens.

I stutter defensively as I attempt to change the subject by bringing up the retired White pitcher, Curt Schilling, who has had some major financial problems of his own lately.

“Yeah, but Curt Schilling lost his money in a financial venture,” my White co-worker informs me. “Antoine Walker had eight cars.”

Translation…

Do I really need to explain that shit?

I want to say something smart and sarcastic. I want to wipe the condescending look off his face with one witty quip, but the weight of taking responsibility for Bill Cosby’s alleged sexual missteps, which started when I was less than five years old, has left me perpetually mentally exhausted lately.

I instead sit down at my computer and check out ESPN.COM as I lie myself into believing that I’m being the bigger person. I feel his eyes burn into the side of my face before he finally shakes his head and walks away. His words echo in my mind long after he’s gone.

“Did you know that Antoine Walker’s broke?”

Muthafucka’, I wasn’t his accountant!

The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of anyone who isn’t being satirical.

John Lee Fisher is a Street photographer and recovering development hell screenwriter. A graduate of the American Film Institute, Howard University, and an American living in China. | Follow John Lee Fisher on Twitter @JohnLeeFisher3

This piece was reprinted by EmpathyEducates with permission or license. We thank John Lee Fisher for his kindness and for speaking of what remains silent — we are affected by what is and is not said. We also wish to express our appreciation for Medium‘s, Culture Club and Curator, Felicia Megan Gordon.