Why Black People (That I Know) Hate It When White People Call Life a Game

Not everyone is having fun playing

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In the Spring of 2022, I became a felon.

I NEVER thought it would happen to me. I come from a decent family, have good morals, and work hard. I don’t do drama. I don’t get in people’s way.

I was heartbroken when it happened because I knew I had a steep uphill battle to fight. I was only 28 when I was branded with my new status. I also have a few disabilities that make being a felon extra challenging.

This is just one example of how minorities are constantly at war with a country that seems hell-bent on making our lives harder than necessary.

My white friends have it easier. They don’t have to worry about jail time because for their race, 1 out of every 3 doesn’t end up behind bars.

Many minorities start their lives in “the hood.”

It’s nothing more than section 8 housing. The units are small. The buildings are old. There’s a sense of community; outsiders aren’t welcome. These aren’t places that most people would want to live.

Instead, they’re forced to live there. Many issues come up that need to be reported to the property manager. The ceilings start to fall apart. A/C units don’t work the way they once did. Pests like cockroaches roam about as if they’re the actual tenants.

This isn’t the building ground for success. Environments like these breed dread and despair.

White kids have it easier.

They get to grow up in the “burbs,” or nice suburban environments. For the most part, they grow up in two parent households. They have money. Their lawns are nicely manicured, and their home is a work of art.

Their neighbors are courteous. The kids have friends over on a regular basis. The parents host dinner parties and get along with everyone in the neighborhood.

In these types of environments, children flourish because their parents don’t have to worry about what minorities in section 8 housing do. These children don’t know fear — the type that dwells in the hood.

Once these minorities kids are of age, they start to explore their surroundings.

Their exploration is usually met with a stern warning about going places they shouldn’t from their overworked parent. Oftentimes, that parent is the mother. Fathers are often absent in the hood.

There isn’t much to investigate. More often than not, these pre-teens see things they shouldn’t. An argument between a couple that escalates into a full-blown fight. Drug addicts using publicly. Winos stagger into abandoned buildings.

They start to realize that their environment is a trap in itself. It doesn’t take young children into account. They’re best kept to the sidelines, out of the way of the hood. That’s where they’re safest.

White kids also start to explore their surroundings as pre-teens.

But where minorities are subject to low quality experiences because of the hood, white kids get the complete opposite.

For starters, most have backyards. Kids in the hood share patches of grass (if the grass even grows).

These kids get to go on backyard excursions with unperturbed parents. They set up tents for overnight sleepovers.

In short, they get to play the way all children should be allowed to play.

Young adults in the hood suffer.

They’re no longer innocent. That youthful ignorance is gone. They’re aware of their surroundings and the plights that come with them.

They yearn to escape. The crowded spaces, loud noises, and disorderly conduct get old. But usually, they lack the means to do so.

Single-parent households don’t bring in that much money. Add section 8 help on top of that, and the total annual income is miniscule. Landing a first job is a lot harder for minorities than white kids.

So, they feel trapped. Each day is a calculated attempt at survival. They might go to the same places and hang out with the same people. They may have a significant other that makes the pain easier to deal with.

But at the end of the day, they’re starting behind in the great race that is life.

White young adults have it made.

They get to do things like drive a car their parents bought for them, experiencing newfound levels of freedom. Intimate relationships are easy and a breeze. They take stock of their lives and see so many blessings.

As they go about life, they realize that their family is doing well compared to others. They have it made.

They don’t have to worry about their safety or well-being when they go about their days. That makes living all the more easier.

Adulthood for minorities, especially Black men, is tumultuous.

First off, they have a harder time finding work. When your name is Dequan Johnson, your resume is much more likely to be thrown away than if your name is John Smith.

Discrimination because of names is something minorities are used to. That’s why my parents named me Paul Marsh — so I wouldn’t have that burden.

When we do get a job, we’re paid 20 percent less than our white counterparts. Solely because of the color of our skin.

We have to navigate a country that seems hell-bent on puttting us behind bars. 1 in 3 will experience jail or prison time. I’m that one.

Now I lead a life of quiet desperation, attempting to land full-time roles while making the most of my entrepreneurial spirit. It isn’t easy.

White adults have it made.

They get to make crazy amounts of money, find healthy, stable intimate relationships, and live like truly free citizens.

They build beautiful families that grow up in solid environments. They work hard at their high-paying jobs, then retire after a successful work career. They spend time with their kids and grandkids, making events like the 4th of July memorable and enjoyable.

They get to live life unencumbered by the restraints minorities face.

I grew up in the hood. The house my family had was dilapidated and unsafe. I distinctly remember my mother removing the A/C unit out of its housing in the room I shared with my brothers.

When she did so, a swarm of insects started to fly out. It took two cans of Raid to get rid of them. That was what my childhood was like.

My father was arrested (like father like son in the worst way possible) when I was young. Because he was the only income earner in our household, we struggled mightily when he went to prison.

Our mother refused to let us out of the house, so we came up with ingenious ways to pass the time. We’d take socks, ball them up, then hook a hamper on the living room door to play basketball.

We’d take those same socks, turned them into a soccer ball, and played soccer.

We emptied our closet, then got in and started a boys’ only club between me and my two brothers.

But starting our lives in the hood put us at a disadvantage. We weren’t socialized normally because we never went outside. Sometimes guns went off and we had to hide.

Growing up in the hood made me bitter earlier on than most.

When white people call life a game

I have lots of white friends.

I go out of my way to make white friends because I believe in relationship diversity and am not racist.

One common trend among my white friends is calling everything a game.

“Writing online is a game.”

“When it comes to relationships, you have to play the game.”

“This relationship is a game.”

I hear it all the time, and it never fails to get under my skin. It’s clear that minorities, typically Black people, lead lives that starkly contrast those of white people.

We live in the hood. We deal with the problems that come from that — and they’re abundant.

We make less than they do simply because we have more melanin.

We go to jail and prison at rates that make no sense compared to them.

But life is a game.

If it’s a game, then the game is rigged.

Me and the Black people I know aren’t having fun playing.