I Was the Only Black Person at the Rock Concert
or was I?
Monday night, I went to my first concert of 2022: Inhaler at the 9:30 Club in D.C.
First of all! It was a fantastic show. The boys (Eli, Josh, Ryan, and Robert) played amazingly, and had the sold-out house quaking. If only they had stayed a little longer…but it’s alright — all that standing around, waiting in line in the rain, guarding my perfect spot on the balcony despite having to pee, watching an opening act, and then seeing Inhaler for a total of five-ish hours straight was worth it. The dopamine rush that night was something I hadn’t felt for days beforehand.
But anyway.
I was convinced I would be the only Black person there
Why? Because if you’re a Black person who listens to anything other than rap or R&B, you’ve grown up your entire life getting hit with the snide “Oh, that’s some white people music” remark from family members, so-called friends, etc.
The rational half of my brain knows that anyone can listen to any type of music they want, and that all kinds of people, regardless of race, listen to indie/alt rock.
But that other, unhinged, anxious half of my brain…
For some reason, I was sure that I’d be one of the only (if not the only) Black people present at the show. And I was anticipating confused white glances and whispers, all aimed at me, the lone Black girl. The world does revolve around me, I can prove it. And I say this half of my brain is unhinged because I imagined the literal worst scenario happening wherein a few drunk, angry white men would push me right over the balcony railing and into the mosh pit below (who I guess would tear my body to pieces? I don’t know, the scene didn’t get past the plummet).
But despite this ridiculous nightmare I conjured up, I was less anxious about possible violence than I was about any sort of “you don’t belong here” vibes being sent my way. I don’t like being the center of attention, I don’t like being stared at. I just wanted to see this band that I’d really come to love without any issues.
Black people!
I excitedly pointed out a few Black people standing in the long line outside of the club to my sister, who was kindly dropping me off.
Then I saw another breathlessly run into line behind me…
Then another with her friend, pushing through the crowd to get closer to the stage…
Then a cool alt girl wearing a sweeping leather trench coat…
Two more girls with brightly dyed ‘fros (pink and green respectively)!
In fact, there were all kinds of people, and not just in terms of race but in age as well. A lot of the older fans gravitate toward Inhaler because they evoke an 80s rock sound (not to mention that Eli, the lead singer, is the son of Bono, frontman of U2, so there’s that).
I was so pleasantly surprised. It’s one thing to have more races represented in a music venue than just white people, but it’s something else entirely when it’s Black people. Because over the course of my life, there have been so many instances where I’ve been the only Black person in the room. And immediately that’d make me tense up, prepared to endure an insensitive microaggression at the very least, and at most, a hate crime (“Like being thrown over a balcony?”).
Seeing other Black people at the Inhaler show felt good, less lonely. But it’s sad isn’t it? That in 2022 I was still worried that there wouldn’t be any people who looked like me at a concert, and that I would be made uncomfortable during a night that was meant to be a fun escape from reality. I’ve decided not to gaslight myself though. We do not live in a post-racial world. People can still be casually racist even when they don’t realize it. And I know that discomfort of being the lone Black wolf too well for my anxiety about this night to be totally irrational.
But I’m glad I was proven wrong.
We belong in those spaces, too
When I told my mom (who was also worried about me being thrown over the balcony by angry white men, funnily enough) about all the Black people I’d seen at the concert, she said, “You young people are less concerned about that I guess. You just listen to what you want and mix all together.”
I’ve always listened to whatever kind of music made me feel something, no matter the color of the artist. But I wasn’t always loud and proud about who I was a fan of because of that aforementioned “That’s white people music” comment.
I’m getting older now, and I think I should start caring less about what other people think of the kind of music I like. There are no middle school bullies or music police watching my every move. I’m allowed to go to a rock concert. I’m allowed to occupy space. I’m allowed to enjoy myself. Yes, all while being Black.
And I shouldn’t worry about what others might think, especially when it comes to something like music, which is always said to be a uniting force that brings all kinds of people together. Plus, how could anyone be angry enough to throw someone off of anything when “Cheer Up, Baby” is on? Exactly.
It won’t always be like this
Eventually I’ll age out of the habit of caring about what strangers think. Someday I hope to embody Fran Lebowitz-level IDGAF energy.
But for now, since I had such a great time at the show and will continue attending concerts in the future, I’ll make this vow to myself:
Never again will I work myself up in a bout of anticipatory anxiety over possibly being the only Black person at a concert or any event, really. I’ll show up as myself, without shame and without fear. I’ll take the moment as it comes without pre-judgement, and only focus on having as good a time as I can. Because I deserve it.
Being unapologetic about what you like and the spaces you decide to occupy…what’s more rock ‘n roll than that?
