One of the articles I read about the experience of being black in 2020 got to me. A man named Ernest who had often come to repair appliances in a woman named Caroline's home was bent down with his head in the dryer. 

 

"What is it like for you these days?" Caroline asked. 

 

At first he assumed she was referring to the pandemic but she explained she wondered about being black. Ernest exhaled. This was a customer, whose business he needed. Perhaps he wondered how much to reveal. Gradually he described the persistent obstacles to succeeding in a world that is tipped toward whites. His efforts to work hard, and earn the trust of his clientele slowly allowed him to own his own business. But he had endured many slams to his personhood. He was often stopped by the police, even in his work truck. Ernest learned the hard way never to take an emergency call at night, even though he needed the work. 

 

One thing that stayed with me was being called "boy". Ernest was a full grown man, showing up with a box of tools and the knowledge to use them. Yet some people found ways to demean him by eclipsing his name. There is a superiority couched in such a dismissive epithet. 

 

I loved finding out the follow up to Caroline telling this story on social media. Ernest was swamped with business. The local news interviewed him and the city manager promised that things would change. 

 

My mother told me long ago that she was puzzled why as children they were taught to call white adults Mr. and Mrs. but the hired black servants were addressed more informally by their first name. No one explained it to her. 

 

The other day at dinner there was a conversation about the effort, or lack of it, to learn one another's name. A mouthful of syllables is a modest handle to fasten to a human being, one whose feelings and growth defy any sort of containment. Can a string of syllables contain the worth of a sentient being? Probably not. But even less so can the anonymity of three lower case letters. 

 

It is my intention to say the names of people who are under heard. To repeat it with respect. Perhaps the collective murmuring will grow like a drumbeat. 

 

Ernest. Isn't it fitting?