I'm black. My wife is white. We saw 'Get Out.' This was our conversation afterward
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I'm black. My wife is white. We saw 'Get Out.' This was our conversation afterward
Written and directed by Jordan Peele of âKey & Peeleâ fame, âGet Outâ tells the story of Chris Washington (Daniel Kaluuya), a black, 20-something photographer who accompanies his white girlfriend (Allison Williams) on a trip to meet her parents (Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener) for the first time at their family home. What should be a potentially awkward but innocuous visit becomes anything but, as Chris quickly realizes something sinister is going on.
Before I go on, I should mention that Iâm black, and my wife is white. We met nearly six years ago, and I was warmly welcomed into her family.
Immediately, however, âGet Outâ reminded me of a pivotal moment that happened early in our relationship.
I had joined my wifeâs extended family for her cousinâs high school graduation in eastern Kansas. Rows and rows of mostly white teenagers sat in folding chairs at the 40-yard line of the football field, while their mostly white parents waved and peered at them through zoom lenses. Â As we waited for the ceremony to begin, I played a game I often play in moments of intense whiteness (folk concerts, theme trivia nights, farmerâs markets, etc.). I call it âFind Another Black Person,â and depending on where I am, itâs much harder than it sounds.
That day in Kansas, I didnât see any other black people.
Iâve played this game for years without ever really thinking much about why I play it. After seeing âGet Out,â it clicked: This harmless game is more than just a way to occupy my impatient mind â itâs a safeguard. In a sea of white people, I look for a lifeboat. And âGet Outâ reminded me that maybe Iâm right to.
âGet Outâ is unsettling, suspenseful, witty in just the right places, beautifully shot, and well-acted. Itâs fantastic.
The rest of this story will have spoilers, so if you havenât yet seen âGet Out,â get out.
As I watched the film â from its title theme, âSikiliza Kwa Wahenga,â a song in Swahili that loosely translates to âlisten to the ancestors,â to the tears streaming down Chris and Georginaâs faces when they were in the âsunken placeâ â something stirred loose in me. Scenes of Chris dodging microaggressions from all sides while Rose gaslit him without abandon felt familiar â yet horrifying â on the big screen.
Iâd say it couldnât have come at a better time, but to be honest, weâve needed a film like this for years. It was frightening for the same reason a stadium full of white Kansan parents and their children left me looking for a familiar brown face â sure, nothing bad will happen ⌠but it could.
To put it plainly, âGet Outâ left me shook. I needed to talk about it immediately, and thankfully, I had a car ride home with my wife to do so.
I needed to digest what Iâd just seen. âGet Outâ was certainly no ordinary film. The way my heart lodged firmly in my throat when I saw the red and blue lights approach our hero in the final scene, only to be saved by his trusted black friend, his lifeboat? I saw my worst fears play out on the silver screen. It was just too real.
While my wife and I are an interracial couple, weâre also both women, so my experience watching and reflecting on âGet Outâ isnât quite the same as what Chris experienced.
I was nervous when I met my wifeâs white parents for many of the reasons Chris was nervous in the movie. Did they know I was black? What was I walking into? But, as a black woman, I also had the privilege of coming to my future in-lawsâ front door without the burden of more than 150 years of assumptions and lies about violent black masculinity, hypersexuality, and predatory behavior (especially as it pertains to white women). It doesnât mean I rang their bell without worry or fear, but as a woman dating a woman, I know I didnât shoulder the burden of history as black men in heterosexual interracial relationships do, and I recognize that.
When we got in the car, I turned to my wife. I knew weâd watched âGet Outâ differently. How could we not?
I needed to know if in watching the film, she saw me. Not just a character in a horror film, but me, her wife, who faces fear, isolation, and anxiety about racism every single day.
We discussed the film in-depth the whole way home, but there was one part of our conversation that stood out to me because, in that moment, something clicked â for both of us:
Me: âWhen do you think about being white?â
Her: âWhen racist stuff happens.â
Me: âWhat do you think when racist stuff happens?â
Her: âI feel bad.â
Me: âYou feel bad for whom?â
Her: âFor whom? The victims of racism. I feel guilty.â
Me: âYou feel guilty after racist things happen. Did you feel guilty after watching the movie?â
Her: âYeah, maybe a little. Yeah. Itâs so extreme though, you know?â
Me: âYeah.â
Her: âIt kind of got out of the range of like, ârealistic racism,â I guess. Once we got into brain transplants, weâre obviously outside of a realm. I feel like I felt more guilty when they were doing other stuff, the minor stuff ⌠that turned out to be major.â
That right there â the conclusion she drew â is an important one.
Whether weâre talking about Hollywood horror or real life, racism is never just small stuff. It may start with small things, like being followed around a store, having your hair stroked by strangers, or people assuming you grew up in poverty. Before long, it becomes voter suppression, subpar medical care, limited economic opportunities, and poor public schools. One racist misdeed begets another, and it all starts âinnocentlyâ enough.
Punishing experiments on black soldiers like the Buffalo Soldier bicycle mission, the Tuskegee syphilis trials, the stripping of cells from Henrietta Lacks â these things donât happen all at once. They happen when a group of people is not seen as fully human by society. Thatâs when these small things cross into what my wife called the ârealm of the impossibleâ â a realm that black people in particular know from history is actually very possible.
Thatâs the frightening reality I grappled with while watching âGet Out,â and, while it didnât leave me screaming in the theater, it definitely keeps me up at night.
I adore my wife, and I know the feeling is mutual. But I was black long before I met her, so even as our families blend, my blackness wonât.
My blackness is non-negotiable. Itâs not a hobby or a casual interest. I wonât get bored with it one day and shove my blackness in the attic. Itâs here. Always. Itâs with me at work, at home, when Iâm driving, and when Iâm in a crowded football stadium watching a high school graduation.
Thankfully, my wife recognizes and appreciates that. But even on her best day, she wonât know what itâs like to feel so out of place, to look out into that sea of white faces and need a lifeboat. She canât. No white person can. But in that theater, for 103 minutes, a surprising and innovative movie helped her get a little closer to understanding what thatâs like. Thatâs more important to me than sheâll ever know.
