The Interesting Tensions of Blacks. Alan Lightman, Professor of Science and Writing at MIT, states that "both kinds of thinking—the rational and the intuitive—produce an interesting tension," a creative tension that "has been the force in my own writing." In comparing Professor Lightman's assertion with African American life and living, I discovered a congruency between the two: rational thinking and intuitive thinking are inherent survival traits of people of color; and when combined, "both kinds of thinking—the rational and the intuitive—produce an interesting tension" that sustains us in our daily living.

Upon self-appraisal, I am intuitive, positive, and quite rational, normally. However, a few months back, an encounter here at MIT sorely tested these traits. By invitation, I visited a colleague's department. As we wound our way through the office, I met the usual amiable and cordial employees, including a Black male. Soon, we entered an area containing four people, three White males and a White female. A sober-looking Black female walked past, but no one offered an introduction. The female and male to my left greeted me soundly. Upon entering and quickly scanning the area, I had caught a look—"The Look!" "The Look" that only people of color intuitively know and feel. It is a look that some Whites deny outright saying that it is a figment of our imaginations; or out of pure ignorance, they truly lack comprehension; or they rail that because of the chips on the shoulders of the advocates and militants among us, it is just another cue to stir up trouble; or they say that we are just oversensitive. Of the pair to my right, the younger man stepped forward enthusiastically blushing. I proffered my hand, and he matched my grip. The older man hung back, "The Look" obscured. Yet, I could almost hear his rapid heartbeat and the struggle to control his breath. Through my peripheral vision, I saw him cast a look of loathing. At the sound of his name, he jammed his hands into his trousers. In a leaden gait, he placed himself to my right outside the space of social protocol. I expected his forehead would explode in perspiration if I stepped forward and extended my hand. A sneer like a 3-D image of a man changing into an alien emanated over his face, then melted. In amusement, I almost laughed aloud, which would have been fitting since those around me were jovial. Instead, I bestowed Mr. Fists-In-His-Pockets a nod, a close-lipped smile, and raised eyebrows that said, "I know what you are." His face reddened as my host steered me to another office to meet another employee.

At the next stop, a man in his late to mid-fifties rose from his desk, beckoned us in, and heartily offered his hand (before I offered mine). He motioned us to chairs, after my host conducted formal introductions. On guard from the last encounter, I attempted to size him up, my intuition in high gear. He had an uncommon look and a working-class demeanor, yet our host extolled his talents in his field. A coarseness and casualness in his conversation mixed with humor compromised my conclusive opinion of his character, an opinion that presently leaned to the negative—fallout from Mr. Fists-In-His-Pockets. I thought I caught a look—"The Look"—that quickly dissolved and chided myself for the unfairness. I relaxed on the conjecture that his coarse rhetoric merely overshadowed the decency of the man, although he insinuated a personal remark regarding his lack of marital intimacy. I looked to my host whose reaction was a nervous laugh. Knowing that the gauche only become more gauche, I should have ended the meeting. Instead, I clung to my positive image that this would not happen to me at MIT. Like a dolt, he enjoyed his entertaining. When I responded to his question regarding my current job responsibilities, with an all-too-familiar jocularity and leg-slapping, he quipped, "Yeah, 'you're moving on up,' just like the Jeffersons." My lips tightened, and my eyes widened in disbelief; I turned to my pale-faced host who squirmed a bit, while Mr. Sexist-Racist-Dolt simply continued running his mouth and grinning. In the next instant, he called me "Girl" not once, but twice, and that is when I leapt up from my chair. It took all of my rational thinking to maintain my composure as I headed for the door telling my host that I had tarried too long.

Fuming, I strode down the hallway in the direction of the elevators, and whom, of all people did I encounter entering the elevator?—Mr. Fists-In-His-Pockets looking as astounded as I did. He stammered, "Are you going down?" Without giving him another glance, I raced by, crisply replying, "No, thank you. I'm taking the stairs." I thought I heard a sigh of relief.

Back at my office, I replayed the scenario in my mind. I laughed at the idiots for their bigotry and at my own silliness to have thought that life could be any other way, even at MIT. Most Whites, from the time they snatched Africans from their homeland as chattel to build this nation, wore the cancerous face of racism. However, following the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1965, Whites changed: only hate mongers openly display the ugly thing; so, who now dons the covert mask of racism?

With an exigency to survive, we, people of color, in an extraordinary evolution, developed extrasensory perception to parlay the collusive disease that threatened us with extinction. It is this combined thinking—the intuitiveness and rationality of which Professor Lightman speaks—that has become a natural way of life for us, people of color, African Americans. We live science and art producing "...an interesting tension, and that creative tension" leads us to the truth of the malignant face of racism and gives us the strength to continue onward.