Put Your White Man Pants On

Photo by Vlady Nykulyak on Unsplash

Today at lunch, a man reminded me that I need to be more entitled.

We were at a Japanese restaurant when this loud banging started somewhere behind the kitchen. We couldn’t see what was happening. Construction. Repairs. Somebody fighting for their life with a hammer. Who knows.

It was annoying, but tolerable.

My female coworker asked the waitress what was going on. Politely, of course.

My male coworker waited a few minutes.

Then he got up.

I watched him walk toward the back of the restaurant, past the area where customers are generally supposed to stop, look around until somebody acknowledged him, and tell them they needed to stop the banging. There were customers eating, and it was disrupting our lunch.

He came back to the table and sat down. I looked at him.

“That,” I said, “is some white man shit.” But I have another name for it.

White Man Pants.

I’ve been talking about white man pants for years. They’re the imaginary pants you put on when you need the audacity of a person who has never once considered whether he is asking for too much.

And before somebody gets upset, I know.

Not all white men.

Relax, Greg.

I’m talking about a particular way of moving through the world. An assumption that your discomfort matters. That somebody should answer your email. That you belong in the room until somebody physically removes you from it.

I would never have gone into the back of that restaurant.

Never.

I would have sat there listening to the banging while eating my lunch and probably said, “Damn, that’s annoying.” Then tipped 20 percent.

Sometimes being considerate starts costing you. You don’t negotiate the salary because you don’t want to seem ungrateful. Or even apply because you only meet seven of the ten qualifications.

You wait for somebody to notice you’re ready.

Meanwhile, somebody with half your experience has already applied, followed up, asked for more money, and sent a calendar invite.

White Man Pants.

I don’t want to walk through life believing every room should rearrange itself for me. There are enough people doing that already.

But I have started wondering how many things I’ve politely talked myself out of.

How much money? How many rooms?

How many times have I known exactly what I wanted and decided asking for it would make somebody uncomfortable?

That consideration sounds like good manners until you realize the person you’re protecting from discomfort is often the one with the power to say yes.

There is a difference between entitlement and audacity. I haven’t always left enough room for the latter.

So I’m keeping the pants.

I’ll pull them out when I’m about to disqualify myself from something nobody has rejected me for yet. When I’m tempted to accept the first number, or when I catch myself writing “just wanted to follow up” as though my question is an inconvenience.

I’ll put those babies on and buckle them tight.

You don’t need to wear your white man pants every day.

But you should own a pair.