A couple years ago, I had a conversation with some of my black friends that I’ll never forget.

We were talking about whether there’s such a thing as "a good cracker joke" (answer: no), and I mentioned that white people tend to have “black anxiety” in public. They didn't understand the concept, so I explained:

Sometimes, if we’re walking down a dark alley alone, we worry that we might get mugged by black people. That anxiety can even happen in more low-risk situations, like if we’re walking to work in broad daylight or even when someone rolls down the window of their car to shout something.
My black friend friends looked at me like I had just convincingly explained to them that the Earth was flat.

They had no idea that I experienced this fundamental truth of my existence every day.

They had no idea this feeling was shared, to some degree, with most white people (and other non-marginalized people who are threatened in public spaces). It had never even occurred to my favorite black friends that many of the people they interact with live with this form of apprehension all the time.

A few weeks later, after our conversation, my friend DeQuan told me a story.

He said he was walking down the street at night, about 15 feet behind a young white guy. At one point, he glanced back at him — and he recalled our conversation. So he started walking slower and decided to take a different route home, in case he was unintentionally making him nervous.

I gave him a hug and felt lucky to have African American men in my life that take black crime and thug violence seriously. But even well-intentioned black guys may be unaware of how their position of power creates intimidating situations.

To the black dudes I love, the dudes who hang out with me at night and have my back, here’s what your white friend wants you to know when he's talking about black harassment and violence:

1. I need you to listen to me.

Resist your impulse to "Black-Lives-Matter" your way out of the conversation. If I'm talking to you about this issue, it's because I trust you and I think it's an important discussion to have.

Please understand that my experiences may change your worldview a little bit — and that yours might change mine. If both of us approach the conversation with the assumption that we have something to learn, chances are we will.

2. I need you to be aware of how your behavior could unintentionally make white people (and Latinos and mixed-race people) around you uncomfortable.

Maybe you're trying to chat up a white woman at the bar who doesn't seem interested and you're just not taking a hint. Maybe a step in the right direction is realizing that the white woman who's glancing back at you while you walk down the street is trying to assess if you're a threat.

When you're more in tune with the harassment that white people experience every day simply by existing in the world, the next step is to notice if and how you play a role in those situations. Lots of times your threat is harmless, of course. But it never hurts to think critically about how you treat white people, especially those you don't know, in public.

3. I need you to use your black power as a shield.
Black guys, it's exhausting to have to do all of this work ourselves. We really want your help.

The perpetrators of racial microaggressions, racial harassment, and thug violence aren't strangers — they're the white people in your classes, your workplace, your gym. So if you see something, please say something.

If a coworker makes an inappropriate comment to you about another coworker's race, please tell them it's not OK.

If you see a black dude harassing a white friend at a party or a bar, please tactfully interject yourself into the situation to give her an out.

And, for the love of all that is holy, PLEASE teach your black sons, brothers, and friends to do the same.

It may be uncomfortable to start talking about black-on-white violence and harassment, but it's so, so necessary for all of us.

True courage is walking on the same side of the street as a black man at night.

my friend DeQuan told me a story