Am I A Racist?

A New Dawn? Sawhill Ponds. Boulder County, Colorado, 2014

Given the current upheaval in our country these days this seems like a good time to look in the mirror and ask the question.

How about you? Care to join me?

Personally, I found the inquiry to be quite uncomfortable.

Who Am I, Really?

Am I a racist?

My initial reaction, of course (like yours, I’m sure) was, “Hell, no!”

I have always thought of myself as a very tolerant and open-minded person. I have traveled more than most, I suppose, and have lived for long stretches (years) in different foreign countries. I have learned foreign languages. Basked in cultural diversity and enjoyed it.

I always thought of myself as quite liberal–in the classic sense, to a degree, and in the modern sense, most certainly.

I have always supported–at least in my mind–the civil rights movement, women’s rights and the #MeToo Movement, the push to expand health care, etc.

In Texas, I worked at the local level to elect Obama–the first time I had ever actively engaged in politics. I was even present at that Presidential inauguration in Washington, D.C., a freezing January day in 2009. In fact, due to the cold, my wife and I ended up watching the event, live, on big screen TVs set up inside Constitution Hall. You remember. That place where Marian Anderson was prohibited from performing by the Daughters of the American Revolution. The audience inside the Hall was at least 3/4 African American.

After the 2016 election, I joined protest marches.

Despite some political “confusion” as a young adult (I remember when Rush started up on radio), I now almost always vote FOR progressive causes and candidates. I have written letters to my Senators and Representatives in support of liberal causes.

I am for progress. I strongly believe in the creed of our nation written in the Declaration of Independence, that “all men [and women] are created equal”. At least I believe that is what we should be constantly striving for… to make our nation better and more just at every opportunity.

So… naturally, I think of myself as a “progressive”.

I suppose I’m typical of those liberal, American-born, White guys (White privilege, anyone?) you’ll find scattered all across America.

Here’s the thing, though. From what I now understand, it would have been almost impossible for me to NOT absorb into my blood and bones at least some degree of racism, given that racism is so, so, so deeply imbedded in the DNA of this country.

Indeed.

Some Personal Background

I was born in 1958, in a very White, very wide, very wonderful (to me), and very rural Wyoming. Non-Whites counted for just 2.5% of the 330,000 residents in the 1960 census (pdf document loads slowly), most of these being Native Americans (“Fighting terrorism since 1492“). In those years, I bet you could have counted the number of Black Americans in that state on two hands. Hispanics? Maybe a few were there as hired ranch hands, or ag workers. The Native population was almost entirely relegated to the “Res”, of course, and only visible to most White people when they showed up in traditional costume to dance at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo (“The last full week of July!”).

While still a babe in cotton diapers, we moved farther west, and I spent my formative childhood years in the forests and small towns of Washington and Oregon… two other states that were certainly not postcards of diversity at the time–although, I do remember going to a number of Native American powwows and ceremonies as a wide-eyed and curious kid (Umatilla, Walla Walla, Klamath, and/or Multnomah tribes, maybe?).

I don’t think I saw my first Black person until we moved to Phoenix, Arizona when I was 10 or 11-years old. Then, moving up the grades, out of a student population of some 3,000 in my high school, I can remember exactly two Black kids–Woody and Quentin. God knows what their high school experience was like.

Almost nothing like mine, I’m sure. (I have since talked personally with Quentin and now know this to be quite so.)

On To My Shameful Story…

Oh, the shame and guilt of what I am about to relate… sad proof of the ubiquity of racism in our culture. How could I have been this person? How? How?

So…

After graduating high school, I found myself in the music program at the University of Colorado (CU) in Boulder in the fall of 1976. (CU… How many African Americans were enrolled in 1976, you ask? Not very many, I’d guess.)

One day, we were all either headed to or from some sort of band practice (probably marching band, given that it was football season). I was walking along with another White guy, I can’t recall his name. For some reason, the subject of names came up.

That’s when all that racism I had unconsciously absorbed over the years floated to the surface for some weird reason. Who knows why, but in my best southern Black accent (or what I perceived that to be), I launched into a little monologue, which I thought was really funny at the time, that went something like this:

“Ya eve’ notice that them Black folk always be named Washington o’ Jefferson o’ some such thang… o they’s have fust names lak Rastus ‘n’ Reemis…“.

Talk about ignorance. Talk about being blind to history. Talk about lack of understanding and empathy.

I am ashamed to type those quoted words.

Oh, if I had only had knowledge of this particular essay back then, to give just one powerful example:

You Want A Confederate Monument? My Body Is A Confedrate Monument, by Caroline Randall Williams, June 26, 2020, NY Times. As you might guess from the title, it deals with what White owners often did to their Black female slaves–and the ancestral result.

Anyway, I’m not sure what else I said, but in the middle of my “hilarious” little speech, I happened to glance behind me–and immediately locked eyes with a Black girl who had been walking behind us and who had heard every word.

Her expression, as she looked into my eyes, was a combination of shock, anger, and extreme pain.

The emotions written on her face hit me like a boulder in the chest and, yes, I felt like a real asshole.

But where did that racism come from? Babies aren’t born with it. Someone teaches us these things. But my parents didn’t talk like that or teach me any of this? My teachers seemed to always be quite fair-minded. Did I just sort of absorb it via osmosis from peers, television, newspapers? Probably.

Since that time, I have never stooped quite that low. BUT… I have, as I now see, continued to be part of the problem without much thinking about it.

I have remained silent when others told racist jokes, and I have even repeated those same racist or sexist jokes myself on occasion.

Once, I remained silent as I watched someone show me how, with a press on his key fob button, he could rotate his Florida license plate away to reveal a Confederate flag plate in it’s place. “Keeps the tailgaters away,” he commented with a smile.

I’m pretty sure I can guess the skin color of those “tailgaters”.

So, what to do?

From various sources, from both Black and White writers and activists, I have gleaned a few things us White guys and gals can do to help improve things in our country and not continue to be a silent part of the problem. This list is by no means complete and, as a White guy, I understand I likely don’t see the whole picture, so feel free to add a comment with your criticisms or ideas.

Here we go:

–First, just listen. Ask your Black friends about their experiences. Then, listen to them. Listen.

–Apologize for being an idiot when your imbedded racism (subtle as it might be) rears its ugly head. Then, listen.

–Speak up when someone makes a racist or sexist comment or tells a racist or sexist joke. Silence is complicity.

–Get educated. Read books about Black, Hispanic, and Native American history and women’s issues. These have been suggested to me: “So You Want To Talk About Race,” by Ijeoma Oluo“; “The New Jim Crow,” by Michelle Alexander; “Heavy,” by Kiese Laymon; “Me and White Supremacy,” by Layla F. Saad. 

–Contribute money to organizations supporting people of color, indigenous peoples, LBGTQ, women’s rights.

–Go to a protest, be peaceful, don’t let yourself be provoked, support and protect your companions, and film any unusual incidents. (And, these days, wear a mask and eye protection.)

–Film any potentially problematic interactions with less tolerant citizens anywhere you see them.

–Film the police if the incident looks like it could be odd in any way, or possibly get out-of-hand. If the police do their job correctly, the video will vindicate them, and they will appreciate it–if not, well… (To be cIear on this, I totally support the good cops, and there are many. They have an almost impossible job with great risk and little reward. But we can no longer afford to let the bad apples rot the barrel.)

–Consider verbal and/or physical intervention if witnessing an obviously unjust racist or sexist situation–but use extreme caution. Calling 911, even with police already on the scene, may be the better answer to avoid a really bad scene.

Finally,

—VOTE, VOTE, VOTE!!! 2020 needs to be an absolute landslide–and we all know which way. THEN, don’t stop. Constantly and vigorously pressure the new administration to make REAL systemic changes in how our government and society works. Don’t be satisfied with mere symbolic gestures. Flag and statues are a nice start, but there needs to be actual, structural change this time.

And those are my thoughts for the day.