“I am a racist because sometimes I think I am not and that it is the rest of the white people, not me ….. who need to do the work.”
An excellent piece written by a friend at church, who is in this struggle with me: http://www.lakeschooling.com/2013/07/i-am-not-trayvon-i-am-racist.html
Thanks PF!
I struggled with race when we first moved back to the States from Papua New Guinea. I naively didn’t think it was so much a Black/White thing (although it certainly was), as the fact that I kept expecting African-Americans to be culturally the same as my dark-skinned friends from New Guinea. I was constantly imposing a set of expectations and social ‘rules’ on African-Americans which simply weren’t theirs to keep. It caused frequent ruptures and misunderstandings. My particular form of latent racism came with a certain brand of colonialism (borne from life as a White missionary child in a Black country).
I was gifted my freshman year of college by finding myself living on a floor in the dormitory which was predominantly African-American. My cultural expectations were quickly exposed, and quickly addressed. Those girls would not tolerate my racism. And I’m better for it.
Virlinda (also known as ‘Vi’ (pronounced VEE)) was all over my case. Any time I said something which exposed my privilege, she’d not let me linger in oblivion, but would interrupt, getting up in my face and demand, “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'” At first I’d just stand there, staring dumbly. She would get more animated and more obnoxious. “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'” The line got repeated ad nauseum until I would finally give in and repeat aloud “Baby, I’m a White girl.” Then she’d grin real big and continue on with whatever we were doing.
It came so frequently I began to dream it: “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'”
It became my mantra for the year: “Baby, I’m a White girl.” Virlinda wouldn’t let me lose site of the privilege I brought to each and every discussion, each and every interaction, each and every transaction. For a period of time I hated her. Then I loved her.
What an education! Thank you, Vi.
Baby, I’m a White girl.
A group of us from the dorm at a college football game. Virlinda is in the front row, on the left.
Suddenly this image was all I could think of…
I’ve traveled for work the past two weeks, and am jet lagged and tired. This morning was me in slow motion: unmotivated to go to work, dreading the commute on the train. I opted to hail a cab, convincing myself that it was a treat well earned–that I’d been working hard and deserved such a luxury. It took less than 2 minutes to hail a cab.
As I settled into the back seat, I was relieved to see that this cab had a barrier wall between me and the driver: a padded lower portion keeps my knees from bumping the seat ahead of me; whilst a Plexiglas upper portion allows me to see, but prohibits easy conversation. Again, I was tired. I rambled off the address to my office building without even a glance towards the front seat and situated my purse and computer bag. I like to know where everything is, so my phone is handy, and so I’m less likely to forget a bag and leave it in the car when I make my exit. I really didn’t pay attention until the driver repeated the address back to me, and said “Is that right, ma’am?”
I cringed. “Ma’am” is usually a moniker bestowed upon me by a twenty-something. I thought about my graying hair and sighed. Then looking up, realized that the polite driver was an elderly Black man. “Yes, thank you, sir.” I mumbled, embarrassed. And something made me glance at his hands: white gloves. My elderly Black cab driver was wearing black dress pants, a starched white shirt and collar, and yes… white driving gloves. He suddenly had my full attention. And the irony of the past week with the George Zimmerman trial came sweeping over me. All I could think about was that scene from “Driving Miss Daisy”. AUGH. I was the privileged white woman being chauffeured around by a Black man!
Classical music streamed through the cab, along with the chilly draft from the air conditioner. Gosh, it is cold in this cab, I thought. Oh! That’s why he’s wearing the gloves! He’s got the air turned on high for me, and he’s suffering in the front seat. I leaned forward and said “Are your hands cold? Is that why you are wearing gloves? Because you can turn the air conditioner off if you’d like. I’ll be fine.” Somehow my comment felt benevolent to me. I was being gracious. “No ma’am,” he said. “I like the air conditioner. I wear these gloves because my hands hurt on the steering wheel. Friction or something. At the end of the day, my hands just ache if I don’t wear them.” Gosh, Donna. It isn’t about you. Get over yourself.
Gratefully he heard my comments as concern for him, and he opened up. It seems he’s originally from Nigeria. “I am a wealthy man, you see,” he said. “I live in the U.S. for 6 months, and then at my home in Nigeria for 6 months.” He pulled out a packet of photos he had on the seat next to him. “I own 5 acres and have it all walled in. My home is in there. I have 8 bedrooms, and each has its own running water. I have my garden there, and my cattle. Everything I need is there.” He laughs heartily. “I play classical piano.” He nods towards the radio. “My children all like that hip hop music” but he says that his music has “endurance.” “My composers are 300-400 years old and they are still being played on the radio. Theirs will be gone in 3 or 4 years.”
His story begins to unfold: “I became a captain in the Nigerian army on October 1, 1960–the day Nigeria gained independence from the United Kingdom. I am a man of discipline, and it has served me well. I have married, have achieved a Ph.D. in Chemistry, taught as professor, and raised 4 children. And as of May 2002 my youngest child finished college. Now I am a wealthy man. I sit in my car, in the air conditioning all day, listening to classical music, and people put money in my pocket to drive them around. This is not work. I am a wealthy man. I love life. Life is beautiful.”
This amazing 85 year old man dressed with dignity because it was befitting to him. Not, as I imagined in my narrow perspective, to fulfill the role or stereotype of ‘servant’.
I have much to learn.
Today I joined the NAACP and also made a donation. These are small steps, but they are steps. This country has to change.
You too can take these initial steps. Join at NAACP.
Thank you.
I have spent the last week in S. Florida on a business trip. My whole Chicago office (five people) went to Ft. Lauderdale to meet with our team members there (15 people). I have been aware in past meetings of the cultural gaps between these groups, so I made a point to note them as they occurred this week. I have struggled trying to synthesize this material in order to present it in a some cohesive fashion. But I realize that the cultural differences and resulting culture shock have left me mute. I don’t know how to wrap my head around them, therefore I will simply list them here.
So I write all this to say that I’ve not experienced that kind of culture shock in a while.
But no… that’s not true.
I was down in Southern Illinois for the 4th of July and we attended the fireworks at the county airport. We parked our little car on the grassy lot, and were quickly surrounded by large four-door over-sized pickup trucks: guys sitting in the back in lawn chairs, drinking beer, spitting tobacco, throwing fire crackers and smoke bombs off the tailgate, Toby Keith blaring offensive lyrics from ginormous speakers. I felt in a foreign land.
And now I don’t know how to go on. There is much disparity in these states we call ‘United”.
they sit in ambush in the villages;
in hiding places they murder the innocent.
their eyes stealthily watch for the helpless;
they lurk in secret like a lion in its covert…
they stoop, they crouch,
and the helpless fall.
psalm 10
Yes. This is what White privilege looks like. For real.
Paula Deen is delusional. This isn’t in reference to the obnoxious public apologies (both of them)–begging (quite literally) for forgiveness. Nor is it to the butter-slathered, heavy cream dishes which coat her arteries as she ponders her diabetes and weight issues. Nor is it in reference to her apparent alcoholism, and questionable relationships. I’m talking about the bizarre nostalgia she and others like her hold for the antebellum South: where ‘men’ were white wealthy landowners; women were pale, fragile accouterments; and ‘coloreds’ were friendly, happy helpers on the plantation and in the house, willing to offer hand and heart to anything the landowners desired. But she’s not racist. No. Not at all. She just pictures the ideal wedding reception as the bride and groom in dazzling white, and the wait staff all Black skinned with white gloves (so as not to contaminate the food?). But that’s not racist. That’s nostalgia for a simpler, better time, right? That’s just old school ‘class(ism)’? Right? For a woman who’s made a career on creating food as a key component of hospitality, her life has taken a strange twist–being outed as someone with one of the least possible hospitable mindsets–racism.
But she’s not a racist…
Recently a friend I went to high school with brought back some old 8 mm home movies his cousin had taken in the 70s and 80s. His purpose: get these converted into a digital mode to preserve for future generations. A nice idea, indeed, and truly a gift to his family. My father was his pastor in the mid to late 80s, and he invited me over to view some of the films, as I would enjoy seeing folks and reminiscing about old times–even though the films were all of a time before my family lived there.
One set of films was taken was a series of women’s ‘slumber parties’ sponsored by the Nazarene church women. The films depict these holiness women being silly and playful, and it was fun to see this side of them. But on occasion, the men of the church, possibly feeling left out of the ‘fun’, would burst in and surprise the women. They only stayed a short period of time, and usually performed a silly skit and left. All of this was very amusing, and fun to see everyone when they were young. Amusing, that is, until the men ‘busted’ into the slumber party and performed a jamboree in blackface. Horrified, I watched these holiness people play washboards, beat on over turned wash tubs, and act silly. Their audience giggled and danced and delighted in the fun. This film was taken during the Regan era–not the Kennedy era.
I don’t know why I was so shocked. You see, a large portion of that church lived out on a country road that was known commonly “Nigger Lake Road“. Back at the turn of the century, some Black people moved to town and purchased the cheapest land in the area: a place prone to flooding. During flood-times, those good ol’ country folk began calling the road that ran through that area, naturally, “Nigger Lake Road.” Eventually, it was too difficult (socially, financially) for the Blacks to stay in the area, and once they’d abandoned the farm land, the surrounding farmers decided to build a drainage system in order to keep the land usable for farming. But in order to apply for a government grant, it was determined that the name of the road perhaps needed to be a bit more benign: so it was changed to “Sand Lake Road”. The name didn’t change until 1996.
I’m confronted once again with the mental gymnastics required for white holiness church people who proclaim the love and hospitality of Christ, to so very easily dismiss for so long the blatant racism in their midst. And I realize there is a certain form of nostalgia that comes along with privilege: a rose colored lens through which events in the world are seen.
I am so ashamed. We are so delusional.
OuttaSiteOuttaMind 