On Race

I just finished two books: No Matter How Much You Promise to Cook or Pay the Rent, You Blew It Cauze Bill Bailey Ain't Never Coming Back Again, by Edgardo Vega Yunqué and Dreams From My Father by Barack Obama.

Both books deal largely with issues of race, and with issues of identity around being multi-racial in particular. One is fictional, and one is biographical. Both, in their own ways, are at times heartbreaking.

Back in college, I took a fairly awful class that was being taught by a guest professor. It was part of my performing arts minor, but I honestly couldn't tell you anything I learned in the class. There was one interaction that I've never forgotten, however. I don't remember why, or the larger context of the discussion, but the instructor told me that I was a racist. I protested, and she dismissed me casually, saying that by virtue of being a white male I was a racist and that was that.

I had never been so insulted in my life, and I mean that without hyperbole.

Now, almost twenty years later, I think I understand a little bit of what she so cavalierly claimed. In my time with the California School Leadership Academy I was exposed to a lot of research about racial attitudes and especially about the ignorance that white people tend to have about their own racial experience. Most white people wouldn't even claim to HAVE a racial experience because we equate whiteness with normality. We don't have a white experience, we're just normal. Be normal like us.

This was about ten years ago, and opened my eyes to a whole host of assumptions I had made about my life and experience. I was not actively engaged in any oppression, wasn't in the habit of uttering racially derogatory statements or epithets, and thought myself relatively free of racial attitudes. But I had no sense that my white suburban history provided me with a life experience that was ... well ... white, privileged, special. My life experience was NOT normal, and in fact had little to do with the life experience of most people on the planet.

Since then, I've evolved a more sophisticated understanding of how race plays a factor in my life, but these books held another surprise for me. Obama's reflections in particular gave me a jolt.

He talks about the full blown resentment towards whites by those who are under oppression. It is not based on individual actions, but is based on history and despair and suspicion. I could spend my days doing everything I can to alleviate suffering in a poor, predominantly black area and it might do little to nothing to heal race barriers because my actions could be resented because my presence was an example of the white man's ability to choose to do whatever he wanted, and the fact that I could walk away at any moment from the suffering I had embraced would make me an object of distaste and suspicion. My very presence in such a community would act as a reminder of white privilege. This is phrased awkwardly, but what Obama describes is a catch-22, a social paralysis. No matter what I might do to heighten my awareness, no matter what acts I might take to help fix the injustice and social inequity around me, my very freedom to act marks me as the oppressor... as one who is simply patronizing.

In short, by being a white male, I am viewed as a racist.

Of course, this in and of itself is racist thinking and white people are not the only racists in the country, let alone the world. But the problem stands even more starkly before me as a result of this realization. No matter how much I try to live in a way that does no harm, shows equity, and tries to withhold judgement on those I encounter until I see them in fullness, I stand as recipient of a history of harmfulness, blindness, and oppression.

The visiting professor was right, in her way, although she did absolutely nothing to help me understand her statement at the time.

So, where do I stand currently? In the same spot I have been, really. I stand in a position of awareness not only of my own experience and cultural inheritance, but also where I stand in the cultural inheritance of others. To those who know me, I can move outside that placeholder, but for those who see me on the street, on BART, in the local shops, I carry my own kind of stigma. The best I can do is to acknowledge these histories and refuse to play into expectations.

It's a start.