Another Rant On Racism

As a white (tall, blonde) woman, I've been looked at many different ways:  Dismissively. Appreciatively. Not at all. On the sly. Disrespectfully. Up, down, up, down and back up again.

But, before last weekend, I've never experienced a look of complete and sheer terror. The kind normally reserved for lunging lions. Or realizing that you've woken up inside a burning building. The kind fueled by sheer adrenaline and gut instinct, far beyond any calming grasp of logic. 

The kind that black people, like André, my husband of fifteen years, deal with way too often.

The kind that gets black people killed for no other reason than the ignorant narrative of hate in someone else's head.

The kind that white people never get to experience, because if they did, maybe they'd get it. And maybe they'd speak up. And maybe this would finally have a chance of ending in my lifetime.

I'm not holding out hope.

Last Friday. Date night. Boston. 2014. Fifty years past the Civil Rights Act of 1964. A half century since we've had any meaningful dialogue in this country about race or racism, because, just like polio, didn't we cure that back in the day? And, really, what do 'they' want anyway?

We are a country of cowards without empathy or understanding.

Our evening started underground in a garage on Boyston, near historic Fenway. The garage was new. And well lit. And apparently safe enough for the cast of Top Chef Boston, who lived in the expensive digs above during the taping. But on this rainy night, only one other car drove by.

"This place is kinda creepy," said André--uttering the most ironic line of the night.

By the time André and I rounded the corner for the elevator, another couple, also on date night, were waiting in the glass enclosed space. They were in an embrace. Relaxed. Her head tucked on his chest. And then the white man spied André, coming directly towards him. 

In his eyes? I saw sheer terror.

And it wasn't even directed towards me. Tunnel vision had kicked in. His focus was entirely on André and the danger that a dark-skinned brother in a black puffer coat, represented to him. Within milliseconds, he transformed my kind husband, known to take in PBS documentaries on wild turkeys, into a violent thug, ready to rob, rape, break both his legs and beat him with them. 

White dude, and his limited brain, had entered into a fight for his life. 

Only it was all by himself.

As André opened the door for me, white dude immediately went into action, frantically patting himself down, in places that he didn't even have pockets. The dude's complete panic would have been humorous if it wasn't so sad. He said to his date he left the ticket in the car. 

He might as well have said the gun.

And he was off. Flight. Leaving his girlfriend, whose only fault was her taste in men, behind. She was polite. She spoke to us directly, telling us to go ahead when the elevator finally came. She treated both of us like human beings. Clearly, her dude could learn a thing or two from her.

If he ever came back from his car.

I can't stop thinking about this. In a sick way, I'm grateful to this asshole, for showing me,as a white person, something that not only has never happened to me, but something that would be really hard for me to imagine, even with my understanding of André's experience in this world.

But really, it just leaves me with more questions.

Like how do we end racism when it comes from a place so deep in someone's soul, that it's a defining characteristic, like eye color--that never gets acknowledge, nevermind challenged? How do we end racism when simply seeing a person of color invokes such an intense, primal response, that certain people decide their only option is to kill before they are killed?

Damned if I know. 

I just continue to believe that I'm in this unique place for a reason. So I'll just keep talking.

Why White America Blew the George Zimmerman Verdict

I could say the George Zimmerman verdict surprised me.

I'd be lying.

I'm generally optimistic. But when I heard the jury make-up: six women, five whites and one unidentified minority, in my head it was all a done deal.

Not guilty.

Here's the thing. I'm white. I've been partnered up with this amazing black dude for almost half of my life. I'm sympathetically aware of the bullshit challenges he sometimes experiences. Occasionally, if I'm outstandingly lucky, I even get to share in joint racial profiling. But, as a white woman, I can never fully experience his discrimination.

And neither could these jurors.

To prove the crime of Manslaughter in Florida, the State must prove that Trayvon Martin is dead. Check. And that Zimmerman intentionally committed an act or acts that caused the death of Trayvon Martin. Double check.

So what's the issue? Could the reasonable doubt have come into play because these women, the majority of them white, have absolutely no understanding of the hardcore profiling that black men and teens deal with every single day. And trust, even with a black president, we still live in an outstandingly racist society. 

Lately, I can't stop thinking about how many people don't want to accept their part in the ugly. Indeed. That would be you Mr. Zimmerman, last week's pariah Ms. Paula Deen, as well as all all of their supporters, including the peeps claiming no one's racist here.

Who exactly are you lying to?

Clearly, if we're living in a colorblind society, as so many people falsely believe, then my husband, Trayvon Martin, and millions of other people of color, who have similar stories to tell, should be able to go about their business without a second glance. 

Sorry. The numbers just don't match up.

The greater truth? No one wants to be labeled as racist. But if you've blissfully managed to live in self-segregation and avoid putting yourself into a situation, any situation, where your beliefs about race can be challenged, either good or bad, then you cannot, I repeat, cannot claim you're not racist.

Racism is not some sort of abstract idea. It's concrete. It's ugly. And how you react in front of a real live person, who looks, on the surface, perhaps a bit different than you, particularly during a time of stress is the true test of character, and in my opinion, the only way you can discover where your racial prejudices really lie.

Zimmerman failed this miserably. 

Tim Wise, an antiracist essayist, author and educator said in this recent piece: "Which is to say, Trayvon Martin is dead because he is black and because George Zimmerman can’t differentiate — and didn’t see the need to — between criminal and non-criminal black people. Which is to say, George Zimmerman is a racist. Because if you cannot differentiate between black criminals and just plain kids, and don’t even see the need to try, apparently, you are a racist…"

Sure, George Zimmerman can claim that he's not a racist. He's got a Peruvian mom after all. But his true test came when he met up with a dark skinned youth, wearing a hoodie, who had the balls to walk through his neighborhood. Did Zimmerman see Trayvon as an individual just passing through. Nope. Trayvon was called out by Zimmerman, three days after the shooting during an interrogation with the police, as yet another of those "fucking punks". 

Racist.

The other piece of the whole mess that really disgusts me is this concept that persons of color have no right to defend themselves, during an attack. Especially during an attack that they didn't start. Indeed, Trayvon may have contributed to those wounds on Zimmerman's head--as self-defense during an fight. But I guess the protections awarded by the Florida Stand Your Ground Law don't apply to dead teenagers. 

Again, I defer to Mr. Wise: "They are saying that black people who fight back against someone they think is creepy and who is following them, and might intend to harm them, are more responsible for their deaths than those who ultimately kill them. What they have said, and make no mistake about it, is that any white person who wants to kill a black person can follow one, confront them, maybe even provoke them; and as soon as that black person perhaps takes a swing at them, or lunges at them, the white pursuer can pull their weapon, fire, and reasonably assume that they will get away with this act. I can start drama, and if you respond to the drama I created, you are to blame, not me."

Let that sink in for a second.

And can we be real for a second Zimmerman? When you pulled your gun on Trayvon, it's highly doubtful that he said, "You got me", as you claimed in the Hollywood western playing out in your mind. Do you really believe your story? I'm guessing that Trayvon said, in complete shock and disbelief, "You shot me."

Which you did. 

So, I wonder, do you still think he deserved it? I don't remember you apologizing. Even now that you're off the criminal hook.

My very wise girlfriend told me recently, about the perspective of one of her African American studies professors, a white man, who said black people are not going to end discrimination. The task lies with white people, the only ones with power to change the system. But to do that, injustices not only have to be seen, but acknowledged as such, even if you can't relate to them in the exact same way.

So to you, the five white jurors, who a real opportunity to leave your mark on history, you just blew it.

Again.

Paula Deen. Keep Talking About Race

May I be the first to thank you Ms. Paula Deen.

Not for your boneheaded racial slurs. But for reminding us, as Americans, that our world is far from colorblind. And just because we're not publicly lynching people in the town square, doesn't mean things have gotten a whole lot better.

Take a recent Thursday night in my world. While you were attempting to put out your public relations fires, my husband and I spent an evening at a major department store, being racially profiled. You know, because even though I'm a tall white blonde woman, when I'm with my 'scary' dark-skinned husband, there's an element of guilt by association.

Our 'crime', of the moment--trust, it wasn't the first, and surely won't be the last--was returning two huge boxes of apparel, purchased via the web, to a shopping plaza in suburban Rhode Island. As we're entering the store, the security alarm goes off. 

Andre turns to me and said, "Well, I just triggered the black alarm." 

It'd be funny if it wasn't true.

Apparently, if you purchase something on-line from Kohl's, the distribution center doesn't de-activate the security mechanism. No biggie. But if free returns for on-line purchases are standard, then such an activity should not only be commonplace, but not require an immediate tail by a floor clerk, who basically escorted us to the service desk.

In case you were wondering, the racial make- up of Greenville, RI, about ten minutes north of my house in Providence, according to the 2010 census, stands at 97.1 percent white. The black population? A whopping .8 percent. 

Why is this important? Because if you have absolutely no personal interaction with someone other than your own race, ever, there's an outstandingly good possibility you've got some deep set assumptions going down that you may, or may not, be acknowledging, that are indeed, racist.

Like you, ignoramus managerial type, who made it a point to stop by and ask the service desk clerk, "Those guys returning something?", even though she was clearly mid-transaction, scanning clothing in plastic bags, each bearing mail order bar codes, that interestingly enough match the receipts.

And blatantly turning around to and get a full on look in our faces? Nice touch.

So, Ms. Paula Deen. Now that you've managed to open a conversation on race, even if that wasn't your intent, maybe you can see how important it is to continue it.