Race was on my mind

first conscious encounters with racism

At the Evergreen Convocation this year our speaker was Carlotta Walls L’Nier, one of the first nine black children to be integrated into a white high school in Arkansas, made famous by the riots, violence, and eventual military peacekeeping action to take place. Afterward we were put in smaller groups to discuss and write about our school entering experience in comparison to hers. This after a lecture the day before on discrimination. Racism was on my mind.

The first to speak was a Lebanese black man , born and adopted in Tacoma, strong in his right to voice his thoughts, and dedicated to doing so. He began by trying to explain his experience, the black experience in a white world. He talked about lack of intelligence, lack of interest, lack of respect in an issue that dominated his life. HE grew more passionate as he spoke in ever widening circles. Black family structure destroyed, culture crushed, rampant racism  - he pauses for a breath - the teacher jumps to regain control and informs him this wasn’t the assignment. He was supposed to encapsulate it all in a few brief paragraphs  and tie it to himself. She makes a little joke, laughs to relieve her tension, and moves on to the next of us. His arms cross, his lips purse, and every muscle in his body screams that he’s upset. Again his life is dismissed in a white woman’s sarcastic tone.    

Racism was on my mind. I’d always assumed there wasn’t any this far north, and in the way I’ve always thought about it, there’s not. We don’t sneer as a black passes or shout “N****r” at their backs. Perhaps we have a little bit of bias, but it’s unconscious and cultural, unavoidable. I’ve always assumed that tolerance was enough. That I need only live and let live. Today I heard a scream for recognition.

Recognition for the pain of knowing scorn hidden behind white friend’s eyes. Recognition for the pain of a destroyed people. Respect for the difficulty of being a subculture different from the norm. Recognition, because no one cares.

But why should I care? I have only so much energy. I only have so much time. I’ve seen how political correctness can bog down quality to the breaking point. Isn’t it enough to not be part of the problem? Must I actively fight it? There are so many problems. There are too many fights, and I can’t fight all of them, I can’t even begin to try. I can try to understand, I can seek to learn, but I cannot be constantly conscious for a fight that is not even mine.

I find more and more that battles have to be fought locally if we are to win them. When a black girl says it bothers her when people look at her every time the subject of race comes up, I smile. This is a specific I can attend to. Three months of a little bit of consciousness and a habit is formed. This is a fight I can win. Continual consciousness on a globally politically correct scale is not. It’s too long winded. Awkward. Inefficient.

Yet what if I am wrong? What if the most learning comes from the attempts to continually please, the active fight for a cause that is not mine? What if my insensitivity kills the soul? What if the most good for the most people includes constant vigilance for the feelings of the minority? What if it is my destiny to pay for the racial crimes of my forefathers, and expend extra energy to make up for the cotton costs they saved?  

I don’t know the answer. I do know that that whenever I can I must be kind. Near the end of our time I ask the man if I can hear more after we’re done. He loosens, smiles, his anger gone for the moment. In his mind someone white cares about blacks and their fate. In my mind I care for the feelings of one frustrated man. I haven’t the heart to care for a community of millions. I can build habits that will help to not hurt. I can do a little, but I cannot care in any practical sense for so many. But where I can help - I must.