Every teenager has at least one brutally passionate love. The kind that's all consuming, blinding, and unyielding to distance, logic, and pesky obstacles like reality. For me, it was Richard Robinette. Name unchanged, as I'm not entirely sure my memory is giving it reliably. He was everything I wanted him to be...he was a little older, he seemed so cool, he was funny, and he was fucking tall. And he had freckles. A lot of them. I'm a sucker for freckles. And he was racist.
In my defense, I didn't know this until later on in our "relationship". Indefensibly, it didn't stick in my craw like it would now. We were talking on the phone one day while I was over at Amber's house, and of course, it was on speaker, because I was a teenage girl and it seemed appropriate to have zero privacy in such a situation. I cannot be clear what the conversation was about, but he dropped a line that rang to the tune of "I hate niggers". Amber and I, suitably shocked, looked at each other and Amber said, "uh, dude, my dad is fucking black." And Richard apologized profusely, walking back his statement to say he doesn't think that of ALL black people. Amber's dad isn't black, and I told him as much, and said he shouldn't say things like that. And that was that. No more, no less. We changed topics, and it was forgotten.
Recently, I've been changing the way I walk through the world. I've been examining my privilege in a very real way, and taking stock of how it's affected my day to day. My privileges are numerous. I am a white woman, college educated, straight, married to a man in the military (this is a position that, for some reason, affords a respect I will never understand), well read, middle class. I've always thought of myself as a person that believes in equality. And I do. But my actions barely reflected that ideal, and it remained a thing clutched close to my breast: a token symbol of my goodwill to all, and why I'm not a bad person. How can you be a bad person when you're not a racist? That's a rabbit hole. Don't fall in. Aside from that, I always felt proud of myself for being in the All Lives Matter camp, and seeing people equally. Believing that seeing color was a failing on everybody's part, and viewing the world through a gray lens that weighted judgment on action rather than skin tone, made me feel good.
It isn't enough now. It hasn't been enough for awhile.
My husband is Korean. The foxiest mother fucker on the planet. I've never been one for dating white men. They're not my type. Dan was a rare misstep for me, as I'm white enough for dozens of people, so I like to spice up my world with cultural diversity. When my husband moved to Texas and I begrudgingly dragged myself out here to be with him, we moved into a neighborhood far below our socioeconomic rung. Thankfully, he diversity in our neighborhood is great. It's mostly black and Hispanic, and I love that. My son moved out with us in June of last year, and his best friend is a kid named Sidney. Sidney has become our second son. He spends more time in our home than he does in his own, and from the second the boys are out of school on Friday, he's here until sundown Sunday. Sometimes later, if we have a late dinner. He has his own bed, his own stuff here, he calls me mom. And I love him like he's my own.
The day after Trump secured the electoral college votes, Sidney came home and said, "mom, am I going to have to go back to Africa?" Horrified, I looked at him and told him no. I wouldn't let that happen. He told me that a lot of people said that to him. In school that day. SCHOOL. He's an eleven year old little boy. Race was always an issue in the back of my mind until that moment. I was hit by something that never would have occurred to me otherwise: my whiteness shielded me from the truly nefarious parts of the reality of a Trump presidency. My privilege made it so I was upset that an incompetent, arrogant buffoon won instead of the most qualified candidate for the presidency, possibly to date. It kept me from really understanding what Trump's insidious language was inciting in others, and emboldening them to say and do to people who look like my other son. I had to hear it second hand, and even then, I was pulled down by the knowledge that I would still never, ever, EVER understand what that really felt like for him, and even the sadness and terror in his face falls short of what a curse it must feel like to be dealt a card you have no control over, and people hate you for it.
It's February, which means it's black history month. I've asked my boys every day who they learned about for black history, and every day, they tell me "nobody". And this breaks my heart. I've gone 24 days asking this question (minus weekends and holidays). I was going to wait until the end of the month, but I couldn't wait anymore. I emailed the head of my district for the state board of education. I asked him why there isn't a state approved curriculum for black history month, showing all of our children that people of color have contributed to America, and their contributions matter, and their voices count. It was a long email. I have yet to receive a response (I emailed him three days ago, to be fair. But that's three days in a full week). Today, I cornered the school principal in the parking lot and asked her why my boys were learning zilch about prominent black figures. What ensued was ten minutes of her blustering her way through placating me, a sad attempt at correctly recalling what the underground railroad was called, and ending with her frustrated "Go set an appointment in the office to talk to his teacher about why your boys are so confused". Which I will do tomorrow. This can't stand.
Something broke in me when Sidney asked me if he was going to go back to Africa. When the boys' other friend asked me if Trump was really going to bring back slavery, I promised them that absolutely not, the people I know are good people, and they don't want that, and we will never let such an ugly thing happen to anybody again.
I become less and less certain of that promise as each day goes by. Travel bans, border walls, bullshit propaganda tactics designed to divide and dismay. I tell myself we're supposed to be better than this, but the truth is, we're not. People cling to the comfortable issues that have the biggest impact on their life, and their struggle. Causes outside of that go largely unnoticed. I'm in no way trying to make myself a champion of human rights, or sound like some model citizen that knows better than everybody else, but it gets so god damn tiresome to see Facebook posts I make about something dealing with feminism get lots of love and comments and attention, and the comments I make about black lives matter rallies, or organizations designed to help people of color get through x, y, and z are ignored. Even by my husband, who answered my outrage today over black history being swept under the rug with a casual "nah, you're angry enough for both of us" when I asked him if he was upset over the afternoon's events.
It pisses me the fuck off.
I have a newly developed sense of resentment toward the robust group of feminists I made friends with on Facebook after Hillary Clinton lost (despite her note being my initial candidate, I voted for her because any vote not for her was a vote for Trump, and that shit wasn't going to happen if I could help it. Fat lot of good, but here we are), because the torches they carry are so fucking self serving. It seems impossible for them to carry more than one torch at a time, dropping the white feminism torch to pick up the flavor of the month when it comes along, and then ditching it as soon as the spotlight dims. There's room for all of the things, everybody. It's exhausting, but so is inequality.
I have two rallies coming up: one for black lives matter in Austin, and one protesting Corrections Corporation of America. I'll be asking for the women I find myself united with that also live here in Texas to join me. To join us. I feel like they're going to let me down.
Richard was a racist, and apologetically so. I feel like people test the waters of racism to see what they can get away with. I let him get away with it, and it is to my great shame that I couldn't just say, "hey, what the fuck, asshole, go fuck yourself with that bullshit talk", and I had to chastise him by way of a lie. To make him feel shame, and then walk it back myself with a gentle nudge in the right direction, and a fervent belief that was enough.
I've been a complicit racist my entire life. I can't fucking do it anymore. I have repulsed myself, and I am ashamed of people that haven't caught up yet. Ashamed, but hopeful. I am doing my best to break those walls down constantly, but it can be a struggle. Steffie and I will be doing our podcast on this very topic this week, and I don't want to get carried away here. But if you're reading this, and any of this sounds like a struggle you're familiar with, talk to me. Talk to everybody. It's important to talk about. The Jim Crow era is more alive and well than any of us would care to admit, it's just gotten really good at hiding itself under complacency and obliviousness and comfort zones.
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