I
grew up in a white house on a hill in small-town Oklahoma. What we called
Colored Town was located three blocks behind us on the east side of the hill.
Many of the coloreds walked past our house on the way downtown. Back in those days not many of us…black or white…had automobiles,
so walking was the norm. (I walked to grade school, junior high, and high
school.)
At
any rate, when someone walked past, I thought nothing of it. I was ambivalent. A
couple of other family members, however, would stand and make unflattering
comments, sometimes yelling racial epithets. It wasn’t long before I felt
morally superior. I, you see, wasn’t
prejudiced. I could look at a colored and see a human being.
Why?
My relatives and I shared the same gene pool. We had nearly identical environments.
Our home experiences were similar. Shouldn’t we view “Other People” in the same
way? If not, why?
I
wasn’t perspicacious enough in those days to think things through, but I now believe
it was because I, too, was a minority without realizing it. I grew up sickly
and never learned to enjoy sports either as a participant or as a spectator. I
was sissified. Oh, I had friends, but my relationship with them was
somehow different. I was accepted, but not embraced. So I felt ostracized. My lifelong
interest in and affinity for Native American cultures can probably be explained because I
understood what a terrible tragedy the European-based invasion had been for
them as a People and as Individuals. I empathized.
In
local schools and in college, I had no meaningful contact with Others (after
all segregation was in full swing), but the “No Coloreds Allowed” and “No
Indians and Dogs Admitted” and “Whites Only” signs one saw in those days were
offensive. In Army boot camp at Ft. Bliss, Texas, my best friend was
Mitch, a black man. We went everywhere together…on base. I often suggested we
go to a movie in El Paso, but he always begged off. It took a while to realize he
declined because he would have been relegated to the balcony while I sat in the
auditorium.
So
here I was, an emancipated, racially prejudice-free white man willing and eager
to embrace any and all races and cultures. Enlightened and morally superior (at
least in this).
Then
came the night of February 26, 2012 when seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin, a
black youth, was shot and killed by George Zimmerman in Sanford, Florida. I was
incensed, outraged. Then I became flabbergasted and puzzled. How could anyone not see the injustice? That travesty has
now played itself out in court, and even though I believe the verdict was
wrong, the judgment has been made and is behind us.
What
is not settled, is the claim “Race” played no part in Mr. Zimmerman’s role. Of
course, it did. It plays a part in most of our actions and interactions with
others. It is born into us. It is innate. It lies unseen and often unfelt in
our very bosoms. Until….
President
Obama recently spoke out on the subject and said something that was devastating
to me. He noted that as a youth, he and any other young black could hear the
automobile door locks click as he walked down the street.
Good
Lord! That was me driving one of those cars. Me…morally superior Mark Wildyr. I had
done just such a thing when I saw a black man…or a Hispanic…or an Indian walking toward me. Once again,
why? Well, I didn’t like the way he looked, or his walk was aggressive, or we
were isolated, or….
All
of that may be true. But underlying it all was my inbred fear of the “different.”
We’re all that way, I guess. I have a friend who’s a pretty sharp cookie. She
believes we operate on two levels. Level One is the subconscious, which
dictates 80 percent of our actions, and Level Two is our conscious. She
also believes that time wise, our ability to perform at Level Two is limited. That is why
we “run out of steam,” so to speak. I think it takes a sustained effort by
our relatively feeble Level Two to overcome the prejudices (whatever they might
be) dictated by Level Two.
And to make things perfectly clear, I believe all the races harbor this serpent in the breast. Whites, blacks, yellows, reds, and browns (Isn't that sort of racist, too?) instinctively cling to their own kind. Natural and understandable so long as we don't let it get in the way of living daily in a multicultural world.
All
of this is theoretical (at least on my part), and doesn’t delve into the personal
experiences that shape our reactions to things. Both of the relatives
mentioned earlier ended up as law enforcement officers in Texas, and they truly
believe their attitudes on race were formed by dealing with the worst of the
worst offenders, which were often black. But I keep remembering them standing
in our yard and hurling insults to blacks on their way to town…when
we were just children.
Note: New posts are published
around the first of every month.
Comments are welcome, not
only on this post, but also about any relevant subject the reader wishes to
discuss.
No comments:
Post a Comment