I spent my first 7 years living in a small coal mining town that was 100% white.
There wasn’t a single black person who lived in my town.
I’d seen black people on TV shows like “The Jeffersons” and “Sanford and Son” but I had never met one in person before I turned 7.
I never really thought about this until my parents divorced and we moved across the state to the big city.
Then my mom started dating a black guy.
I still didn’t think much about it.
He had an afro, knew how to use nunchucks and owned a Firebird Trans Am. I thought he was cool. He and my mom drank wine and listened to Richard Pryor records late at night.
After this guy, my mom dated another black guy who soon moved into our home and eventually became my stepfather.
Right away my neighbors made me aware that this was “a problem”.
They made comments like “nigger lover” or “fucking nigger”. Some of my friends were no longer allowed to play with me.
At 7 years old, I thought this was bizarre. Why did anyone care if he was black?
That summer, I went back to my old hometown for vacation.
One day my Uncle Mick cornered me and started screaming about my mother. He told me she was no longer welcome in the family.
He said,
“Not only did she move away – but then she married a nigger! A nigger! It would have been bad enough if she’d married a wop, a chink or even a kike. But a fucking nigger! How could she do that!”
I still didn’t understand what the big deal was – what difference did it make if he was black? I thought it was worse that my Uncle was screaming at me about my mom.
As for my wife’s new husband, I didn’t mind that he was black. I did mind that he was mean and crazy, but that’s a different story.
Over the next 10 years, my stepfather moved a number of his ex-wives, girlfriends, kids and friends into our house. He offered a safe haven when they had no place else to go. Some were black, some were white and some were “mixed”.
You know what? They were like everyone else I knew.
They were just people.
- Some were fun. Some annoying.
- Some were good looking. Some ugly.
- Some were smart. Others dumb.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice any differences between us. Our hair was different. Our slang was different. Our taste in music was different.
But there was nothing significant.
In time, my world became whiter.
By high school we had moved out of the ghetto. Most of my friends were white. In college it was the same. Then, the higher I rose up through the ranks of corporate America, the whiter the people around me became.
I noticed this more as I got older. I picked up on the subtle (and not so subtle) racism that I saw when companies hired and promoted people.
Since I like to hire weirdos and outcasts, my teams tended to be more integrated than most. I didn’t plan this, I just picked whomever I thought would do a great job without regard to their race. (Although I must admit I’ve always enjoyed “sticking it to the man” by hiring someone who didn’t fit the mold.)
The older I get, the more I see racism.
I see it in the workplace, the criminal justice system and the educational system. I see it in politics. I see it in person.
On the outside, I appear to be a typical white, upper middle class, suburban professional. So often, people will reveal their racism to me because I “appear” to be just like them.
But I’m a guy who grew up as poor white trash. I lived in sketchy neighborhoods, dropped out of college, worked alongside people of all races and eventually married a Jewish woman.
So I’ll often push back when someone tries to include me in their racist rant, hiring practice or action.
I’m not combative. I’ll usually say something like:
- That’s not been my experience.
- Did you know my wife is Jewish?
- My stepfather was black.
- I was raised in the ghetto. Some of the best neighbors I ever had lived there.
The person who I confront often is embarrassed or defensive and mumbles something like “I was just joking”.
They’ll usually shut up and change the subject.
I wonder if it helps any of them to rethink their ideas?