'I’m Really Not a Racist!'

I grew up in New York City. Even back in the ‘70s and ’80s, the public schools were diverse.

My friends could have formed a United Colors of Benetton ad. We came in all different colors and from many different countries.

I remember one time, a group of us decided to affirm ourselves.

“Black is beautiful!” said one girl with gorgeous ebony skin. We all laughed and agreed. Then, looking at a girl from Jamaica, she said, “Brown is beautiful too.”

“Tan is terrific!” proclaimed my Pakistani friend.

“Amber is amazing,” said a Filipino girl as she ruffled her hair.

“Beige is… beige is…” I tried to come up with an adjective that was not “beautiful”.

“Beige is brilliant,” offered my Greek friend before pointing at herself and proclaiming, “And white is wonderful!”

We also came up with “peach is perfect” and “gold is gorgeous”.

The thing is, we were all friends. None of us were blue-eyed blonds, but we saw ourselves as beautiful. I loved my Colombian friend’s long, mahogany-colored hair. An Italian girl loved the way my hair made ringlets.

Some of us were third-generation Americans. Others had just immigrated. It didn’t matter. We did normal junior high girl things. We danced together at parties because the boys were too shy. We stole each other’s fries at lunch and talked for hours on the phone.

Sometimes we visited each other. Our parents were always friendly… but sometimes a word would get said, or an expression… looking back, there was subtle racism even among this diverse group of people. I didn’t understand what those glances meant when I was a girl, but now I do.

I never considered race growing up. I wasn’t a racist… yet, in subtle ways maybe I was. Because I’m a human being. No matter how nice I think I am, in subtle ways I’m not.

All of us have to deal with this. It’s part of being a human being. We strive to do better, but we fall short.

We can ask ourselves progressively harder questions.

For example, do I have friends of different races? Of course. And I have them over to my house and share meals with them and consider some of the family.

Would I share an apartment with someone of a different race? Yes.

Would I hire someone of another race? A no-brainer.

But then… what about a boss of a different race?

Say you are a white professional. Or Chinese, or Indian. You’ve who worked hard and excelled. You know you are at the top of your field.

You know you’d hire a qualified black person. And you’d happily work with a black co-worker.

BUT would you as happily work for an African-American? Would you be able to see that person as your mentor, your superior, someone you could learn from? Could you offer the same level of loyalty and support you would offer a white (or Chinese, or Indian) boss?

Another question — would you date someone of a different race?

It’s one thing to have a friend of a different race or to have a crush on them. But would you go on dates? This seems to be an issue for most groups.

For example, Indian parents want their daughters to marry a nice Indian doctor of the same caste. “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” highlights the difficulties white parents have of accepting their daughter’s black boyfriend.

Black parents can be just as rigid. I learned this when I made some Caribbean friends. One lady, in particular, was absolutely beautiful, a knock-out from Dominica. I was in awe of her flirtation skills.

I watched in envy as men of every race became putty in her skilled hands. Color me shocked, then, when she complained she had no one to date!

“What the heck,” I said. “My office-mate, just as an example, is totally nuts about you.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t date him. My mother would kill me if I brought home a white boy.”

In college, I knew a Chinese girl who couldn’t bring home her Japanese boyfriend. I’ve known Arab Christians who could not date Arab Muslims and Jewish boys who felt pressured to find “a nice Jewish girl”.

So one reason someone might not be comfortable dating outside their race could be due to their parents. But… what if their parents were fine with it? Would they date someone outside their race?

To take it further — would they marry someone of another race? Have a baby with them?

What about if they saw a child of another race hurting? Would they feel the same outrage knowing that the child’s schools were failing, or the child’s neighborhood was unsafe?

Assuming you are not black, how did you feel when you heard that Tamir Rice was shot? A twelve-year-old boy, playing with a toy? Did you feel the same anger that you would have felt for a white or Asian or Latino child?

What about a guilty person? Should criminals of another race get the same level of mercy? It’s easy to care about innocent people, but the guilty are also human.

At what point do we stop seeing others as part of different tribes, and simply see them as fellow human beings?

I know one girl who wanted blond babies. She was a blue-eyed Southern belle and being blond was a part of her identity. She swore she would only marry a man who would give her blond children.

Then she fell in love with an African-American man.

The thing is, sometimes even when we think we are racist, we really aren’t. Or, we are, but then we evolve and grow.

—

Previously published on Medium.com.

—

Have you read the original anthology that was the catalyst for The Good Men Project? Buy here: The Good Men Project: Real Stories from the Front Lines of Modern Manhood