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For as far back as I can remember, there has always been talk in favor of, and even more criticism against, PC (politically correct) culture. In fact, one of my favorite indie movies from the 90s, was “PCU,” (1994) starring Jeremy Piven, David Spade and featured a performance by George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic. This is a movie that took place at a fictional university and portrayed militant student groups as those who were uptight, divisive and just needed to drink beer, listen to some P-Funk and learn to enjoy their lives again by not worrying about such trivial things as being persecuted for being lesbian, black or vegetarian. The irony of this movie, looking back, is that these groups had the support of the white, ultra-conservative leadership of the school, while the small band of rebels fighting against the PC extremism, were the heroes. The slacker rebels were ethnically mixed by 90s standards—having one African American male member and one mixed-ethnicity woman. The tagline of the movie: “Flunk ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”
As a white Gen-Xer, these Slacker Comedies inspired me; they were made for me and by others who were like me. They promoted the belief that even though life sucked– because of girl problems, not-wanting-to-conform problems and just having an overall hopeless view of life—through the power of the least amount of effort, and by adopting/appropriating hip-hop culture, I could still prevail. White male entitlement at its finest.
By contrast, another favorite 90s movie of mine was John Singleton’s “Higher Learning” (1995). This movie portrayed a much more realistic, and less-simplified, experience of college life. Black students had to work and fight harder to get into, and stay in, college. They were under constant supervision and harassment by the campus police; when Malik, the star athlete, was arrested for “fitting the profile,” his black professor told him, “Next time call me, I will bring you your books so that you can study in jail.” The white student who was alone and could not find a way to fit in with anyone? He was welcomed into the neo-Nazi group and ultimately turned to violence. Inside of this depiction, there was no, “let’s just hang out and drink beer together” and no, “let’s just listen to the same music” and everything will be alright. There was pain, anger, hundreds (even thousands) of years of conditioning…and, for me, a call to understand more at a deeper level about our different experiences. It is sad that not much has changed, socially, since 1995.
When I hear white people complain about how limiting, and annoying, having to deal with political correctness is, my first question is usually, “why?” If you know that a word or phrase or “costume” is hurtful, why are you so intent on being able to say, do or wear that thing? What is the actual, real limitation that you feel would be so painful to you if you can’t say the n-word, or wear blackface?
The responses often include: “I don’t see how it is that bad,” or “I don’t get what the problem is,” or “they all just need to chill out and relax because it’s not that big a deal.” Another favorite of mine is: “If I can’t say this…then what else will I not be able to say?” Again, these are mostly white people advocating for their “right” to say and do things they have been told are hurtful and harmful.
The elementary school I attended was 75% Black. As a white student, I heard my friends speaking what we called “slang” back then, and using the n-word constantly. As an eight-year-old hanging out with my friends, I started to speak like them, until one night over dinner, my parents told me that how I was speaking was offensive and that, even if my friends were not yet offended, they would be very soon; not to mention how their parents would react. So, I stopped. In the 38 years since, not saying the n-word has not harmed me in any way. In fact, that experience of considering other people’s feelings and emotions has served me and the people I interact with even more.
Over the years, there has been more for me to give up in the interest of not causing harm. At one point, I had an online dating profile that ended with, “Samuel Jackson is my spirit animal.” The origin of which is that I have always had a very strong connection with his character (Jules Winnfield) in the movie, “Pulp Fiction.” Jules’s journey, his introspection and self-discovery and, frankly, how much of a badass he was, was something that has deeply affected me, and has meant different things to me over the years. In fact, I even had a wallet that said: “Bad Mother***” on it. All of that said, when I discovered my dating profile statement included forms of cultural appropriation, digital blackface, tokenizing and animalizing—with probably a few other things thrown in—I took it down. I did not feel censored, I did not complain, I did not assert that it was meant as a compliment—I took it down, and then looked for other instances of me doing similar things, like using the phrase: “fo sho.”
I will also acknowledge that I had the luxury of discovering this for myself. I was never called on any of it, and I dated black women and have had black friends that never commented. I also know that just because no one said anything, does not mean they did not feel anything. Many times, us white folks believe we have a pass on certain things because we have black friends who don’t call us on our words and actions. There is a reason we are not called on those things, and it has more to do with our whiteness than with their being ok with what we are saying and doing—and it is not their job to check us on this either.
In a world where I, as a white man, do not have to be afraid for my life being pulled over by the police, do not have to navigate having conflicting commands being barked at me while having a gun pointed at my head, do not have to be followed around a store because I look like I might steal something, do not have to deal with messages on dating apps by white men telling me they want to make me their slave, do not have to deal with walking into a store in Sherman Oaks that is proudly selling “Mammy” cookie jars…I am more than ok with removing any words or actions that would cause more harm and normalize more racist behavior.
The only equivalent I can come up with, being a Jewish man, is having walked into an antique store that sold Nazi dishes. I saw the swastikas, I recalled the stories my grandparents told me of their experiences and I had flashbacks of all of the photos and videos I have seen showing the dead and emaciated bodies of “my people.” And as horrible as all of that is, that was 70+ years ago. No one is asking me to see my papers as I walk down the streets of Los Angeles today. But then again, I am white.
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