I’ll go first.
The first time I realized I was racist was in the summer of 1998. Ironically, my best friend at the time was Marshall Gaskin, a big, black, beautiful man: a gentle giant and an incredible artist. We lived in adjacent buildings in an artist’s co-op just outside of Toronto. I’m grateful for having known him, for he was a major influence in my life. Sadly, he is no longer with us.
One day at the co-op, I was going through the underground parking lot and came across a young black man leaning on a car door towards a young white woman seated on the other side of the open window. Without hesitation, I pointedly looked at the woman and asked,” Are you alright”? She nodded, and I walked away.
My stomach turns at the memory of it. Who the fuck was I to presume that this woman was in trouble. The same feeling I had the next day, upon realizing what I had implied to a complete stranger.
More and more, I became acutely aware of my racism. Like the time I was in an elevator with three black men much larger than me. I noticed that I felt uncomfortable, and my heart started to pound. Faster. Faster. I thought, “What the fuck. This is racism! If these were three white guys, I would be cracking jokes.” After leaving the elevator I was grateful that I could see through the bullshit. I’ve extracted and examined most of my racist moments, and although I think I will always be racist to some minor degree, I acknowledge that any is too much.
I write this because I recently recounted a story that my mother told me to a group of friends. It was a story that my uncle would often repeat about a souvenir tin plate from Niagara Falls. I realize now that this wasn’t a story about something my uncle purchased. It was a racial slur wrapped in a story that he could tell over and over again. I never liked that he enjoyed making fun of minorities, and yet here I was … participating.
I write this because I am sorry.
I write this because I’m ashamed.
I write this for Marshall.
I miss you buddy.
I grew up in a ghetto part of a main city in the south. As the only white kid in classes some times i tended to gravitate toward to majority. I listened to rap with them and even rapped along and no one ever cared untill i became an adult. And the way i would talk about black people, having grown up around them seemed racist to white people yet no black person cared. Then i let it out i have no issue saying the n word and jesus did some tight asses think i was even more racist. Then while hanging out an older black dude i worked with asked me about it i mentioned i dont see any issue saying it unless i meant something negative. I compared it to the word bitch. Then i told him this racist joke i told to my aunt while drunk and the guy busted out laughing. Then told me if it werent funny he was gonna break his beer bottle across my head. I wasnt scared, i grew up with black people and i am not racist. But people like to think i am.
What’s your favourite shoe size?
I don’t think I’m racist as much as prejudiced. Not sure that’s any better…
If I’m in close quarters with a black guy, as a white guy I’m fine unless he’s dressed in a way that gives off a “hard ass” vibe. But the same exact thing goes for a white guy, or anyone else. If I’m in close quarters with anyone wearing the whole saggy pants and exposed boxers, tank top, and tons of tattoos I start getting concerned that making any eye contact will set them off on some “what are you lookin at?” b.s. typical of someone who just wants to get into a fight.
Other than that I’m comfortable with anyone.
I was once told, your gut reaction and first impulse is your upbringing and conditioning. It’s your reasoned, critical response that makes you who you are.
I have had similar questions about myself recently and this advice helped me to analyse my thinking without getting caught up in guilt.