Racism is Real
Racism is real. It is not imagined or fabricated. We have to deal with the effects of it every day. And the repercussions devastate our society.
Calling Me Out
All of my life I rode on the back of generations before me. As a white girl in a white family, born into the white suburb neighborhood of Sacramento, California, I lived aloof.
When my parents divorced, I became immersed in the lower-income section of Southern California. It was here that my perspective slowly began to change.
Growing up, I had friends from diverse cultural backgrounds. I remember talking my friend into slathering Banana Boat oil across her ebony skin, and laying out for an afternoon “tan.” My first boyfriend, Bert, was black.
To me, race didn’t matter. But now I realize that even that statement reeks of prejudice. In my own experience, sheltered from the suppositions they lived with every day, I was unable to truly understand them because I did not know them.
I did not know the glances, opinions, and cruelty that saturate our world. I did not feel the constant pressure of standing in a defensive position every single moment of every single day. I did not feel the sting of people’s repeated unjust actions toward me.
Tolerant and inclusive — a step above other white people. I am ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. I patted myself on the back for good effort and moved on. All was right in my world.
LA Riots
But it did not take long for frustrations to boil over. It was a scary time for me during the LA Riots. I remember watching the violence on my television screen, in the safety of my living room, a 2-hour’s drive away from downtown. Hundreds of miles away my world was shook. A young adult then, I wondered what could make people so mad, that they would want to hurt and steal.
Listening to the voices around me I heard people speak down to the situation and felt the seeds of bitterness and misunderstanding take root in my soul. “They’ll use any excuse to take what they want.”
My circle of friends bore the weight of the times. Mostly silent, some didn’t want to talk about it. Others felt free to voice their opinions, and they did, albeit with impatient glances from the rest. There was a clear divide.
Facing the Effects of History
My freshman year in college, our basketball team made it to the NAIA Division 1 National Championships in Tennessee. I’ll never forget the all-black staff that served us at the restaurant for our pre-game meal — so polite and subservient.
It didn’t take long for my teammates to become very vocal about it. I watched, silent, as their loud and overt words drew shooting glances from patrons at nearby tables. If looks could kill — I truly worried for their safety.
This was the first time I saw it. Deep down, I wished my teammates would have been quieter about it all, and not made trouble. Even though what we saw was not right, I blamed the victim. “Would they just hush already?” It would have been the easiest thing to do.
I now know easy is not best.
I’ve watched from a distance, from the comfort of my own home in the midst of a pandemic and racial upheaval. The anger and violence are welling up again. I hear people’s responses, and the familiar pang of misunderstanding. But it’s different for me now. It’s personal.
A Taste of Prejudice
“I’m Black ‘Cause You’re Black!” A fellow karate mom thought this would make a good title for my book. I had turned to her for understanding when I felt I had nowhere else to go. Surely she would get it.
We brought home our son, Elijah, a few days after his birth. Chosen by his birth mom two months prior, we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into. After dealing with the first bout of prejudice at the hospital, we soon realized there were many things we didn’t know.
His eyes were green — a striking feature set against his brown skin. At three months old, they hadn’t changed. I was told they never would. “His eyes are beautiful!” I was approached by many strangers. “What nationality is his father?” White. You can probably imagine the looks I got as they quietly dismissed themselves from the conversation.
Elijah clearly had another ethnicity. Everyone could see it. I must have had an affair — How could he not have known? They glanced at Paul. It was so noble of him.
White people thought he was Middle Eastern, Hispanics knew he was Hispanic, and African Americans embraced him as one of their own.
There was no denying Elijah’s color. Everywhere we went, people stared. They drew conclusions about us, about me. Time and again I would kiss him and hug him tight, trying to shut out the ugly things they supposed.
Meanwhile, a whole ‘nother pool of friends and prospects came out of the woodwork. Overnight I was accepted into new circles. They would approach me and start the conversation. “You have beautiful boys.” Thanks. I tried to hide my pleasant surprise that they saw them both.
For the first time since birth, David’s ethnicity was also acknowledged. “You can tell ‘cause of those high-set eyebrows and nose.” I was shocked. No one had ever told me that before. To any unseasoned onlooker, David was white. They couldn’t see his Maori roots.
Nothing about our situation had changed, except Elijah. I was thankful those walls had come down, even though I did not understand how. They knew something I did not — I was now able to relate because I loved him. If even for a moment, I was one of them.
Into the Deep South
When we traveled down south, I anticipated the looks. I was ready to take on the world for him. But what I didn’t anticipate was the disdain they’d have for me. I became the subject of accusatory glances, people staring down their noses at us. For the first time in my life, I knew they hated me.
Elijah felt it too. I talked to him before we even headed out, trying to prepare him for the inevitable. He was always keenly aware of other people’s opinions, uncomfortable at best. But each day on the journey I made it a point to talk with him about things as they came up. “Did you see how they stared at us, Buddy? How did it make you feel?”
We talked about how things weren’t fair or right, how he didn’t deserve any of that. But we also had to talk about how to respond to it. “It’s best to be polite. Just walk away. You don’t want to mess with people like that.” We taught him to survive.
All the while I became angry over the injustice of all of it, because now it mattered to me, personally. My son was the one who had to live it, and I was right there with him. Each day we felt the over-exuberant excitement or disdain of people who had their own opinions of us.
Cultural Racism
I had to come face to face with who I was, and the part I’ve played in allowing this culture of hate and misunderstanding to continue. Today I speak up for my children, and their children after them. America, we need a reckoning.
All around me I see my brothers and sisters taking up arms. I lay mine down. It’s time to come to the table to talk, to find reconciliation and healing, to move forward in a new way.
It begins here. As the sidewalk chalk fades and this conversation threatens to become echoes of history, I will not be silent. My hope is that the power structure will continue to shift, and that those who assume leadership will choose to act in the best interest of everyone they serve, without selfish ambition, conceit, or malice.
With everything we have, we must purposefully release our tight grip on the reigns, and seek new perspectives. We must step outside ourselves and our circumstances to see things from another’s point of view, for it is the only way to truly understand what our brother is saying.
2 Comments
Claudia Pendergrass
Again I love reading your story. You say what I don’t even know how to articulate, and it’s spot on.
eyeswideopenadoption
❤️