I’ve touched on politics and race but something happened this weekend that motivated me to go a little deeper than I might have. I am in a Facebook group for transracial adoptive families. This past weekend a member went to a CVS to use a coupon that she’d gotten in the mail. The manager refused to honor the coupon and accused her of fraud. Then he called 911. Twice.
“This is not the America I know, the America I grew up with. Back in the day we took care of each other.” I’ve been hearing and seeing this a lot. Mostly from people my age and older. Specifically, white people. Because this America is exactly the America I know.
My generation is the first in my family to grow up without Jim Crow. My parents were well into their adult years when state enforced segregation ended. My grandfather would tell me ghost stories about the lynching tree in his hometown. My mother’s great-grandmother would tell her stories about being born into slavery.
I grew up in the eighties hearing the media talk about how “the Blacks” were destroying their communities and breeding a race of superpredators. In school I learned of an America that was built on the bodies of those who were already here. Built by people who were enslaved under an artificial notion of race and white supremacy. An America that thought nothing of imprisoning her citizens of Japanese descent but never thought to do the same to the descendants of Italians or Germans.
When I lived in Houston my then boyfriend now husband and I would joke about how the store clerks were so busy watching me he could rob the place blind and they would never notice. I have been directly called the “n” word two times. The first time it was accompanied by a pelting of raw eggs. At least they weren’t rotten. On both occassions it was from random (white male) strangers on the street who thought me just standing/walking was an affront to their sensibilities.
The times it, or some other blatantly racist thing, has been said in my presence are too numerous to record. I can’t even remember the first time it happened. By elementary school it was so common I didn’t even notice it. When it did happen (on the rare occasion I called it out) the offenders’ reaction was generally mild embarrassment coupled with a version of one of two responses: “I didn’t mean you!” or “I forget that you’re Black!” – with the last spoken as if it’s a compliment. It wasn’t until college that I finally realized it wasn’t normal. Or, at least, it shouldn’t be.
Then there is the othering. The countless small ways that it is casually enforced that there is an “Us” and a “Them” and I am definitely a Them. They didn’t have a word for it when I was growing up. Now they call them microaggressions. When I first heard the term I knew exactly to what it pertained. The torture of a thousand cuts, the constant pinches and prods that stop you from ever feeling welcome. That keep you just a little uncomfortable.
My Facebook friend is a middle-aged woman. A professional. A mother. And she’s Black. But you already guessed that. Her Facebook page is currently being inundated by “Good People” saying awful things. Calling her terrible things. The America I know is one where my brother can be sitting at the McDonald’s drive through when a half dozen cops roar up and pull guns on him because he matches the description. The America I know is one where a good white friend will scream in laughter because it turns out I am one of Them and They really do have Big Mamas. The America I know is one in which people can think racist things, say racist things, and do racist things but not be a racist. Not in their hearts. The America I know is the one that voted for Trump, but still loves me.
And I love it. When I was in school, another student once asked a teacher what the difference was between love and infatuation. She told him the difference was that infatuation was blind and love is not. That when you are infatuated with someone or something all you see is the good, and you refuse to see or acknowledge anything you don’t like. To really love something is to see it as it is, the good and the bad. You accept what you cannot change and work on what you can, but you are able to admit that the object of your affections is not, never will be, and cannot be, perfect.
America can be a country of tolerance. It can be a place where diversity is celebrated. In the America in which I grew up science, education, was encouraged and respected. I remember when other countries worried we would attract their best people and cause a brain-drain. Americans, as a people, are courteous, kind, unfailingly generous, and helpful. But the other side of America, the one fed by fear, resentment, entitlement, prejudice, and, yes, white supremacy – that side is also very real. I think many who claim to love America are in actuality infatuated with it instead. I love my country enough to be able to say “No, this is broken and needs to be fixed.”
Update on “the McDonald’s” incident. It turns out that there were good cops eating at the restaurant at the same time who told the other officers responding to the call that my brother and friends were not suspects. They then stayed with them until the witness verified that it wasn’t them.
You have to wonder what could have happened if those police officers had not happened to be eating at the restaurant. Or if they had not chosen to step forward. There was a mindset back then, perhaps even now, that anyone arrested was probably guilty of something. Or if the witness had mistakenly accused them of the crime. Fortunately those things did not happen.