The First Time

The first time I, reluctantly, admitted to myself that I might be inadvertently, or maybe obliviously is a better word, racist was the day I was standing outside a place of business, taking a break with co-workers when the only black person in that office (at least that I had seen in my short time there), came out to stand with us. Almost immediately, I began working out in my head how I would share with the group that my husband (also white) was a huge hip hop fan, so, by association, I knew a lot about the genre (that I really hadn't learned to appreciate and still knew almost nothing about).I was trying to relate to this well-spoken, intelligent African American man by showing off knowledge of a subject he may not even have cared anything about

(yes, I realize this statement itself is revealing, stereotyping anyone who "cares" about hip hop as unintelligent - I am, obviously going to have to look at this thought more closely; I'm afraid, I'm going to be back-tracking and catching myself a lot with this blog - but that is the point I guess).

To this day, I cannot believe I did that. Obviously, working something that random into a conversation will never be done smoothly; it wasn't - and I have no doubt that I came across as exactly what I was - a white woman trying to show a black man how understanding she was about his blackness.

Perhaps, the worst thing about this, is that the realization happened so long ago - and I am just now confronting myself about it. For a very long time, I blamed it on my husband and his weird redneck/inner-city-of-Houston childhood influence (he had - still has, though not as pronounced - a weird tick that triggered his white-boy-pretending-to-be-black switch anytime anyone of color was near), so, I blamed my moment of shame (the only one I had acknowledged up to that point) on being around him too much - it was rubbing off.

Unfortunately, even then, I could not hold onto this theory as realistic - so, as soon as I left that particular company (not long after), I just put it behind me - pretended it was an anomaly and would never happen again; certainly, it had never happened before - had it? I definitely was not going there. The truth is, though, I have never been able to shake that knowledge of myself; it has haunted me underground ever since.

I knew I had come from a racist family - I spent every summer and Christmas break in Texas with them fighting - I thought - the good fight against their intolerance (another word to explore). My mother once told me that, she knew she had probably inherited those tendencies, though she tried to fight them, and she moved us to Colorado as soon as she could and tried to raise my brother and I to "not see color." I do believe her intentions were noble, and the understanding of that particular statement as impossible, verging on the ridiculous has been a long time coming. Not seeing color, I am slowly coming to see - thanks to some great professors and a lot of reading - is both impossible and, most likely, part of the problem.

Obligations are calling, so I have to go - but even in this short beginning, I am seeing so many things I will need to address going forward. I'm not sure where this journey will take me, where it should take me, or even where I want it to, but I know that, I do believe it maybe the most important path I will ever walk.