The following is a personal reflection intended to spur public discussion. It is the result of several conversations, online and in person, I had with other adults about the issue of racism in America after the George Floyd murder and the protests that followed. This should not be read as an academic or normative assessment of American culture (I do not have the credentials to begin to offer such an assessment). It is also not a commentary on ethnicity or race or "whiteness" or "blackness" as a monolithic phenomena. I don't think there are such monoliths, and every person's identity and experience is different, even from those in their own category or cohort or group. Rather, this is a personal reflection. To the extent my personal experience resonates with you, I would be happy to talk about it. But if this does not resonate with you, that's fine too.
I’m from the part of Gen X that went through childhood during the Reagan Era. I lived in the North Dallas suburbs, where the majority were WASPy folks like me, but there were also significant populations of African American and Latinx folks, as well as a smattering of South and East Asian families. It was not utopia by any stretch of the imagination, but we all played together on the playground, and went to each other’s houses after school, and competed together in sports.
And at school we watched “Free to be You and Me” together, and learned that the racial divide had been largely “solved” by Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement of the 1960’s, so that we now lived in a diverse multi-racial culture. When we got into high school, race became a little more of an issue, but I don’t ever remember it stopping us from partying together, or even from dating across racial lines. Then Rodney King happened my junior year and the L.A. riots followed. But that was still far away from me, and different from my experience of race where I lived in the North Dallas suburbs.
But in the last decade it seems like Rodney King happens every month. Sometimes more. And it happens to young black men and old black men and black men walking and black men jogging and black men standing and even black men sleeping in their own homes. And it happens even in places where I have lived and worked. And it is heart breaking and maddening and disorienting. And I wonder how I could have been so blind to such systemic exclusion and oppression for so much of my life.
I know the short answer is my privilege: Since it wasn’t me or my class that was experiencing the effects of racism, I was not attuned to see it unless there was a blatant display right in front of me. Which is rarely the case, because most racists will not admit to being racist. Even to themselves. And, if I am really honest, even to myself. Because as I grow older I find these remnants of racism and sexism and prejudice that emerge like festering splinters needing to be taken out.
But still, I wonder...
