I'm Racist

There, I said it. Sounds like a grand admission from a transparent heart. But let’s clarify. I’m not “A Racist.” I am sure I have been from time to time in my younger days, but the difference between being racist and “A Racist,” though subtle, is significant.

To me, a Caucasian man who grew up in a predominantly Caucasian environment in New England, being racist is a state of being, the direct result of both genetic and environmental prejudices, generational stereotyping and fear of the unknown. Surrounded by men and women who shared a relatively similar set of appearance characteristics, I settled into a comfort zone of sorts in which everyone silently noted that, although we had some differences, we were mostly the “same.”

Without much by way of outside influence, I saw that we shared a somewhat common European heritage which produced similar cultural behaviors; we had expectations that our established “values” were shared by substantially all of the people we encountered on a daily basis. We quite naturally believed that the holidays we celebrated, the religion we practiced, even the foods we ate were not only best for us, but the best for anyone.

That narrow view of the world produced a shaky foundation, sure; but it was the only one we had and therefore we heralded it and subtly confirmed it as the ideal.

From that viewpoint, we noted that there existed other cultures—around the world and, to a lesser degree at the time, in our own nation—and proudly called our nation a “melting pot” where people from all ethnicities and countries were welcome.

But not too many of them. So long as we, the Caucasian males, remained at the helm of the multi-cultural ship, all was satisfactory. Again, none of this was spoken; it was just understood.

That pecking order is what I call “racism.” (Obviously, there was a gender-based pecking order as well). Without much deliberation, a hierarchy was established, and regardless of our thorough understanding that all of us are from the same species, those who weren’t like us were—different. Slightly less important.

A lot of us don’t think of ourselves as racist (I’m talking about white men here, because I am one and it is my experience). Here’s something I’ve heard a lot: “I have Black friends.” Well, that’s racist. Sure, it may not have any implied discriminatory impulse behind it, but it is nonetheless an apology or a way of placating the racist core that exists in us all. We—most of us anyway—do not wish to be racist, or to be thought of as racist. Most of us certainly do not wish to be “A Racist.”

Which is something different from being racist.

Being “A Racist,” is an intentional act, a choice to funnel one’s actions and behaviors and decisions through a Race Matrix that favors one race over another; to consciously discriminate or elevate, to penalize or reward based solely upon race.

It is the act of allowing one’s naturally-occurring racial profiling processes to move to another, lower level where we actively—though often not overtly—mistreat, abuse, criticize, exclude, belittle, harm and/or commit violence against another because of his or her race.

That we can identify; that we can at least acknowledge without question.

It is this other thing inside of us that is more complex and harder to discern, recognize or acknowledge.

I was reading a documentary piece about the slave trade, particularly the “Trail of Tears” marches, which walked groups of slaves over hundreds of miles from the east coast to places like New Orleans, where the most lucrative slave markets were situated. The author interviewed the great-grandson of a Tennessee slave owner, who still resides in the plantation house.

“My great-granddaddy treated his slaves well,” the now old man said, proudly. This very defensive statement, designed to distinguish the man’s relative from, supposedly, those evil slave-owners, is the kind of subtle, frequently unintentional racism of which I speak.

You all know that there is a movement in the United States right now to remove many, if not all, immigrants from the country, and to prevent others from entry. It is a primal reaction induced by a fabricated fear, created and nurtured by a bullying coward who has given his white-man’s inherent racism its full head. Whipping good people into a race-based frenzy (some think “Muslim” is a race, by the way) for the sole purpose of increasing his own personal celebrity status, this individual is purposefully driving wedges between people who proudly recite that we are “one Nation…indivisible.”

This individual is “A Racist.” Because his entire life has been built on a lie and a ruse, his insecurity is the first thing one hears when he opens his mouth. He’s learned that conflict begets the most attention, and he doesn’t care what you say as long as his name is in the midst of it somewhere. Capitalizing on—even legitimizing—the naturally occurring racist in us is okay with him, regardless of who it harms. If it gets him more publicity, it must be “great.”

If the question of race and racism and “Racism” were easy, it would have been answered already. The Law has probably done more harm to the matter than even it knows; laws written to force equality are tantamount to seawalls built to stem the North Atlantic tide.

I’m racist. There have been moments in my life when I was “A Racist” (as well as “A Sexist,” “An Anti-Semite,” and “A Homophobe”). Based upon my status as a white, heterosexual male, it was altogether too easy. I’m not proud of that, naturally. But it’s true.

An old Florida cattle rancher I know—yes, a real
Florida “Cracker”—told me something that has stuck with me.

“If I were to lay open an Angus, a Brahman and a Charolais, nobody could tell the difference between ‘em.”

The man wasn’t talking about race; He was speaking about the silliness associated with the advertising industry’s spotlight on “Certified Angus” beef. I don’t know if he realized the universal truth of what he’d said, but I suppose it's possible.

I mean, for all I know, the guy could have some Black friends.