The "R" Word

This blog has been percolating in my brain for awhile now. It finally bubbled over when I read this post on Fat Red Ant's 44x365.

I wasn't sure I'd ever address the issue of racism on my blog. Some of you who've known me from other places on the net may (or may not) know I'm not white.

One of the reasons I like the internet is that I'm perceived by my words and ideas first and foremost – not by the colour of my skin. My writing and recollections sometimes have clear allusions to my ancestry and sometimes, they don't. I don't make a big deal about it, nor do I avoid it. It all depends on what I'm trying to convey.

Anyways, back to FRA's post. It clearly illustrates to me how far we (I'm speaking of the global we) need to go before racism is eradicated. It's hard for people, no matter how caring, liberal-minded and accepting to understand the deep pain and frustration felt by those of colour. I've come to hate that term, "people of colour" – but I guess there's no other term that fits.

I know there are lots of people like FRA who look beyond colour, but there are just as many like her boyfriend. The thing is, if you were to speak to someone like her boyfriend, chances are they'd be the first to say they aren't racist. I've heard all the denials and arguments: I'm not racist, but . . . . My co-worker is (black, yellow, green, purple) – we get along fine, but . . . .

See, you seldom hear racial epithets in polite conversation anymore, unless it's within the confines of a monochromatic gathering. And here, I'm not talking about whites only. Non-whites are just as guilty of racism. The problem with racism these days is that, more often than not – other than at skinhead rallies or drunken brawls - it's hidden, discreet, but nonetheless insidious.

For those of you who think, like FRA did, that it's all in our heads – that we're imagining slights that don't exist – may I offer just a smattering of some personal experiences:

• Standing at a crosswalk with my two young children, waiting for the light to change, a man walks up to me; looks me up and down; and says, "Why don't you people leave. Go home where you belong." - I'm quite certain he didn't mean home to our house, two blocks away.


• I'm in a hurry, rushing to an appointment and bump into a woman. I apologise. She just glares at me and says, "Watch out! You're not back home, you know." - because she's never bumped into anyone by accident.


• I'm standing at a counter, waiting patiently for service. The counter person has seen me, nods acknowledgement – he's with another customer at the moment. A couple comes into the store. The counter guy finishes with the first customer, then turns to serve the newly arrived people first. – What? Have I become invisible? Isn't my money as good as theirs?


• At a sporting event: I'm beaming with pride because the guy in front of me is admiring the play of my son. His friend asks him who he's talking about and the guy answers, "The Chink. Over there . . . "


• And the one memory literally seared on my brain and psyche when I was seven years old: - having rocks thrown at me and being chased home by a bunch of Chink-calling ten, eleven year-old boys; the feeling of humiliation; the feeling there was something wrong with me that they'd hate me so much without even knowing me.
  
  Yes, it was a long time ago, but I often wonder where these boys and their parents are now. Are they still the bigots they were then? Have they changed? Or have they just gone underground?

You know what? I think, overall, we've come a long way from rock-throwing and outright segregation – but there's a lot further to go.

I just had to get that off my chest.