Racism

But the more I read and the more I learn about my forefathers, the stronger my feelings of guilt and of shame become. Less than 150 years ago, the beating, raping, and lynching of African-Americans was considered legal in this country. Since that time, bigotry, segregation, discrimination, and racial violence have remained a constant within American society. I will lie to myself no more.

As I have digested the work of authors such as Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, and Langston Hughes over the previous two semesters, my eyes have slowly begun to creep open, and a more clear understanding of the plight of the African-American has started to form.

I have often thought of the North's victory in the Civil War as the end to the systematic killing of African-Americans in this country. I foolishly believed that widespread racism had withered with the demise of slavery. There was a time in my life when I was confident that the hatred and violence people like Maya Angelou and Alice Walker had been forced to endure was a result of the actions of bigoted and ignorant people I had never met. Racism had always been something I had assigned to literally a few white guys, but not the majority of my race.

But I said I would stop lying.

In truth, my great grandfather could well have been a racist. In fact, he probably was a racist. Why should I think otherwise? He grew up in an America that truly hated the African-American, a nation that lynched black men for being seen in the company of white women. It was an America of separate drinking fountains, separate school systems, and a separate set of laws governing the African-American. Unless my great grandfather was an incredibly insightful man, he, too, probably hated the African- American.

But allow me to be really honest. I certainly don't need to go that far back in my family's history to find racism. My parents are racists. They are not involved in lynching and do not systematically terrorize the African-Americans in their community, but in their own subtle way, their ignorance and hatred shines through. They disapprove of my sister's black boyfriend on the basis of his race. They lock their car doors when they see an African-American approaching. They assume that all successful African -American business people are only successful because of affirmative action. They worry about black families moving into their neighborhood.

If you believe that your own family is free of racism, I encourage you to open your heart and take a closer look. For example, Trinity College's student population is currently 84% white, and less than 6% African-American. What if these conditions were reversed? What if 84% of Trinity's student population was black? Would your parents still have been as supportive of your choice of schools? What if 84% of professors on campus were black? How might your parents then feel? How might you feel? If you can truly look into your heart and find no difference in opinions, I congratulate you. I would venture to guess you are in the extreme minority.

You see, one does not have to utter racial slurs or to openly discriminate against the African-American to be a racist. Just worrying about the racial make-up of the neighborhood makes my parents racist. Simply by disapproving of my sister's boyfriend on the basis of his race, they affirm their ignorance.

So quite suddenly, I feel like a planet released from the gravitational pull of its star, tumbling off into space. Not only is my heritage based on hatred and ignorance, but my family has in large part bought into this stupidity. There is nothing left to help re-establish my orbit. Everything from here is new, uncharted territory.

It has become my responsibility to begin a new legacy for my family. From the moment I write these very words, my charge will be to commence a tradition of understanding, tolerance, compassion, and of love that my future generations can be proud of, look back on, and draw wisdom from. My hope is to wipe the slate clean and help produce a future in which color is looked upon as beautiful.

My first weapon against racism will be a lesson I learned from Maya Angelou herself. While growing up, books, my teachers, and Sesame Street tried to teach me that the only difference between a black person and a white person was the color of their skin. They insisted that any other perceived contrast was simply not a reality. Novels like I Know Why The Cages Bird Singshave taught me otherwise.

Unquestionably the blood, organs, and bones of blacks and whites are the same, but beyond our biological exactness, we are two entirely different people. It is obtuse to believe otherwise. My people have lived for centuries with power, opportunity, wealth, education, and justice. We know relatively little of suffering. We have forgotten the importance of freedom, tolerance, and heritage. We are not an ugly race, but a privileged one. We are in need of some reminding.

The African-American culture is one completely diverse of white America, as writers including Angelou, Hughes, and Walker have demonstrated so beautifully. Simple ideals such as the spirit of giving, the power to endure, the strength to overcome, and the pride in an education mean so much more to the African-American. They are a people of strength, pride, courage, and simple pleasures They are also a people of suffering, sorrow, and tragedy. They are in need of some mending.

I will not teach my children that Caucasians and African-Americans are the same. Two separate races of people traveling different courses in life cannot be the same. Our spirit, our aura, our life force are nothing alike. We are wondrously, thankfully diverse.