 | I have always tried to treat everybody I met with respect. Turns out, my outward actions were not the problem. Sometimes I treated people nicely in public, but perpetuated racist ideas in private. Or in my own head. |
Since my twenties, when I figured out that using offensive language about other races was bad, I have not used offensive language or stereotyped people by race. I never used offensive language toward other races directly, I was just showing off how edgy and nonchalant I was to my white friends. That doesn’t excuse my language, though. I didn’t think of it as racism, I just thought it was funny. I was wrong.
No more comments, jokes, or insinuations about people of other races: check.
A bit later, I joined a church that was a big, groovy, happening, loving, diverse community that took the Bible quite seriously. And they said that racism is not just putting people of other races in unflattering categories, it’s putting any group of people in an unflattering category. Stereotyping isn’t limited to skin color. If we do that, we do not promote love and all the other good stuff Jesus talked about, but we perpetuate prejudice. Yowzah.
So, I stopped making blond jokes. I stopped making jokes about voice majors (we pianists are self-admittedly snobs). No more whining about members of other denominations who do things differently.
No more stereotyping any people: check.
Heck, I even married a Chinese guy. See? I love other races! Some of my best friends are half Japanese!
I taught my children to respect everyone, no matter the color of their skin or their decisions or their culture or their incense. Love all, serve all. Because God loves them, so we will, too. It was pretty easy, because we lived in Silicon Valley, California, which is full of well-educated people who are interested in diversity and social justice and healthy living. Our community celebrated Diwali, Chinese New Year, the Cherry Blossom Festival, Hanukkah, the Day of the Dead, and Christmas. Our kids had friends and sweethearts of all races.
It was easy not to be a racist.
Intermingle: check
Then we went on this round-the-world trip and something terrible happened. I heard racist words coming out of my mouth.
In order not to reveal the true identity of the people groups involved, I have changed the names to protect everyone.
Once, there was a country.
Let’s call it Petunialand. Long ago, Petunialand went to war with Sunflowerland, and when the war was over Sunflowerland pulled some diplomatic shenanigans and Petunialand had to give one of its most beautiful and strategically located cities, Daisyville, to Sunflowerland. For 99 years. So Sunflowerland took over Daisyville and, because Sunflowerland was really good at trade and economics and administration, it turned Daisyville into an international powerhouse, full of lovely malls and great chefs and citizens with long life expectancy and good manners. Daisyville was terrific. Petunialand, in the meantime, had wars and regime changes and only had the bandwidth to think about feeding everybody. Personal hygiene and manners and clean air and potable tap water went out the window.
Well, the 99 years came to an end and Sunflowerland left. Petunialand, having realized that Daisyville had a lot going for it, began to encourage its citizens to visit Daisyville. Then it encouraged them to move there, since some Petunialanders had come in to money. Beaucoups of Petunialanders swarmed into Daisyville. They brought their bad manners and their poor hygiene and their piles of cash. Daisyvillers didn’t like this, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.
This is where I come into the story. I like Daisyville. I’ve been there a lot. I like how it’s clean and efficient. I like how there are hand dryers and toilet paper and sit-down toilets. I like clean sidewalks. I like forming an orderly line to get on public transportation.
I do not like people messing up that awesome system. I began to say things like, “Footprints on the toilet seat? Must have been a Petunialander.”
“Guy peeing on the sidewalk? Petunialanders do that.”
“Loud toddlers in a restaurant? Petunialanders let their kids run wild.”
“Somebody cut in line getting on the bus? Petunialanders are ruining Daisyville for us true Daisyvillers.”
Then I heard myself, and I hated it. It was shocking. I sounded just like those people who actually say racist things out loud and mean them, grouping people into unflattering categories, with or without evidence. That couldn’t be me. But it was. It is.
If I had only passed through Petunialand briefly, I could have remarked to myself how this developing country still had a ways to go. When I left, it would have been over, but I would have felt that traveling in such a rough place was good for me. You know, to make me appreciate civilization.
And, if I had only passed through Daisyville, I would have marveled at its sleek modernity and known that the world is a lovely place.
But I didn’t just pass through either place. I spent enough time in both to learn about the long-term situations. I like Daisyville the way it is and I don’t want it to change. I want the Petunialanders to shape up and blend in, but I’m also sorry that they have had such a hard time of it and are a bit behind.
Long-term travel and getting to know the cultures on a deeper level revealed my tendency to be a racist, something that makes me disappointed in myself, and frustrated with my character. I really thought by the time I turned 50, I wouldn’t need any more character-building. I was wrong. New experiences enrich us, broaden our minds, engage us in ways we never thought of before. Everybody acts like that’s a great thing, but sometimes, it’s a painful thing to go through. But I wouldn’t trade it for staying safe at home and never knowing.
For now, I’ve got to figure out how to stop saying and thinking things like Must Be a Petunialander. Probably a Petunialander. Petunialanders are like that.
But how?
I have no idea. I’m just going to try to stop, and I’m not going to say those things any more. I’m going to make eye contact with Petunialanders and be respectful. I’ll smile. If anybody says derogatory things to me about Pentunialanders, I’ll think of something to say. Then I’ll get braver and I’ll say No!
In the wise words of 70s rock sensation Abba:
Treat him well, he is your brother! Love him, that’s the only way.
No more comments, jokes, or insinuations about people of other races: check.
A bit later, I joined a church that was a big, groovy, happening, loving, diverse community that took the Bible quite seriously. And they said that racism is not just putting people of other races in unflattering categories, it’s putting any group of people in an unflattering category. Stereotyping isn’t limited to skin color. If we do that, we do not promote love and all the other good stuff Jesus talked about, but we perpetuate prejudice. Yowzah.
So, I stopped making blond jokes. I stopped making jokes about voice majors (we pianists are self-admittedly snobs). No more whining about members of other denominations who do things differently.
No more stereotyping any people: check.
Heck, I even married a Chinese guy. See? I love other races! Some of my best friends are half Japanese!
I taught my children to respect everyone, no matter the color of their skin or their decisions or their culture or their incense. Love all, serve all. Because God loves them, so we will, too. It was pretty easy, because we lived in Silicon Valley, California, which is full of well-educated people who are interested in diversity and social justice and healthy living. Our community celebrated Diwali, Chinese New Year, the Cherry Blossom Festival, Hanukkah, the Day of the Dead, and Christmas. Our kids had friends and sweethearts of all races.
It was easy not to be a racist.
Intermingle: check
Then we went on this round-the-world trip and something terrible happened. I heard racist words coming out of my mouth.
In order not to reveal the true identity of the people groups involved, I have changed the names to protect everyone.
Once, there was a country.
Let’s call it Petunialand. Long ago, Petunialand went to war with Sunflowerland, and when the war was over Sunflowerland pulled some diplomatic shenanigans and Petunialand had to give one of its most beautiful and strategically located cities, Daisyville, to Sunflowerland. For 99 years. So Sunflowerland took over Daisyville and, because Sunflowerland was really good at trade and economics and administration, it turned Daisyville into an international powerhouse, full of lovely malls and great chefs and citizens with long life expectancy and good manners. Daisyville was terrific. Petunialand, in the meantime, had wars and regime changes and only had the bandwidth to think about feeding everybody. Personal hygiene and manners and clean air and potable tap water went out the window.
Well, the 99 years came to an end and Sunflowerland left. Petunialand, having realized that Daisyville had a lot going for it, began to encourage its citizens to visit Daisyville. Then it encouraged them to move there, since some Petunialanders had come in to money. Beaucoups of Petunialanders swarmed into Daisyville. They brought their bad manners and their poor hygiene and their piles of cash. Daisyvillers didn’t like this, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.
This is where I come into the story. I like Daisyville. I’ve been there a lot. I like how it’s clean and efficient. I like how there are hand dryers and toilet paper and sit-down toilets. I like clean sidewalks. I like forming an orderly line to get on public transportation.
I do not like people messing up that awesome system. I began to say things like, “Footprints on the toilet seat? Must have been a Petunialander.”
“Guy peeing on the sidewalk? Petunialanders do that.”
“Loud toddlers in a restaurant? Petunialanders let their kids run wild.”
“Somebody cut in line getting on the bus? Petunialanders are ruining Daisyville for us true Daisyvillers.”
Then I heard myself, and I hated it. It was shocking. I sounded just like those people who actually say racist things out loud and mean them, grouping people into unflattering categories, with or without evidence. That couldn’t be me. But it was. It is.
If I had only passed through Petunialand briefly, I could have remarked to myself how this developing country still had a ways to go. When I left, it would have been over, but I would have felt that traveling in such a rough place was good for me. You know, to make me appreciate civilization.
And, if I had only passed through Daisyville, I would have marveled at its sleek modernity and known that the world is a lovely place.
But I didn’t just pass through either place. I spent enough time in both to learn about the long-term situations. I like Daisyville the way it is and I don’t want it to change. I want the Petunialanders to shape up and blend in, but I’m also sorry that they have had such a hard time of it and are a bit behind.
Long-term travel and getting to know the cultures on a deeper level revealed my tendency to be a racist, something that makes me disappointed in myself, and frustrated with my character. I really thought by the time I turned 50, I wouldn’t need any more character-building. I was wrong. New experiences enrich us, broaden our minds, engage us in ways we never thought of before. Everybody acts like that’s a great thing, but sometimes, it’s a painful thing to go through. But I wouldn’t trade it for staying safe at home and never knowing.
For now, I’ve got to figure out how to stop saying and thinking things like Must Be a Petunialander. Probably a Petunialander. Petunialanders are like that.
But how?
I have no idea. I’m just going to try to stop, and I’m not going to say those things any more. I’m going to make eye contact with Petunialanders and be respectful. I’ll smile. If anybody says derogatory things to me about Pentunialanders, I’ll think of something to say. Then I’ll get braver and I’ll say No!
In the wise words of 70s rock sensation Abba:
Treat him well, he is your brother! Love him, that’s the only way.