This post is a reaction to the article, Love Letter to White People by Joe Osmundson (the one that Codey sent us last week). These articles were difficult to read and even more difficult, were the implications and realizations I was left with.
I've always been sure about not being a racist. I grew up in a racist family and went to racist schools. Early on in high school, I began to question the things my family would say about black people, that they're lazy, poor, violent, and rather do drugs than go to school and work hard. It was easy for me to question and it made perfect intuitive sense to me that all of it was, to put it frankly, bullshit. My stance as a "non-racist" grew even stronger last year (my first year of college) because I started delving more deeply to systemic forms of racism (mass incarceration, gentrification, etc.). I started reading more about white privilege, about decarcerate movements, and thinking about what I could do. Determined to do the little I could to address racial inequality, I was more sure than ever. I was not a racist.
While reading Osmundson's article, he seemed to be shouting a single message. "Be honest with yourself! Love yourself so much that you can come to terms with yourself!" Seriously, I felt as if every paragraph had this as its central theme. But what did I have to be honest about? Yeah, sure, I'm a white man with white privilege (and some could consider me racist for that) but I was aware of it and actively trying to fight against it. And it's not like I was racist on a personal level either, I didn't think black people are lazy or violent. So, again, what did I have to be honest about?
Towards the end of the article, Osmundson admits, "I don't think I have all the answers. I am still fucked up". This raised an ocean of questions, each wave pounding harder than the last. He's still fucked up? How? He has so much knowledge about race and how the education, housing, and prison systems affect people of color. Heck, he's writing this article. How can he still be fucked up? I was done being fucked up back in high school, wasn't I? And of course, the question that followed, the question that felt like a tsunami compared to the previous waves of questions was, "Am I still fucked up?"
My mind raced through my memories. I thought of my black friends growing up. I thought of how I thought of them. But, nothing. I could not see any specific possibly racist thoughts or judgements I had. Then, for some reason unknown to me, I thought about my recent trip up to Ursinus from Miami (and seriously, I have no idea why this thought popped into my head). I came up on the greyhound bus. At one of the stops, a man with a long beard and a look as if he hadn't showered in weeks boarded (I later found out he was homeless). The bus driver was being awfully rude to him and many passengers didn't let him sit next to them because he smelled bad. Noticing this, I invited him to sit next to me. Who was I to judge this man because of his appearance and smell? He sat down next to me and we immediately struck a conversation (mostly about how he's treated because he's homeless) and I was completely comfortable.
In thinking about this story, I forgot to mention something. The man was white. What if he was black, I thought? Would I still have invited him to sit next to me? Would I still have spoken to him the way I did? Would I have been as comfortable around him?
It is striking, even gut-wrenching, how easy it was for me to answer those questions. The answer? A resounding no, a no that seemed that bounce around my head, as if a pinball were bouncing and hitting every corner in my head. And here, I begin my love letter.
Dear Me,
You still don't have all the answers. But I love you. And it is because I love you that I can tell you this: You're still fucked up.
Love,
Me
No comments:
Post a Comment