There is white, and then there is OMG "white."
One is the
absence of color, and the
other is a complete lack of any cultural influence that gives
special flavor to
its host.
It sounds
cliché these days, with
everyone claiming Native American heritage, but I really am part
Cherokee. I
have majority Scottish ancestry on both sides, so I am not
totally “skim milk” (as
in devoid of ethnic culture) by genetics, but pretty nearly.
The
whitewash that really made me blanco was my home
environment. There
were no cultural traditions or practices, no ethnicity to lend
tinge or hue to
our daily lives. We had become as generic as the American ideal
citizen. Our
heritage was bred out of us and we could be found in the
dictionary under
“same.”
This was
not a problem with my
relatives, or others of my anglo-caucasian type as they saw it
as approaching
“perfection.” To me it
was the opposite.
We had become invisible.
Another
real problem that I was
beginning to see was the belief that becoming so non-specific
made someone
superior to those who still have evidence of where their
families originated.
An odd assumption that they were better than anyone else who was
different by
any of the following criteria: the color of their skin, the
accent heard while
they adjust to a new language, the style of the clothes they
wear, or the
church they choose to attend.
I could not
change the color of my
skin past the obvious tan obtained from living outdoors as much
as possible. I
could also not give myself a cultural identity. But I could make
sure that I
was not caught in the attitude trap of assumed superiority.
I am not
apologizing for being
white. I do not have a problem with the color of my skin, as
skin color has
never meant anything to me. It never had to. And my friends
didn’t care either.
My Cubano friends always believed that they would be going back home to Cuba. This gave them great reasons to hold onto their language, customs, beliefs and lifestyle. They were and are a proud people with big hearts and an open arms culture -- open to those who treat them with respect and equality. I was wrapped up in the arms of families that treated me like I was born in Havana and shared everything that they had with me. I was their adopted son to be fed or fussed over, and sometimes fussed at.
My Cubano friends always believed that they would be going back home to Cuba. This gave them great reasons to hold onto their language, customs, beliefs and lifestyle. They were and are a proud people with big hearts and an open arms culture -- open to those who treat them with respect and equality. I was wrapped up in the arms of families that treated me like I was born in Havana and shared everything that they had with me. I was their adopted son to be fed or fussed over, and sometimes fussed at.
Sadly
others with my skin color choose
to spit on elderly women and call children rude names. Some
business owners
harbored a belief that it was fair to charge people more as a
“lesson” that
they should somehow automatically know American English upon
arrival in the
USA.
My being
white entitled me to: speak
English as poorly as I possibly could and not be picked on for
it, not be
automatically hassled by police officers, to sit in the front of
the bus, to
dine anywhere, use any bathroom, stand on a corner with as many
friends who
looked like me as I wished to, go to any school, and kiss a
white girl on the
cheek without being knocked to the ground.
Until I
learned in elementary school
that I didn’t fit in either, because I made grown up white folks
(and their kids)
uncomfortable. I could read too well, understand big words,
solve math problems
without taking off my shoes, and quite often knew what teachers
were going to
ask next before they did. This made me not fit the mold and fall
outside of the
perfect median marks.
I am
grateful that I am not normal…
I have seen it and it scares the Hell out of me.
When I was
pushed to the outside of
the herd of “normal” white students I found a group of kids and
their families
that welcomed me and were not afraid of intelligence.
My new
friends were a rainbow of
colors and cultures and neither they nor their families were
afraid of smart people.
They universally accepted me and didn’t mind my white skin color
or bizarre
habits of reading and learning things.
These
parents of varied skin tones
and backgrounds all knew that smart kids were more likely to
succeed in getting
the education necessary to rise above the low paying jobs that
would otherwise
be the fate of their children. In other words I was seen as an
asset rather
than some kind of freak. I could only guess that they hoped that
my smarts and
habits would rub off on their kids … or something like that.
Occasionally I did
some tutoring in English or math, but back then we just called
it helping each
other.
I wish I
could say that my friends
received the same warm unconditional welcome from my family and
their friends.
But it simply wasn’t true. The color of their skin and/or the
country of their
family’s origin mattered to them. Rude and crude names were used
in my presence
and occasionally when my friends could hear. They routinely
embarrassed me.
Through my
association with these
good and kind people (kids and parents), I was to get an
education on what
growing up anything but a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant)
was like.
When my
friends and I went to the
store or a food place the managers would call the cops on us.
Not because we
ever did anything wrong, but just because we “looked” like we
might do
something. The same reason that cops stopped us riding our
bicycles through my
own neighborhood. The same reason that store owners would only
allow us in one
kid at a time.
What was
the reason? Some of the
kids were various shades of black or brown, some of the boys had
long hair, and
some spoke with accents or wore ethnic clothing designs. Plus a
couple of white
boys who they knew had to be trouble if they ran with kids not
of their own
“kind.”
After a
time we decided to create
our own language which was a mixture of English, Spanish, Yiddish,
Italian and
Miccosukee (Seminole Indian language) words. It wasn’t a code or
trick double
meaning thing, just different languages mixed together. We
thought that it was
very cool because we had to learn a little of each other’s
languages to make it
work. The best part was that it confused those who made fun of
us or wanted to
pick on us for whatever reason.
That is
when I learned how much
white people fear that everyone is talking bad about them if
they don’t
understand the language being spoken. They get absolutely
paranoid!
Cranky old
white men threw us out of
movie theaters, cops threatened to take us to the police station
and make our
parents come down to sign for us. Other white kids complained to
our teachers
that we were cussing at them or telling lies about them. One old
white man (who
was the janitor at our school) complained that we must be
communists being
trained to invade America like some kind of youth sleeper cell.
All because we
used different words mixed into our spoken language to
communicate.
I had
multiple visits from religious
people (church pastor, youth group leader, Sunday school
teacher) trying to get
me to attend their church services, or to pray for me on the
spot to heal me.
They were of course, all white people. Only the white people saw
any problem
with our behavior.
That is not
to say that we weren’t
given warnings and cautions by the parents of my rainbow family.
They told us,
and I mean us as I was one of their kids too, to be careful
about aggravating
the police and to watch out for the KKK. The father of one of my
black friends
told us that a white man could beat us, or shoot us, and never
get convicted of
anything. It was the early 1960s and what he said was painfully
the truth.
We stayed
together like the brothers
we had become, through all of the harassment and discrimination.
My own
parents suggested that I
should find “better” friends to hang out with, meaning of
course, WASP kids.
They had problems with children who had no police record, no
disciplinary
actions at school, were never disrespectful to adults… nothing
other than they
weren’t poured from the same batch of goo into the same mold as
I was. Their
answer when I confronted them over this was to exclaim, “See,
they are already
making you talk back and be a smart ass!”
The stated
reason they and other
white adult authority figures used was that it would “just lead
to trouble if
we kept mixing races”, meaning hanging out together.
There was a
beady-eyed Austrian guy
named Adolf who held these same kinds of beliefs. These words
were spoken to me
by the same white people who fought to stop Hitler. It was
possible that they
didn’t realize the damage caused by what they were saying. It
was also possible
that they didn’t really disagree with what Hitler said either.
Once again I was
embarrassed to be the white sheep in the flock.
As we got
older and went to junior
high school part of our group went to other schools due to
zoning restrictions.
A couple of families (my Cuban brothers) moved to Miami, and one
of our “gang”
died from “hundreds” (we didn’t know how many really, just that
it was a fatal amount)
of hornet stings.
The
remaining few played sports
together on school teams and hung out as much as possible but
our daily lives
had gotten faster and more complex. We had more friends and more
pressure to
conform to groups not wrapped around our neighborhood.
By the time
we hit high school we
were down to three, but fortunately two of our old gang came
back to us from
their junior high odyssey, bringing us back to five.
After the
first few weeks of school
it was my friends who were now on the defensive for hanging out
with a white
guy. This was the first time that I faced abuse and exclusion
just because of
my skin color. I soon made friends with the other black kids and
was known to
be “OK… for a white guy.” We did have a tense face-off in the
P.E. locker room with
several members of a black gang not from our home neighborhood,
but my friends
were willing to stand by me and it resolved without violence.
There was
group of white redneck
types who didn’t see my association with people of color as
acceptable behavior.
One afternoon I got stabbed in the back with an ice pick while
in the halls
changing classes. Boys from the “KKK youth group” (my name for
them) were all
around me when it happened, but no one saw a thing. I also had
“Nxxxxr Lover”
spray painted across my locker. You know, I had white friends
too but never got
called a “Honky Lover” by anyone.
My Seminole
friends had enough of
the “race wars” and transferred to the high school closer to the
reservation.
Not too long after that there was an incident where I punched a
teacher in the
nose at our first high school, so I joined them there.
Outsiders
came in and started a race
riot the next year (at the new high school) and all but one of
my Indian
brothers decided that they had enough of white schooling and
quit. Funny thing
about that, if you weren’t white the school counselors didn’t
even bother
calling or visiting to see why you quit in those days.
My senior
year of high school was in
Augusta, Georgia and I saw a more “textbook” version of racial
inequality
between whites and blacks.
Where in
Florida there had been many
races, ethnicities, cultures, etc. to make a Technicolor world,
in Georgia it
was just black & white. Old wealthy white people were in
power, dictating
life to both poor whites, and black folks trying to follow to
non-violent ways
of Dr. King.
There was
class warfare between rich
and poor whites, with wanna-be social climbers trying to rise
and aristocrats
trying to maintain “purity.” They all thought that the blacks
were their social
inferiors and treated people older than themselves like they
were children or
mentally challenged because of the color of their skin. I
constantly asked
myself, “Where is the respect for our elders?”
The civil
rights movements of the
middle ‘60’s were not lost on me, but seemed to have been
dismissed as a
passing fad by the citizens of my new city.
My employer
that year was a native
son of Augusta and even though he had served in the U.S. Army,
he still
considered anyone who didn’t look just like him as inferior. By
graduation time
I was fed up and visited the Army recruiter. I had to get out of
that town.
In the
military there are rules
against discrimination and I embraced that plan. I still saw the
struggles of
the different against the same, but at least the playing field
was mostly level
now.
My entire
life has been an ongoing
lesson about appreciating differences and I have thoroughly
enjoyed it thus
far. I think maybe a little bit of the rainbow has crept inside
of me after all.
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