Whenever I put myself in the place of those men and women of color whose lives are disrupted harshly for no reason other than the unmanaged fear of a white person––I can fantasize doing something pretty ugly.
But of course I’m a spiritual guy. So I take two or three years and calm down. That’s what it feels like anyway. And along the way I ask myself: How would I want to respond if that happened to me?
The first time I asked that I got slapped. Hit by my own presumption. Put myself in the position of a person of color? I have no more ability to do that than I do of being a woman. Or anyone else who must live in a culture where intrenched beliefs compound, often dangerously, the challenges of living that are common to us all.
News stories abound. Waiting for a friend in a Philly Starbucks; taking a Colorado State college tour; napping in a Yale common room; being an Airbnb guest in California. Much less driving while black, or doing pretty much anything while a color other than white. What’s the equivalent for an elder paleface, a Mr. Rogers wannabe? There isn’t any, at least none that’s happened to me.
In my twenties, a big love of mine was a woman of African-American descent. I recall saying to her, “If I were a black man, I’d be dead. My rage would get me killed.” She said, “No you wouldn’t. You’d learn to adapt.” She knew adaptation. She was among the early generations of African-Americans to populate the nation’s elite colleges.
I, on the other hand, was among the early generation of older students to populate those same colleges. At 27 I was the oldest freshman my alma mater, Amherst, had ever admitted. I mention this because, once on campus, my superficial specialness, age, went unnoticed. Her’s, race, never did.
And that fact goes to the heart of white privilege as I experience it: the luxury of being invisible, thus unencumbered, because of my external appearance.
Whether I’d be here to write this if I were a black man is impossible to say. I’m grateful I am here, however, because in the past 50 years I’ve learned at least two things that help me grow my capacity to love.
It’s been an odd blessing being generally bulletproof to hassle or worse because of my skin. That blessing is my being far from bulletproof when it comes to experiencing the viciousness and cruelty that ensues throughout the world from believing anyone is fundamentally different than we are. Whether related to race or anything else.
Managing the fierce judgment such harm can elicit in me––forgiving others and myself for being human, ignorant––is among my more demanding teachers.
Meanwhile, I find race and gender to be two of humankind’s most potent forces because it has led me to a beautiful revelation about how the universe works.
As I’ve said elsewhere, Oprah is no more black or a woman than I am. She just happens to be both in this incarnation, and I am neither. In lives down the road, maybe I’ll be a woman of color inspiring millions and she’ll be a white screwball attempting to dance with the divine. Whoever we are, they’re just roles we play on our soul’s inevitable journey to oneness.
Still, as in all theater, some roles are a lot more challenging than others.
Once again, Steve Roberts, ragged pieces fall in place on these pages. Faith in the big picture, inspiring my daily commitment to acts of love that go a long way toward a more level playing field. Eyes wide open. Thanks.