Unintentionally raising a racist

I said I wouldn’t attempt to tackle race.

But I want to share a story, and maybe some thoughts on the story.

I recently was invited and attended two different conferences having to do with race, race relations, and reconciliation. As is almost always the case, the attendees were not really the people who needed to be there, but were made up of a cross section of leaders from the community, people who – for the most part – are peers regardless of race, who understand the need to “dialogue” (how I hate that used as a verb!) and frequently get together to discuss such things.

Still, in one session, there was a white pastor that I know who was on the panel. He lives in what we’d refer to as a “transitional” neighborhood, meaning it used to be a poor, unsafe neighborhood but is now being changed as businesses and young families or young professionals begin to move in.

He was sitting on the panel next to two black, or African-American, pastors. On the other side was a man representing Islam; next to him a Jewish Rabbi. You get the idea.

My friend told an honest story. He shared how his daughter was terrified of black men. He said twice his wife and daughter had come into their house, only to find two young black males who had broken in and were still in the house, going through their things. Obviously it was a terrifying experience for both – as well as my friend who, as a husband and father, had to deal with frustration of not being able to be there to protect and defend his family.

But as a result, his daughter was terrified of black males. Interestingly, she was not terrified of black females. In fact, she regularly played with young black females her age, and thought nothing of coming into contact with black women. It was only black males.

How, my friend asked, was he supposed to help his daughter overcome that fear?

One of the black men next to him said, “Tell her she hasn’t met all black men. She hasn’t met me.”

“Or me,’’ said the black man next to him.

In the midst of all this racial profiling of both races (and let’s be honest: blacks are just as guilty of racially profiling whites as whites are of profiling blacks), we hear all these sweeping statements about “white people …” and “black people …” And while you don’t usually here anyone say “all white people…” or “all black people …” you get the feeling that it almost goes without saying.

And yet, it’s true: victims of racism haven’t met all white people, or all black people. And there are good people – I’d like to think MORE good people – of both races (all races) than are given credit for being.

With all the “conversations” we’re encouraged to have, it seems to me the only way for a little white girl in Birmingham, AL., to overcome her fear of black men is to meet black men that help her learn that she doesn’t have to be afraid of all black men.

Likewise, young blacks who might fear whites need to meet whites and learn they don’t have to fear, and both find out there really isn’t that much difference between most of us, except for the color of our skin.

There are reasons – maybe not good reasons, or in some cases valid reasons, but reasons nonetheless – that people of different races (and religions, and regions of the country) don’t “like” each other. In the end, it comes down to who you know and what your interaction with folks has been.

I have seen blacks who were given preferential treatment simply because of the color of their skin, and been told during a reduction in labor force that the minorities had a better chance of keeping their jobs than the rest of us. (This was before I knew about white people like Elizabeth Warren and Rachel Dolezal who “identified” as minorities; I wish I had thought of that.) And I have had conversations with black professionals who have told me how they know they have to dress better and talk better and be more careful in what they say and how they say it than whites in the same profession in order to advance their career.

We were all afraid of the same things – bad people who were out there who might rob and steal from us. It didn’t matter if the bad people were white or black or green if they were trying to take what you’d worked for.

Maybe all we can do is, when someone tells you they are afraid of people of a certain race, is to say “you haven’t met all people of that race.”

And it doesn’t hurt to be able to tell them about or (better yet) introduce them to a person of that race that you know, that you have a relationship with, to help them see beyond their stereotype and the fear.

I haven’t met every black person. But I have met many. Some are good friends. Some are simply people I came in contact with that I like. Some are people I didn’t like – but it had nothing to do with the color of their skin but rather, as Dr. King might say, the “content of their character.”

Some I have worked with; a few I have been robbed by; some I have competed with and against; trained and coached with and against; did stories on; shared meals with; taken trips with; had over to my house (and been to theirs); bought things from and sold things too; hired and been hired by; simply sat around and talked with about music, food, sports, clothes, travel, kids, wives, jobs …
In other words, I shared life with them.

A story that I have shared before:

During the height of the unrest in Ferguson, Missouri, I was in my apartment in Brookhaven, Mississippi. Across the street was the old railroad station that had been turned into a museum and community center. It was Friday night, and there was a school party going on, a party that looked like it was for kids from the middle school.

Outside the building, at all four corners, there were parents acting as chaperones. They tended to break into groups by sexes – moms over here, dads over there. While in my apartment the TV was showing videos of the trouble in Ferguson; outside my window, there were parents – black and white – sitting together, talking, watching out for their kids, while those kids – black and white – were coming and going, dancing, eating, twirling glow lights, standing off in small groups no doubt talking about other kids, some trying to sneak off but being stopped by adults who may or may not have been their parents but who those kids respected enough to (however grudgingly) obey.

Despite the news from Ferguson, I’m guessing I could have seen the same thing I was watching from my apartment window taking place all over the country, including places in Missouri that were not Ferguson.

We had an old saying in the South that went, “In the South, the people hate the race but love the individual; while in the North they love the race but hate the individual.”

I don’t know how accurate that saying was or is, but I do know you can’t build relationships with groups of people until you know them individually.

I hope my friends’ daughter got to meet those two black men. And I hope, if she did, they helped her overcome her fear.

That’s the only way it’s going to happen, if both sides – all sides – are willing to recognize the fear in the others’ eye and do what we can to say, “You haven’t met us all.”