Being White Isn't About PIgment
It's hard for most white people not to think about race in terms of skin pigmentation. I get it. As a child of the 60s, I ingested civil rights ideals with my mother's milk. Oddly enough, my parents were raised by people who used the N-word as casually as they might say, "Hello." And some of their parents participated in genocide during the frontier wars of the American West. I love my family, warts and all. I'm not about to throw them under the bus. My ancestors may have been racists, but they were more than that.
Fortunately, the tide began to turn with my generation. We were—I was—taught that skin color didn't matter. Character did. My parents told me that I must never say the N-word, that it was as bad as the F-word. They told me skin color shouldn't matter. Our schools began to be integrated. We were taught that Dr. King was right and racial supremacy was wrong. As a result, things did begin to change, slowly and to a point. They did get better. So it's easy to understand how white people like me can think that race issues are as easy to see and address as skin pigmentation. They're on the surface, out in the open.
But they're not.
Being white, black, or brown is not just a skin-deep matter. It's more about a core-shaping cultural experience. People are shaped by a common language, shared values, and normative social experience. The things that make me "white" have much more to do with the cultural influences I share with light-skinned people of Western European descent (and similar socio-economic standing) than they do with my lack of melanin.
Racial discrimination is technically illegal in the United States. It has been increasingly so since the 13th amendment was passed more than 150 years ago. But the effects of a segregated, locked-out culture have persisted. What makes my black friends "black" is, again, not just the rich tones of their skin, but their identification with a long history of exploitation and purposeful disenfranchisement. Most of which have been perpetrated by people who look like me.
"But what about Ben Carson?" my white compatriots will often ask. "What about him?" I want to respond. I don't know the man beyond his public face, but I do know successful, powerful black men and women who celebrate Dr, Carson's unlikely success as heartily as any. But issues of race are complex and multifaceted. They cannot be reduced to a particular example—good or bad—and then universalized.
Even so, the question is not so easily dismissed. What my white friends are mirroring in their question about Dr. Carson is implicit racism. The premise that underlies the question is this. If all black people worked as hard as the good doctor, they wouldn't be in the desperate situations they find themselves in with respect to lack of education, unemployment, public health, and incarceration. If we accept the premise of the question, the obvious conclusion is appalling. Aside from a relatively small number of men and women like Dr. Carson, all other people of color are inherently lazy or unable to avail themselves of the opportunities presented by our society.
That conclusion is ridiculous on its face, but most white people who would ask the "Ben Carson" question are unaware of its implications. It's a blind spot for them.
When you unpack that for most white folks, they get it. They realize that being "Black" or "Latino" is more than the outward identifying features of a particular people group. More than pigmentation. They can grasp the idea that systemic problems are disadvantaging entire populations.
But what they often fail to grasp is that being white is also about more than skin color. Even if they come to a realization that race needs to be redefined to include shared experience—which is most often symbolized by shared DNA—they don't often see that as true of themselves. They don't have to.
In part, they are free from any significant self-realization because of the nature of their whiteness. The culture that shapes most white people has been the dominant influence in the western world for hundreds of years. When you travel outside of Western Europe or most of the United States, you still see the pervasiveness of that culture. The influence of its fashion, media, and values are found in almost every corner of the developed world. When your culture is the dominant culture, you can afford to ignore all others. The wealth, power, and influence that attends to Western Euro-centric culture makes that hegemony possible
So where do we go from here? If you're white and reading this, find someone who doesn't look like you and begin a dialog. Don't worry about reaching an agreement. Don't even strive for it. As a wise friend of mine once said, "In a cross-cultural dialog, understanding and empathy are the goals, not agreement."
It probably seems hopelessly naive to suggest that massive, centuries-old systemic problems can be successfully solved by a few conversations. They can't, but they can be solved by people who work together because they've built solid relationships based on empathy and mutual respect.
When you unpack that for most white folks, they get it. They realize that being "Black" or "Latino" is more than the outward identifying features of a particular people group. More than pigmentation. They can grasp the idea that systemic problems are disadvantaging entire populations.
But what they often fail to grasp is that being white is also about more than skin color. Even if they come to a realization that race needs to be redefined to include shared experience—which is most often symbolized by shared DNA—they don't often see that as true of themselves. They don't have to.
In part, they are free from any significant self-realization because of the nature of their whiteness. The culture that shapes most white people has been the dominant influence in the western world for hundreds of years. When you travel outside of Western Europe or most of the United States, you still see the pervasiveness of that culture. The influence of its fashion, media, and values are found in almost every corner of the developed world. When your culture is the dominant culture, you can afford to ignore all others. The wealth, power, and influence that attends to Western Euro-centric culture makes that hegemony possible
So where do we go from here? If you're white and reading this, find someone who doesn't look like you and begin a dialog. Don't worry about reaching an agreement. Don't even strive for it. As a wise friend of mine once said, "In a cross-cultural dialog, understanding and empathy are the goals, not agreement."
It probably seems hopelessly naive to suggest that massive, centuries-old systemic problems can be successfully solved by a few conversations. They can't, but they can be solved by people who work together because they've built solid relationships based on empathy and mutual respect.
That's a good start.
Mrs. Dow taught me that and I didn't even realize it at the time. She was my fourth-grade teacher and I will never forget her. I entered Mrs. Dow's class in 1967. Other things happened in 1967 too. Notorious segregationist, Lester Maddox, was sworn in as the governor of Georgia. Dr. Martin Luther King courageously denounced the Vietnam War, costing him much of the broader public support he had earned. Muhammed Ali refused induction into military service earning him the scorn of most white sports fans. Almost 160 race riots swept through America's urban centers in what was known as the Long Hot Summer. This was 1967, only three years removed from the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
Mrs. Dow was not only my instructor. She was the sole African American teacher at a predominantly white elementary school in an outlying suburb of Philadelphia. Our class was all white as I recall. The school very nearly was, as well. She was the first person of color I came to know well. And she gave me the gift of otherness, though I did not know it at the time.
I remember the first thing I noticed about Mrs. Dow was her skin color. She was obviously different from her young students. I didn't feel repulsed or attracted to that difference. I did feel a little nervous though. A sense of otherness will do that to anyone. A few other things about Mrs. Dow were also clear from that first day. She loved us and she was very good at her job. Like most teachers, she taught from an established curriculum, but for this class, in 1967, our studies featured something a previous generation never had. There was a specific, extensive unit on Black History.
Some might see that as social engineering. For me, it was an epiphany. For the entire month of February, while the racist Lester Maddox was settling in at the governor's mansion in Georgia, Mrs. Dow taught us about the likes of Harriet Tubman, George Washington Carver, and Frederick Douglas. She did so with gusto and with grace. I loved it. I had always been taught to avoid the bad behaviors of overt racism, but I had never been taught to celebrate the rich, varied, and substantial contributions of Black Americans. Aside from the odd Philadelphia Eagle, Sixer, or Phillie with dark skin, I had no heroes who were people of color. My comics, the TV shows I watched, all of the colder, cool kids at school, they were all white. But now my world included courageous revolutionaries, brilliant scientists, and skillful politicians who were POC. They served as an inspiration to a little white kid.
As you read this, you can probably count on one hand the number of teachers who changed your life. Maybe you can't even name one. They're that rare. For me, Mrs. Dow tops the list. She was a magnificent teacher. Her classroom buzzed with energy and delight. She was strong. No one messed with her, but she was also an endless fountain of encouragement. However, the greatest lesson she taught me occurred outside that classroom.
As the academic year drew to a close, Mrs. Dow invited the entire class to her home for a celebratory barbecue on the Saturday following the last day of school. I was so excited. I came home and told my parents about the invitation and asked if I could go. They said I could. When Saturday arrived, I hopped on my bike and crossed a line. There was literally a set of train tracks that separated the largely white part of town from the black part of town.
But they were just like us on the other side of that line, weren't they? Separate, but equal, right? They couldn't be. Their family had endured redlining—the practice of refusing black families loans to buy property outside of unofficially segregated areas. They had overcome other systemic barriers to become educated, economically stable people of influence. They had persevered and prospered despite disadvantages my white neighbors didn't have to overcome. That afternoon, Mrs. Dow's family shared their common humanity with me in the form of gracious hospitality, but they also shared otherness. For one Saturday afternoon, I was the "other." My whiteness wasn't my lack of pigmentation. It was my alien experience. I didn't have the vocabulary to analyze it at the time, but as I reflect on the experience, I'm more convinced than ever how valuable was that gift of otherness.
My brief times with Mrs. Dow and her family have passed into history by half a century. She and her husband have likely departed this life. I hope to see her again. As a Christian, I believe that's possible. It would not surprise me if she were a follower of Jesus with whom I can anticipate a reunion. That's how deeply I remember God's love and the values of the Gospel manifesting in her life. On the day that we both see our savior in person, we truly will be the same, despite our differences.
But, we can't be "the same" in this world until long-standing injustices are made right. And we'll never enjoy even the simple unity of human dignity until we realize that being white, or black, or brown is more than skin deep.
Mrs. Dow was not only my instructor. She was the sole African American teacher at a predominantly white elementary school in an outlying suburb of Philadelphia. Our class was all white as I recall. The school very nearly was, as well. She was the first person of color I came to know well. And she gave me the gift of otherness, though I did not know it at the time.
I remember the first thing I noticed about Mrs. Dow was her skin color. She was obviously different from her young students. I didn't feel repulsed or attracted to that difference. I did feel a little nervous though. A sense of otherness will do that to anyone. A few other things about Mrs. Dow were also clear from that first day. She loved us and she was very good at her job. Like most teachers, she taught from an established curriculum, but for this class, in 1967, our studies featured something a previous generation never had. There was a specific, extensive unit on Black History.
Some might see that as social engineering. For me, it was an epiphany. For the entire month of February, while the racist Lester Maddox was settling in at the governor's mansion in Georgia, Mrs. Dow taught us about the likes of Harriet Tubman, George Washington Carver, and Frederick Douglas. She did so with gusto and with grace. I loved it. I had always been taught to avoid the bad behaviors of overt racism, but I had never been taught to celebrate the rich, varied, and substantial contributions of Black Americans. Aside from the odd Philadelphia Eagle, Sixer, or Phillie with dark skin, I had no heroes who were people of color. My comics, the TV shows I watched, all of the colder, cool kids at school, they were all white. But now my world included courageous revolutionaries, brilliant scientists, and skillful politicians who were POC. They served as an inspiration to a little white kid.
As you read this, you can probably count on one hand the number of teachers who changed your life. Maybe you can't even name one. They're that rare. For me, Mrs. Dow tops the list. She was a magnificent teacher. Her classroom buzzed with energy and delight. She was strong. No one messed with her, but she was also an endless fountain of encouragement. However, the greatest lesson she taught me occurred outside that classroom.
As the academic year drew to a close, Mrs. Dow invited the entire class to her home for a celebratory barbecue on the Saturday following the last day of school. I was so excited. I came home and told my parents about the invitation and asked if I could go. They said I could. When Saturday arrived, I hopped on my bike and crossed a line. There was literally a set of train tracks that separated the largely white part of town from the black part of town.
But they were just like us on the other side of that line, weren't they? Separate, but equal, right? They couldn't be. Their family had endured redlining—the practice of refusing black families loans to buy property outside of unofficially segregated areas. They had overcome other systemic barriers to become educated, economically stable people of influence. They had persevered and prospered despite disadvantages my white neighbors didn't have to overcome. That afternoon, Mrs. Dow's family shared their common humanity with me in the form of gracious hospitality, but they also shared otherness. For one Saturday afternoon, I was the "other." My whiteness wasn't my lack of pigmentation. It was my alien experience. I didn't have the vocabulary to analyze it at the time, but as I reflect on the experience, I'm more convinced than ever how valuable was that gift of otherness.
My brief times with Mrs. Dow and her family have passed into history by half a century. She and her husband have likely departed this life. I hope to see her again. As a Christian, I believe that's possible. It would not surprise me if she were a follower of Jesus with whom I can anticipate a reunion. That's how deeply I remember God's love and the values of the Gospel manifesting in her life. On the day that we both see our savior in person, we truly will be the same, despite our differences.
But, we can't be "the same" in this world until long-standing injustices are made right. And we'll never enjoy even the simple unity of human dignity until we realize that being white, or black, or brown is more than skin deep.
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