Fatmanonice
Banned via Warnings
Link to original post: [drupal=3972]For Black History Month: Thoughts from a Former Racist [/drupal]
I used to be racist. There’re only a few people who I’ve told that to in recent years because, obviously, it’s something that I’m not proud of. It was a period of time in my life that only lasted about a year and a half but there’s a small side of me that still exists from that time. As you may have expected from the title of this essay, my prejudice was largely directed at black people and I feel that, to better understand how I am now, it is necessary to know how I once was. This paper isn’t for a class and, in truth, I haven’t written anything specifically for Black History month since the eighth grade when I did short report on Scott Joplin, the creator of ragtime and a former St. Louis resident. This essay is not only meant for me to reflect on how I am now and how I once was but for those that choose to read this to do the same for themselves as well as those I never was openly able to apologize to in person. It’s a shameful part of my past but I believe that it is necessary to share so bear with me as this former racist explains why he thinks black history month is significant.
I believe racism grows out of two things: conflict and misunderstanding. My first memory of conflict with black people was in the second grade. It was February and, for the first time in my school career, I had to recognize black history month. To commemorate the occasion, my teacher assigned the class to do a short report on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It was simple enough: write a page and draw a picture. For some reason, I decided to make mine a work of fiction. Everything I wrote was historically accurate except for a short little sentence at the end where I noted that I “blew up” MLK’s assassin because I “made a time machine and went back in time.” This was a phase of my life where I thought just about anything randomly blowing up was funny (although truthfully I’m still like this) and, despite it being harmless fun, my teacher wasn’t amused. This assignment still sticks out so much in my mind because it was the first assignment that I ever got anything lower than an A on. I got a C and, even at that age, it still left me pretty bitter. I didn’t understand why I had to do a report on him or why he was even that important. At the time, there was only a few black students in my grade and none of them were my friends so the subject matter meant even less to me. Until the 8th grade, Black History Month just became a giant annoyance to me.
I was a punk my 7th grade year. It was a time in my life when I genuinely hated myself and because of how I acted, I’m sure most people around me hated me too. It’s hard to sit here typing away like I am and sincerely say that I was terrible person at that time and deserved most of the conflicts I got myself into. I cussed, constantly, and one day I counted to find that I had done it over 200 times. I lied all the time to the point where I even lied to strangers about my name because I knew I’d get away with it. I told dirty jokes in front of just about everyone regardless of how offended they were except my parents. Above all, I was racist and was very open about it at school. Want to have a good idea on how racist I was? One of my assignments for that year was to do a report and presentation on one historical figure and guess who I chose; Adolf Hitler. I remember one of the big reasons why I did it was because I thought that he was “misunderstood” and that deterred most people from researching him. I was a miserable person who probably made other people’s skin crawl just by being in the same room as them. I even made other racists uncomfortable and that thought still chills me to the bone.
Racism/prejudice is like a tarp. You don’t just throw it over a few individuals you throw it over an entire people and then try to tie down the ends to prevent anyone from escaping. You take your frustrations with one person or a few and then decide to apply it to everyone like them, whether you know them or not. That’s basically what I did in the 7th grade. There were two blacks kids that made fun of me in particular and, because of them, I decided that I hated black people across the board. There were a lot of white kids who made fun of me too but I found what the two black kids to be more unforgiveable because they were different. I knew race was a touchy subject and I ran with it. I used words like “******” unapologetically and found my fair share of racist phrases and jokes from some of my friends. One of my favorite things that I liked to do at the time was to look up statistics that somehow “proved” that white people were better than black people. I remember one incident where I just about got push kicked “300 style” down a flight of stairs after I jeeringly noted that the leading cause of death of black men in America was being killed by another black man. To this day, I still don’t know why they or anyone else never told on me. There was even a couple of days when some of my classmates refused to talk to me after calling one of the black kids a “stupid ******” after being tagged out at first at a softball game during gym.
I was known by a few people as “that racist kid” at my school and my church and that was something a few people used to make fun of me for. There were only a few people who thought I was wholly justified for my beliefs including my grandfather (now deceased) who I learned some of my behavior from. Racism loves company so I sought out people who were like I was. I actually felt a lot of guilt when I was around people I knew that weren’t like I was but those feelings would quickly dissipate when I found someone who was. Something that most people don’t get about racists is that most know that their beliefs are morally wrong so they actively seek out others to bury those feelings. You’re a tool, you know that you’re a tool, and you do what you can to cover it up. You can be proven wrong about your beliefs but then you make yourself believe that a particular person is “an exception to the rule” or that a particular incident was “a fluke.” You also go out of your way to find something wrong (like how in recent years many racists had hay-days with Michael Jordon’s and Tiger Woods’ affairs) and then laude it over the entire group of people as if, collectively, it was their fault. No matter how ridiculous my comments were or how goofy I got with my stereotypes, there was always a layer of acid inside all of them even when I tried to convince myself that “I was only kidding, I don’t REALLY believe that.” It was completely destructive behavior and it would be in the summer of 2001 when I would turn my thoughts around.
The moment in my life when I started to really critically think about what all was wrong with being racist was when I went on a mission trip to Memphis, Tennessee shortly before the beginning of the 8th grade. Black people make up the majority of Memphis’s population and I was well aware of that. I wanted to help them not really for the sake of doing good but because I figured that the black people had messed up their communities so much that they now needed white people to help bail them out. (If you just bit your lower lip while reading that line, don’t worry, I did too.) I mentioned this to a few of my friends early in the trip and one swore he’d “knock my teeth out” if I ever said anything like that again. The group was split into different task forces and I ended up in the group that acted like a sort of day-care in a nearby park. It was there where I met Charles.
Charles was probably about six years old and he was black. His mom worked two jobs so she was out most of the day and there wasn’t anybody to watch over him until about 7 at night. From the get-go, he showed a lot of interest in me. I didn’t know why being how I was incredibly standoffish with even the white people in the group. I would sit by myself under a tree near the middle of park while everyone else sang, played, and made crafts. It was hot and disgustingly humid and I didn’t feel like putting too much effort into doing anything. I remember one of the adults asking me why I was even there and I didn’t even answer her. Charles would come up to me and ask me questions despite my hate for the city and the situation being all too visible. He talked loud and I held that against him and tried to keep conversations as short as possible. We were given a “Passion Cube” to help tell the story of Jesus’s life and I remember giving one of mine to him just so that he’d stop talking to me. Things continued like this for a few days and then I got my toy concertina (it’s like an accordion but with buttons) at the mall close to the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis. I quickly learned how to play a few songs on it and my playing really peaked his fascination. We then started talking about music and what all he liked to listen to, which was mostly rap.
After that day I got a lot more involved in the activities. I began to play with the other children and even made some crafts. One of the days, Charles painted a butterfly on a rock and gave it to me and I still have the rock at home to this day. I started to come along with the group when they picked up the kids at the beginning of the day and took them home when the sun started to set. Time passed and it was eventually the last day. While walking Charles home, he asked me about what I thought about rap. Now you have to understand that this question will send most racists into a tirade of epic proportions and is the equivalent of flipping him off with both hands while necking his girlfriend. Even now, rap is still my least favorite music genre but back then I had a fiery irrational hate for it that could inspire me to tear down buildings with my bare hands. I had grown to think of this kid like a little brother and I knew I couldn’t say what I really thought. I grinded my teeth and then I ended up spitting out what was probably the best lie of my entire life. I began to explain the history of African American music from how I understood it. I covered blues, jazz, rock n roll, as well as people like Ray Charles and Scott Joplin. This longwinded attempt of me avoiding putting my foot in my mouth ended with me calling rap “beautiful music” because it reflected a part of his culture. I think I heard and felt a few of my ribs break as I told that most epic of lies but he seemed satisfied and maybe even inspired. We eventually reached his house and he asked me if he would ever see me again. I told him that I would see him next summer but, unbeknownst to me at the time, my church would choose another location. I walked down his driveway and watched as he waved goodbye from a crack in the door and that was the last time I ever saw him.
Do you remember that scene in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” when the Grinch is "standing with his feet ice cold in the snow" and then he asks "how can it be so" when he starts to come to terms that he's a bitter ******* and just needlessly pulled off one of the biggest acts of kleptomania in recorded history? I had one of those moments. My heart didn't suddenly "grow three sizes that day" but it did make me think about how I had been acting for the past year and a half. Why at one time did I needlessly hate this little boy just because he was black? Why did I hate the whole race when, in truth, I had only personally known maybe five black people up to that point in my life? These thoughts continued on for several weeks afterwards and it starting making sense to why so many people were so uncomfortable around me. I slowly began to change my ways. I stopped using racial slurs and I even apologized to one of the black kids that bullied me for taking things too far. I still cussed excessively and told jokes and stories that probably would have caused my mother to spontaneously combust but, by the next summer, I kicked those habits too. I'm grateful for that mission trip because it brought about a "personality cleaning" that I had desperately needed for a long time.
I will admit that, even now, I only have a few black friends and I didn't become friends with any until early 2009. I will also admit that I did lapse into my prejudice behavior in my high school years but this time with gay people until I started making gay friends at SEMO in early 2009 (but that's another story for another time). Perhaps I'm putting my character into a hole here but I will also admit that, although I don't tell them anymore, I will still laugh at racist jokes and stories. Nobody's perfect and I believe that's one of the big lessons that should be taken away from all of this.
Black History Month is significant because it shows that black people have a history. "So", you may say. "So does everyone else." That's exactly the point though. Everyone has a history. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has fears. Everyone wants love and to feel secure and to feel like that their life has some meaning to it. This really isn't a matter of "we're not so different, you and I" because the reality of things is, yes, there are people out there that are very different from you are but similarities still exist and you shouldn't become so obsessed with the differences that you never even acknowledge them. Not only should you celebrate diversity but you should also celebrate the individual. Someone may be black but they have a mind and heart and, unfortunately, this is a lesson that America is still trying to learn. Black History Month isn't about "White Guilt" (as I used to openly complain) but about providing a window into cultures and lifestyles we may not immediately relate to. With Black History Month being only a few days away, I would like to ask that at some point after reading this that you not only look at your own history and beliefs but people in your life whether they are your friends or not. All people have significance and coming to that conclusion can provide redemption, even for a former racist.
Fatmanonice, January 28th, 2011
“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” -Martin Luther King Jr.
"The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” -Thomas Paine
“No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All collective judgments are wrong. Only racists make them.” -Elie Wiesel
I used to be racist. There’re only a few people who I’ve told that to in recent years because, obviously, it’s something that I’m not proud of. It was a period of time in my life that only lasted about a year and a half but there’s a small side of me that still exists from that time. As you may have expected from the title of this essay, my prejudice was largely directed at black people and I feel that, to better understand how I am now, it is necessary to know how I once was. This paper isn’t for a class and, in truth, I haven’t written anything specifically for Black History month since the eighth grade when I did short report on Scott Joplin, the creator of ragtime and a former St. Louis resident. This essay is not only meant for me to reflect on how I am now and how I once was but for those that choose to read this to do the same for themselves as well as those I never was openly able to apologize to in person. It’s a shameful part of my past but I believe that it is necessary to share so bear with me as this former racist explains why he thinks black history month is significant.
I believe racism grows out of two things: conflict and misunderstanding. My first memory of conflict with black people was in the second grade. It was February and, for the first time in my school career, I had to recognize black history month. To commemorate the occasion, my teacher assigned the class to do a short report on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It was simple enough: write a page and draw a picture. For some reason, I decided to make mine a work of fiction. Everything I wrote was historically accurate except for a short little sentence at the end where I noted that I “blew up” MLK’s assassin because I “made a time machine and went back in time.” This was a phase of my life where I thought just about anything randomly blowing up was funny (although truthfully I’m still like this) and, despite it being harmless fun, my teacher wasn’t amused. This assignment still sticks out so much in my mind because it was the first assignment that I ever got anything lower than an A on. I got a C and, even at that age, it still left me pretty bitter. I didn’t understand why I had to do a report on him or why he was even that important. At the time, there was only a few black students in my grade and none of them were my friends so the subject matter meant even less to me. Until the 8th grade, Black History Month just became a giant annoyance to me.
I was a punk my 7th grade year. It was a time in my life when I genuinely hated myself and because of how I acted, I’m sure most people around me hated me too. It’s hard to sit here typing away like I am and sincerely say that I was terrible person at that time and deserved most of the conflicts I got myself into. I cussed, constantly, and one day I counted to find that I had done it over 200 times. I lied all the time to the point where I even lied to strangers about my name because I knew I’d get away with it. I told dirty jokes in front of just about everyone regardless of how offended they were except my parents. Above all, I was racist and was very open about it at school. Want to have a good idea on how racist I was? One of my assignments for that year was to do a report and presentation on one historical figure and guess who I chose; Adolf Hitler. I remember one of the big reasons why I did it was because I thought that he was “misunderstood” and that deterred most people from researching him. I was a miserable person who probably made other people’s skin crawl just by being in the same room as them. I even made other racists uncomfortable and that thought still chills me to the bone.
Racism/prejudice is like a tarp. You don’t just throw it over a few individuals you throw it over an entire people and then try to tie down the ends to prevent anyone from escaping. You take your frustrations with one person or a few and then decide to apply it to everyone like them, whether you know them or not. That’s basically what I did in the 7th grade. There were two blacks kids that made fun of me in particular and, because of them, I decided that I hated black people across the board. There were a lot of white kids who made fun of me too but I found what the two black kids to be more unforgiveable because they were different. I knew race was a touchy subject and I ran with it. I used words like “******” unapologetically and found my fair share of racist phrases and jokes from some of my friends. One of my favorite things that I liked to do at the time was to look up statistics that somehow “proved” that white people were better than black people. I remember one incident where I just about got push kicked “300 style” down a flight of stairs after I jeeringly noted that the leading cause of death of black men in America was being killed by another black man. To this day, I still don’t know why they or anyone else never told on me. There was even a couple of days when some of my classmates refused to talk to me after calling one of the black kids a “stupid ******” after being tagged out at first at a softball game during gym.
I was known by a few people as “that racist kid” at my school and my church and that was something a few people used to make fun of me for. There were only a few people who thought I was wholly justified for my beliefs including my grandfather (now deceased) who I learned some of my behavior from. Racism loves company so I sought out people who were like I was. I actually felt a lot of guilt when I was around people I knew that weren’t like I was but those feelings would quickly dissipate when I found someone who was. Something that most people don’t get about racists is that most know that their beliefs are morally wrong so they actively seek out others to bury those feelings. You’re a tool, you know that you’re a tool, and you do what you can to cover it up. You can be proven wrong about your beliefs but then you make yourself believe that a particular person is “an exception to the rule” or that a particular incident was “a fluke.” You also go out of your way to find something wrong (like how in recent years many racists had hay-days with Michael Jordon’s and Tiger Woods’ affairs) and then laude it over the entire group of people as if, collectively, it was their fault. No matter how ridiculous my comments were or how goofy I got with my stereotypes, there was always a layer of acid inside all of them even when I tried to convince myself that “I was only kidding, I don’t REALLY believe that.” It was completely destructive behavior and it would be in the summer of 2001 when I would turn my thoughts around.
The moment in my life when I started to really critically think about what all was wrong with being racist was when I went on a mission trip to Memphis, Tennessee shortly before the beginning of the 8th grade. Black people make up the majority of Memphis’s population and I was well aware of that. I wanted to help them not really for the sake of doing good but because I figured that the black people had messed up their communities so much that they now needed white people to help bail them out. (If you just bit your lower lip while reading that line, don’t worry, I did too.) I mentioned this to a few of my friends early in the trip and one swore he’d “knock my teeth out” if I ever said anything like that again. The group was split into different task forces and I ended up in the group that acted like a sort of day-care in a nearby park. It was there where I met Charles.
Charles was probably about six years old and he was black. His mom worked two jobs so she was out most of the day and there wasn’t anybody to watch over him until about 7 at night. From the get-go, he showed a lot of interest in me. I didn’t know why being how I was incredibly standoffish with even the white people in the group. I would sit by myself under a tree near the middle of park while everyone else sang, played, and made crafts. It was hot and disgustingly humid and I didn’t feel like putting too much effort into doing anything. I remember one of the adults asking me why I was even there and I didn’t even answer her. Charles would come up to me and ask me questions despite my hate for the city and the situation being all too visible. He talked loud and I held that against him and tried to keep conversations as short as possible. We were given a “Passion Cube” to help tell the story of Jesus’s life and I remember giving one of mine to him just so that he’d stop talking to me. Things continued like this for a few days and then I got my toy concertina (it’s like an accordion but with buttons) at the mall close to the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis. I quickly learned how to play a few songs on it and my playing really peaked his fascination. We then started talking about music and what all he liked to listen to, which was mostly rap.
After that day I got a lot more involved in the activities. I began to play with the other children and even made some crafts. One of the days, Charles painted a butterfly on a rock and gave it to me and I still have the rock at home to this day. I started to come along with the group when they picked up the kids at the beginning of the day and took them home when the sun started to set. Time passed and it was eventually the last day. While walking Charles home, he asked me about what I thought about rap. Now you have to understand that this question will send most racists into a tirade of epic proportions and is the equivalent of flipping him off with both hands while necking his girlfriend. Even now, rap is still my least favorite music genre but back then I had a fiery irrational hate for it that could inspire me to tear down buildings with my bare hands. I had grown to think of this kid like a little brother and I knew I couldn’t say what I really thought. I grinded my teeth and then I ended up spitting out what was probably the best lie of my entire life. I began to explain the history of African American music from how I understood it. I covered blues, jazz, rock n roll, as well as people like Ray Charles and Scott Joplin. This longwinded attempt of me avoiding putting my foot in my mouth ended with me calling rap “beautiful music” because it reflected a part of his culture. I think I heard and felt a few of my ribs break as I told that most epic of lies but he seemed satisfied and maybe even inspired. We eventually reached his house and he asked me if he would ever see me again. I told him that I would see him next summer but, unbeknownst to me at the time, my church would choose another location. I walked down his driveway and watched as he waved goodbye from a crack in the door and that was the last time I ever saw him.
Do you remember that scene in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” when the Grinch is "standing with his feet ice cold in the snow" and then he asks "how can it be so" when he starts to come to terms that he's a bitter ******* and just needlessly pulled off one of the biggest acts of kleptomania in recorded history? I had one of those moments. My heart didn't suddenly "grow three sizes that day" but it did make me think about how I had been acting for the past year and a half. Why at one time did I needlessly hate this little boy just because he was black? Why did I hate the whole race when, in truth, I had only personally known maybe five black people up to that point in my life? These thoughts continued on for several weeks afterwards and it starting making sense to why so many people were so uncomfortable around me. I slowly began to change my ways. I stopped using racial slurs and I even apologized to one of the black kids that bullied me for taking things too far. I still cussed excessively and told jokes and stories that probably would have caused my mother to spontaneously combust but, by the next summer, I kicked those habits too. I'm grateful for that mission trip because it brought about a "personality cleaning" that I had desperately needed for a long time.
I will admit that, even now, I only have a few black friends and I didn't become friends with any until early 2009. I will also admit that I did lapse into my prejudice behavior in my high school years but this time with gay people until I started making gay friends at SEMO in early 2009 (but that's another story for another time). Perhaps I'm putting my character into a hole here but I will also admit that, although I don't tell them anymore, I will still laugh at racist jokes and stories. Nobody's perfect and I believe that's one of the big lessons that should be taken away from all of this.
Black History Month is significant because it shows that black people have a history. "So", you may say. "So does everyone else." That's exactly the point though. Everyone has a history. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has fears. Everyone wants love and to feel secure and to feel like that their life has some meaning to it. This really isn't a matter of "we're not so different, you and I" because the reality of things is, yes, there are people out there that are very different from you are but similarities still exist and you shouldn't become so obsessed with the differences that you never even acknowledge them. Not only should you celebrate diversity but you should also celebrate the individual. Someone may be black but they have a mind and heart and, unfortunately, this is a lesson that America is still trying to learn. Black History Month isn't about "White Guilt" (as I used to openly complain) but about providing a window into cultures and lifestyles we may not immediately relate to. With Black History Month being only a few days away, I would like to ask that at some point after reading this that you not only look at your own history and beliefs but people in your life whether they are your friends or not. All people have significance and coming to that conclusion can provide redemption, even for a former racist.
Fatmanonice, January 28th, 2011
“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” -Martin Luther King Jr.
"The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren, and to do good is my religion.” -Thomas Paine
“No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All collective judgments are wrong. Only racists make them.” -Elie Wiesel
