So where am I going with this? Well, I had just finished walking the Atalaya trail when I noticed in one of the dormitory halls a sign that proudly advertised a slave auction. In a matter of seconds, I experienced what Dr. Joy-Leary would call post-slavery psychosis where a visual or word takes you right back to the scene of the crime. I did that thing Scooby Doo does whenever he's confronted with something he just doesn't get, or gets it and right away looks for the nearest exit-- Huh?!?! I didn't even pull out my standard Harlem, What da...?!, because the magic of Santa Fe had virtually shut down my hood impulses. Just that Huh?!?!; and I did look for the nearest exit! The two students I had met up with, one Anglo and the other Asian, quickly assured me that it was simply a play on words; that it's a dorm thing where students offer free labor, as in washing other students' cars or doing their laundry. Of course, this sounded like bubble gum, to me. Because where I come from, that's called a dolgier or sucker. Or in the worse situation, prison time, and guess what? You're it! But when in Rome you try to act Roman, right? So I chilled. It wasn't until the following day that I got a call from the White student who expressed his displeasure with the whole matter after reconsidering the sign. He offered his apology for such an insensitive act. I told him it wasn't his role to apologize but that I appreciated the gesture, and we began an honest discussion about race-ism, White privilege, bubble education and internalized race-ism. The kind of open convo that hadly ever takes place in American classrooms and living rooms.
It's always good to see Whites stand up to race-ism, especially when they benefit from it. It reveals their level of integrity and courage, even. Because he didn't just end it there. He complained to his resident assistant and talked to other students, though they avoided the issue altogether. Some resented him for pointing it out. But it's the fact that he took action that matters. He even took it to the Dean, and then later found an open ear in a rebellious faculty member.
At the same time, there's a reality show called I Love New York that follows the outrageously stupid antics of an overrated bimbo as she decides on which male to be her lover. It's the kind of non-sensical cable tv show that would make Dr. William Cross cringe; maybe even scold me for abusing my brain cells. And yet I've grown addicted to Tiffany; her weekly
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I was thinking about all this; if other Tiffany viewers caught it, or if it didn't even make the radar. We say White boy all the time, mostly to ourselves and one another, and it's no big deal-- That White boy crazy!...White boy got skillz...White boy came in third place....That White boy fine! I don't think White people go around saying, Black boy got skillz. I just don't see it. Maybe in some trailer home in deep Texas where they still call Black men boys, but other than that it just doesn't happen. Too much history. Too much guilt. Plus, they know brothas would flip! But does that make it right?
Race-ism has no flag. I'm realizng this late into my 40s. And the older I get the more the lines between endearment and insensitivity become blurry, to me. There was a time when I'd put up a fuss and get stuck in anger mode, if not victim mentality, this after seeing a slaves for sale sign. Now I consider the Machine that pushes the isms, in the first place. It helps me keep in mind that our nation is still a teenager and that reparations can also come in the form of double standards.
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