One weekend in high school, I took a trip to Georgia with my high school boyfriend and a friend. We stopped at a Subway, ordered our sandwiches, and then returned to the car. Through the store window, I saw an older couple glaring in our direction. I wasn’t the only one to notice. My friend commented, “What are they looking at?”
My boyfriend fiddled with his keys, trying to unlock the driver’s side. “Let’s just go.” My friend and I looked at him, puzzled. Finally, he unlocked the door and we climbed inside.
“They’re looking at me,” he finally said with a sigh.
“What? Why?” I asked, even though the sinking feeling in my stomach had already answered the question.
We climbed in and sat in awkward silence for a moment. “I’m used to it,” he answered. It didn’t answer my question, but I really didn’t need him to. He shifted the car into reverse. The couple’s glare was still aimed in our direction. If their eyes were lasers, they would have shot right through the windshield.
My high school sweetheart was Indian. This nasty couple was glaring at his skin color. I wanted to throw myself over the middle console and plant a big kiss on his lips, a symbolic middle finger to the jerks in that Subway booth.
But I didn’t. I kept quiet as my poor boyfriend backed away. We drove on in silence, no longer hungry for our foot longs.
****
“I can’t believe he doesn’t want to stand. It’s so disrespectful.”
We were waiting for history class to start. My friend looked in the direction of the black boy in class. That black boy had recently stated that he didn’t want to stand for the pledge of allegiance. He felt that America’s history had not been particularly kind to him. He didn’t want to pledge allegiance to the flag that had persecuted his ancestors, and was continuing to alienate him.
“I dunno,” I replied. “It kinda makes sense. He shouldn’t have to stand if he doesn’t want to…” my voice trailed off as the bell rang, signaling the start of class. I wanted to bring up the fact that we lived in a country that supported free speech of all kinds but our teacher started the lesson before I had a chance.
****
Drew and I had been looking for a new house for months. We were looking to downsize and live cheaper. We had looked at condos, townhomes, trailers, and cheap homes. And because we were looking for cheap, we’d been looking in some less than desirable neighborhoods.
We drove through one neighborhood that lay largely in the flood zone, with homes high on pilings. We peeked through the windows of a home for sale, trying to see through the glare of the sun on the panes. I gazed out across the neighborhood, standing high above the street. There was an old car with the radio blaring loud rap music. I saw a black man wearing a white tank top walking down the road. A black father watched his children play in the yard.
I don’t want to be the only white people. I felt shame wash through me as this thought trailed through my head.
***
As I scroll through Facebook, I see both sides of a very heated issue. One side is angry because of the many shootings of unarmed black men. The other side is angry because of violence aimed at police. My heart hurts because of all the anger, and because we can’t seem to hear each other through it.
I see some try to diminish the issue of racism. They say things like, “It’s not the 1960’s anymore. Just get over it.” Or “They just need to behave and act right.” Memes are posted about how peaceful protests were done so well in the 1960s. All Lives Matter. “If they don’t like our country, they can just get out!”
None of that helps. When we say those things without first listening to those that feel so deeply hurt, so persecuted, so beaten down, our words become little more than condescending remarks.
I understand that violent protests solve nothing. It only makes the situation worse. But I can understand how people who have dealt with something as ugly as racism their entire life can be driven to such angry acts. When you’re constantly told to be quiet and behave but never listened to, something is bound to snap. It doesn’t condone the actions, but it explains them. Wars often begin because people are oppressed.
I grew up naïve. I read about racism in my history books, but innocently believed it was nothing more than that: history. But, as always happens in life, I grew up and came face to face with some very real examples of it.
Standing outside that Subway, realizing that the glares from that couple were elicited simply from the color of my boyfriend’s skin, I felt sick to my stomach. He was the kindest, most respectful, and most loyal person I knew. Why would people give him such hateful looks?
No matter how much we try to deny it, racism is real. I know that because I’ve seen traces of it in my own heart. I absolutely hate the thought that went through my head as we drove through that neighborhood that day. I didn’t want to be in the minority. I didn’t want to disrupt my comfortable life, one in which I’ve never had to worry about people staring or treating me different because of the color of my skin.
I have no idea what black (or brown) people go through every day of their life. I would do well to sit and listen to their stories. Hear their anger, their frustration. How they can’t even seem to protest peacefully without drawing severe criticism.
Can we stop posting the memes saying All Live Matter and links about black on black crime? Please stop trying to silence these voices that are desperately fighting for ways to be heard.
Start listening. Find someone who is different than you and hear their story. Don’t try to diminish it or tell them they’re wrong. Don’t try to give advice.
Just listen. Then take some time to reflect on the state of your own heart.
I know I need to.
