I had reached the third date.
I was at a cafe with a wonderful wine, talking to a cute boy
about three years ago. We had initially met at NYU as we both took the same English
Lit classes. We barely talked, although I would check him out surreptitiously
while my TA was lecturing. We graduated and we did different things. However,
as luck would have it, he had showed up at the improv theater that I was
working at. He remembered me, and even remembered that T.S. Eliot was one of my
favorite poets (I ramble in class apparently). When I got off work, we went to
a show together, and I went home with him that night.
We had reached the third date, and we were enjoying each
other’s company. We talked politics (similar) literature (mostly similar) and
the horrors of gentrification. We talked about how people from different areas
pronounced things- he was originally from upstate New York, I lived in Queens
for pretty much all my life. We were outside at a table, enjoying a beautiful
night, and I was wearing the tank top that made my boobs look good. I was
wondering what would happen next.
What happened next was that we talked about our
nationalities. On our first date, he had looked at my very Eastern European
face and assumed I was Jewish. I had to correct him, and I mentioned in passing
that I was part Mexican as well as German and Slovak. That day we were talking
about it in more detail.
He was studying my appearance a bit as he talked. I'm used
to it. Apparently I received every single recessive gene possible when created,
so I have blonde hair, green eyes, and paper white skin. Often, people wonder
how I am Hispanic if I look so gringa. My own (Mexican) grandmother would make
fun of me for it. However, my appearance didn't seem so strange to him, as he
mentioned knowing another girl with a similar complexion to me who was also
mixed white and Hispanic.
"Do you ever get that white guilt thing?" he asked
me. He, by the way, was white, with blond hair and blue eyes.
"Huh?"
"Well, that girl I was telling you about always got so
apologetic about being white. She would even go on about how she wasn't fully
white and her skin base was more olive unlike mine. But it's like, you're
white!"
I blinked. White guilt thing?
I chose my words carefully. "Well, I don't feel guilty
per say about being white. But it can be quite awkward when you're with your
Hispanic looking mother or grandmother and you get different treatment than
them because you look 'whiter'."
"Oh, well---does that happen a lot?" he asked.
"It does at times, yes."
I told him a story about going upstate to a barbecue hosted
by the neighbors that lived up there. People spoke to my very white Dad easily,
asked about my knitting at the picnic table. There were games being played,
swimming in the pond, and other summer fun. We were invited to join.
However, my grandparents were there, and they didn't quite
know how to talk to my grandmother. The Indian couple who also came mostly were
alone at their table. And when my mother went to play volleyball with some of
the other women, they would play, but wouldn't really talk to her. The darker
skin had struck again.
He seemed to listen with interest, but changed the subject
after I was done with my story. I luckily didn't have to wonder if this was a
deal breaker though, because he decided he wasn't available enough for a
relationship. Oh well.
____
I'm sure white people get really bloody tired about hearing
about our "white privilege." After all, a lot of us aren't racist. We
have friends and/or lovers who are people of color. We acknowledge that slavery
is a bad thing, and shouldn't have happened. We wouldn't really discriminate
against a person of color. And it's not like people of color are perfect angels
who never make a joke or say a dirty thing about those gringos and honkies.
When I mentioned to a white friend that I was working on this piece, his
initial reaction was "Do Mexicans make jokes about gringos when they're
not around?" Yes, people are assholes to people. I don't think white
people are as a whole evil or wrong. I don't think my date from a year ago was
racist or a bad person. But I hear this reaction a lot. Let it go. Leave it in
the past. Lighten up. We didn't enslave you/make you lower class/invent the
stereotypes, so why do you constantly have to bring the damn thing up all the
time?
White privilege, for those who don't know, is the belief
that a white person receives advantages from society because of their
whiteness. It is more covert than overt racism, and does not necessarily mean
that a de jure racist system is in place either. Rather, it is in place because
the system is borked enough that it inherently favors whiteness over people of
color. It does not help that in our American history, we certainly had de jure
racist systems in place, and I see this white privilege as the remainders of
this system. I, and others, believe white privilege is a real thing. Many may
not agree.
In the wake of the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner,
a lot of ink and websites have been taken up by the racism that possibly
motivated their killings and the fact that the police officers responsible for
their deaths got off without being indicted by their grand juries. Also taking
up a lot of ink and websites are pieces detailing the experiences that people of
color are used to, whether having police officers and white folks assuming that
they stole the nice looking things they actually owned or being called ethnic
slurs. An article in the Washington Post
by Lawrence Otis Graham (http://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2014/11/06/i-taught-my-black-kids-that-their-elite-upbringing-would-protect-them-from-discrimination-i-was-wrong/) describes how Graham raised his children by many rules
to protect them from violence or trouble based on their race. These rules
include:
- Never run while in the view of a police officer or security person unless it is apparent that you are jogging for exercise, because a cynical observer might think you are fleeing a crime or about to assault someone.
- Carry a small tape recorder in the car, and when you are the driver or passenger (even in the back seat) and the vehicle has been stopped by the police, keep your hands high where they can be seen, and maintain a friendly and non-questioning demeanor.
- Always zip your backpack firmly closed or leave it in the car or with the cashier so that you will not be suspected of shoplifting.
- Never leave a shop without a receipt, no matter how small the purchase, so that you can’t be accused unfairly of theft.
- If going separate ways after a get-together with friends and you are using taxis, ask your white friends to hail your cab first, so that you will not be left stranded without transportation.
- When unsure about the proper attire for a play date or party, err on the side of being more formal in your clothing selection.
- Do not go for pleasure walks in any residential neighborhood after sundown, and never carry any dark-colored or metallic object that could be mistaken as a weapon, even a non-illuminated flashlight.
- If you must wear a t-shirt to an outdoor play event or on a public street, it should have the name of a respected and recognizable school emblazoned on its front.
- When entering a small store of any type, immediately make friendly eye contact with the shopkeeper or cashier, smile, and say “good morning” or “good afternoon.”
These rules, along with careful observance of good diction,
and clothing that was restricted to “pastel-colored non-hooded sweatshirts;
cleanly pressed, belted, non-baggy khaki pants; tightly laced white tennis
sneakers; Top-Sider shoes; rep ties; closely cropped hair; and no sunglasses.
Never any sunglasses” were maintained by Graham and while his children
initially protested, he reported that they eventually saw the wisdom of it,
especially when he and his 12 year old daughter were stopped when a police
officer noticed Graham driving a fancy car. It also didn't save his son from
being called the N-word by some people driving by his New England boarding
school.
I will say this right now: I can’t imagine having to live
like that.
As a white skinned woman, if a police officer approaches me,
I assume it’s because they need to fulfill their quota for a bag check in the subway
or that my shoelaces are untied. If a police officer approaches my group at a
protest, I am confident I can defuse the situation if necessary because a
small, white, polite woman is never read as a threat or problem—I have managed
to talk my way out of several sticky situations in the past and while I’m sure
my calmness and willingness to follow directions is important, the fact that I
read as an educated white woman certainly helped our cause.
In shops I often never have to check my bag even if it is
stated policy; my silly long black coat, combat boots and partially shaved head
are regarded as amusing oddities; and the only thing to be aware of when going
for walks in residential neighborhoods after sundown is of my surroundings
because I’m an easy target for attackers rather than law enforcement.
I grew up middle class, in a house in the borough of Queens
in New York City and my family has a vacation house in upstate New York. I
attended one of the top high schools in New York City, a top university in the
United States for undergrad, received my masters from an excellent library
school, and now work in my field at an Ivy League university. I have never
wanted for anything material.
In my 26 years on this planet, I have never received a
racist slur in my life; never had it assumed that I did not speak English; never
had it assumed that I can’t read; never had it assumed that I steal things; never
had it assumed that I was in this country illegally; or never had it assumed
that I was a troublemaker of any sort. The worst that has happened in terms of
appearance-based judgment to me was that one person thought I was creepy when I
wore black lipstick, and that woman had only changed her seat on the bus after
she noticed it.
This is all kind of hilarious when you consider the fact
that my grandmother is as Mexican-American as they come.
She was born in Texas, around the Corpus Christi area. Her
family had lived in Texas since it was part of Mexico. She was one of seven
children (I think; she never talked about her family much, probably because she
was eager to forget it. I do know it was a large family). She grew up only
speaking Spanish and did not learn English until she started elementary school,
where she learned that Mexico started the Mexican-American War.
She lived in poverty all of her childhood. By the time she
was 12, she had already started working to support her family. She sold popcorn
on the street and would cross the border into Mexico to buy things cheaply so
she could sell it in the United States. She also started cleaning houses.
My grandmother told me several times about her turning point
in life. She was cleaning a lady’s house one day when someone called for my
grandmother. At first there was confusion about who was calling for Inez. Then,
realization. “Oh, that’s for the maid.”
My grandmother, hearing that she was “the maid” was
horrified and full of rage. She swore she would never be a maid. She went on to
graduate high school, the only member of the family to do so. She then took
some bookkeeping courses and began working for the Navy as a civilian secretary.
That’s how she met my German-American grandfather. They married and moved to
New York City, eventually winding up a few blocks from where my grandfather
grew up.
My grandmother never liked to talk about what she
experienced. She was happy talking about working for the church and how she
loved her family in a strict manner. She didn't mention the fact that my
great-grandmother didn't accept her until my mother was born or that some
families on the block did not like her children to play with theirs since they
were darker. It was just left unsaid that she didn't raise her children to
speak Spanish like her. I speak more Spanish than my mother because I
specifically studied it. But my mother and her brothers were to assimilate and
be white.
It worked—sort of. My mother was treated white by enough of the
neighborhood because she was light enough, spoke English like an “American,”
and was nice to a fault. It was famous how strict my grandparents were with
their children. Perhaps many of them felt that was enough to redeem their Hispanic
roots.
As an adult, my mother met my German and Slovak father, fell
in love, married, and had my brother and me. My brother has her dark hair and
brown eyes, and while his skin is a tad olive, it’s still lighter than hers and
much lighter than my grandmother’s. Then there’s me. The one that would cause
people to delicately ask if I were adopted or if I was not conceived “naturally”
because of my fairness.
My mother does not have it too difficult in New York City.
She’s light enough and dresses and talks “white” enough that people will be
accepting. Sometimes it gets odd. When my godfather’s racist wife complained about
the Hispanic people whose kids played around her daughter, we had to remind her
that my mother and, by extension, her children are Mexican. The assimilation
worked. There are only little things she experiences that I won’t. She is asked
to translate into Spanish every now and again because she “should” know
Spanish. It is assumed that the students of color will want to talk to her, not
her white students. People spend a great deal of time trying to figure out “what”
she is before who she is. She is a token Hispanic in groups, a safe one because
she is light enough and talks “white” enough.
In upstate New York, the prejudice is more pronounced. It’s
more apparent that she’s not fully white and people tend to be unsure how to
talk to her. The one time I talked to a neighbor’s child, she ranted about
Mexicans stealing and stealing jobs, which gives you an idea of the
environment. She mystifies them. She looks like one of those stealing, job stealing
Mexicans, but she is a teacher at a Catholic high school. She is also married
to a white man and they own a nice house with property. Therefore, they tend to
be more silent towards her until they get to know her better. Then she becomes
their token Hispanic and all is well, until one of them slips and says they
have to keep their shotgun handy because of possible unrest in the Hispanic
communities during the economic downturn, or how one of them looks so Mexican
because he wore a sombrero and didn’t my mother agree?
I will never know firsthand what it’s like to be treated
like my grandmother or mother. I can tell you that I am not treated like my
mother or grandmother. So please don’t tell me how people of color need to let
it go. White people haven’t either.
