I'm Racist, How About You?

rac·ist

noun: a person who believes that a particular race is superior to another.

Based on that definition, I am not a racist. But I'm not sure what else to call myself. 

The truth is, I'm not comfortable with how uncomfortable I am around people of certain races.

This admission may make you uncomfortable, especially if you are a friend or a regular reader and you know I'm about to do this.

And this isn't one of those blogs where I drop a bomb (i.e. "I'm a racist!") and then redefine racist in such a light that I'm really not a racist, or in a way that everyone is a racist.

...

Tonight I went to the gas station. As I pulled up, a white passenger van also pulled up. Ten young black men got out. My inner alert system was in the orange zone.

They started walking up to the various patrons who were pumping gas; they were carrying some sort of boxed candy. As one started to walk my way, my alert system rose to red.

I kindly declined, and the young man politely walked away. I willed myself not to be scared.

But I was. 

And it's a devastating thing when you realize, That boy could be my son one day. And people might be afraid of him. Just because he has brown skin.

My kinder readers will justify my fear. You were alone. It was dark out. They were dressed like gang bangers.

And all those things are true. But I was afraid, and I didn't want to be. I am ashamed that I glanced around to see if there were security cameras, just in case they tried something. 

...

This has been a weekend of realizations. 

Last night our little family went to our local hot dog place, and there was an interracial couple there with their children. I found myself staring at them. I wondered how they met, how long they'd been together, and what the nature of their relationship was. 

I didn't think that about any of the other couples in the restaurant. And it bothered me that I not only noticed but couldn't stop thinking about it. (I'm still thinking about it!)

I know lots of people of different races. Some of my friends have skin colors different from my own. Our child's godparents are an interracial couple. I don't have a problem with it, really. But I wish I didn't notice it so much.

And I wish my boy didn't have to grow up as a black boy in America, because I know the cards are stacked against him.

• 54% of African Americans graduate from high school, compared to more than three quarters of white and Asian students.
• Nationally, African American male students in grades K-12 were nearly 2½ times as likely to be suspended from school in 2000 as white students.
• On average, African American twelfth-grade students read at the same level as white eighth-grade students.
• The twelfth-grade reading scores of African American males were significantly lower than those for men and women across every other racial and ethnic group.
• Only 14% of African American eighth graders score at or above the proficient level. These results reveal that millions of young people cannot understand or evaluate text, provide relevant details, or support inferences about the written documents they read.
• The majority of the 2.3 million people incarcerated in U.S. prisons and jails are people of color, people with mental health issues and drug addiction, people with low levels of educational attainment, and people with a history of unemployment or underemployment.

 Sources: Alliance for Excellent Education,  Penn Child Research Center, Annie E. Casey Foundation, RAND Corporation, Oakland Unified School District, Department of Education National Center for Education Statistics.

These statistics make me uncomfortable, and I don't have an answer--either to society's problems or my own internal struggles.

But I do know this: With God's help, I will love my African-American son with all my heart and soul. I will do everything in my power to help him defy the statistics. And I will pray that people judge him on the content of his character and not the color of his skin.