The Problem With Race

In a year when more young unarmed black men are being killed by police than ever before and the hashtag #blacklivesmatter has become a phenomenon, we certainly have to admit that race is a prominent issue in our country. In any country for that matter. Not all of the people killed by police in this or any other year will be black, but there is a frightening disproportion between that and the number of white people killed which bears looking into. Except the entire reason that the hashtag was needed is because people who aren't black sometimes seem unwilling to examine this frightening statistic. Let's face it, nobody LIKES to talk about race in mixed company. It can be uncomfortable or even lead to shouting matches. I don't even like having a confrontation over someone giving me the wrong change why on Earth would I wanna discuss something as possibly volatile as race? Well, simply put, because that is the only way we will move past this issue and grow as a species, something which, right now, we seem very adamant AGAINST doing. Part of the reason behind this trepidation is simple avoidance, as I stated. It's much easier to ignore the problem and continue eating your bag of Doritos and a hell of a lot more peaceful. For you, anyway. Certainly not for the unarmed people being assassinated in the streets of the Land of the Free by people we're supposed to be trusting to protect us. But that's only the most basic reason you and I and most every Joe Blow in the country utilizes. There are many others. Some people simply don't want to discuss the issue of race because they are racist. Sounds quite self explanatory, doesn't it? You've seen them on the news. Usually personified by an old, white politician wearing a Dior suit or an old white blue-haired lady wearing a cardigan with a crucifix over it or a white unshaven redneck in a snapback of any age wearing a Confederate flag belt buckle. These are easy stereotypes I've selected, yes, but let's face it, I'm gay and I love showtunes and disco, some things are stereotypes for a reason. But you've always seen them interviewed after some tragedy or another which involves race in some way. And they almost always denounce the issue completely, falling back on the same old tropes of "This is America the land of dreams anybody can be anything here". Or they blame it on a "few bad apples". Or sometimes, if they're feeling particularly open they might even blame the ghetto, or their lifestyle, not realizing that falling back on this train of thought proves the existence of racism even more. Their comments will almost always be prefaced with a "But I'm not racist!" and end with a "God Bless America". These people refuse to even admit the problem, not out of denial, but because they don't really want to solve the problem. I despise them even more than I would despise a Klu Klux Klan member because at least a KKKer (if he's not covered in a hood) has the balls to admit how he really feels. He knows his opinion is full of bile and hate but he doesn't give a shit. At the very least if I ran into him in the street, I would know where I stand. But so many others cover up their bile with a smile. Call me crazy but I'd rather be stabbed in the chest by somebody I'm expecting it from than stabbed in the back by somebody who was just smiling at me a minute ago. Then other people don't want to talk about racism because they are in denial. They simply don't want to admit that it exists because the prospect is too frightening since it attacks their simplistic views of how society works. It takes courage to admit that our country is not as perfect as they'd like to believe it is, and these people lack that courage.

     Two things brought this issue to a personal level for me recently. And I'm talking beyond simple bigotry directed at me because I'm gay, which almost every queer person can attest to at some point. My brother and his wife and myself were sitting around the dinner table having one of these easygoing but sometimes deep conversations families have when there is time and adequate liquor to loosen our tongues. My sister in-law grew up with countless black friends and her sister married a black man. Race is a non-issue for her on a personal level. But she was curious after meeting our father (who pretty much wears his racism on his sleeve) if we thought we had been raised in a racist household. My brother was sort of horrified at the thought and gave a very adamant "No." But I answered "Yes." immediately and was stymied at how my brother could be so in the dark. After a few minutes of back and forth, I asked him simply "How many times growing up did you hear the word nigger? Or spic? Or faggot?" And the realization washing over my brother's face could have been in Technicolor. He knew it was racist, but I suppose it remained a comfortable kind of racism tucked away in the family living room and he had never really wanted to acknowledge it for what it really was. But I saw his face change in that moment. It was the face of denial being washed away in one swipe. The face of possible change. It gave me hope.

     Recently I asked a friend who lives in a fairly nice condo complex why I never see him using the pool there. At first, he gave me a simple "There's a bad element there.". But we live in white suburbia so my mind wasn't gonna let that fly and I pressed him further. Finally he told me "It's like the ghetto down there. Too many blacks." I was pretty astounded. I called him on it, basically telling him "That's awful and racist." He became horrified. "I'm not racist!" he told me, highly alarmed that I would even think that. "You just said you refuse to use a swimming pool because black people go in it. That's racist!" I explained, kind of flabbergasted that I would even have to back up my statement. We went back and forth like this a few more times, but the conversation ended with us both being disappointed and upset, him because how could anyone possibly think he was racist and me because how could he possibly not realize he was racist. It boggled my mind at the time how thick the denial was. I could literally have cut it with a steak knife. And yet I didn't push the subject, I simply dropped it and took in the notion that my friend was a racist but was in denial about it. A short time later, a young black woman in cornrows posted a picture of herself on Facebook in which she was wiping her ass with the American flag accompanied with the caption: "U mad yet?" The only reason I saw the post was because my friend decided to leave a comment on it. Now, admittedly, the picture would have been offensive to almost anyone. Even taking out the flag, you still had to look at this unattractive chick's ass, which for me was not pleasant. But it didn't make me furious with patriotic fervor. I appreciated that she was exercising one of the great rights that this country affords us, the right to have an opinion and speak up about it. My friend, however, was not so easygoing. He was asking other followers to help him report this jungle bunny and jigaboo bitch so that her picture would get taken down. I wish I had screencapped his rant because I can't remember it word for word, but it was obvious that in the throes of his anti-anti-America rebuttal he forgot all about denying his racism. It should be noted that my friend has a huge heart and has friends of many races, but as I pointed out earlier a smile doesn't always erase some bile. I point this out because I think a lot of white people are just like my friend and like my brother used to be. They deny that there is a racial problem in this country and look for other things to blame while secretly hoping that the issue will go away. But it doesn't go away. And if we don't talk about it, it never will in a peaceful manner. But each day another person of color is killed, or harassed, or discriminated against. And after a while it becomes too difficult to keep pretending. Or at least I hope it does. For me, that moment came a long, long time ago. Let me know when everyone else catches up. Until then, this powder keg we're sitting on just keeps getting bigger.

On Getting Older

Well here we are once again. At one of those days that serves to mutually remind me of the day I was born and that the day I will die looms ever closer. I'm being sarcastic, of course. Even if I follow below average life expectancy I'll still probably live another thirty years. The weird thing about that figure and about today in general is that I never thought I would even get this far. With all of my mental issues I thought for sure I would have taken myself out long ago (I'm choosing to be blunt, hopefully if anyone does read this they are already aware of my ongoing issues). It's a minor miracle, in fact, that I am still alive to wake up, smile halfway at the sunrise over the Barnegat Inlet, and write this half serious blog about lasting another year. I still wish I appreciated the miracle more at times. There is a part of me that really does get supreme joy out of life. But he's not in charge very much.

     

     Most people worry over physical things when it comes to getting older. For better or worse, I've never been a stunning beauty of a man or someone who has a lot to lose in that department so my worries there are limited. Everybody hates wrinkles and stretch marks and bulging veins. My main thing is my hair. I love hair. It's one of the first things I notice in a man. And I've always taken care of mine. Still do. I don't spend hours getting it ready, but it will hopefully always look a certain level of awesome. If I were to start losing it, that would hit me hard. Thankfully, except for one spot at the back of my head, all is well there.

     So what you're left with if you don't worry too much over the physical aspects of aging (and provided you don't have a multitude of medical or mental issues) is this notion of "I'm getting too old for that now." I don't worry about this either. I've always had a Peter Pan complex, if I'm being honest with myself. So worrying over "oh man I'm too old to be seen sitting on a roller coaster" will just never occur to me. Yes, I will probably be that queer senior citizen at the One Direction Reunion Concert (Welcome back, Zayn!) thirty years from now. But I'm kinda proud of that instead of embarrassed by it. Life is too short and too magnificent sometimes to worry about petty bullshit and other people's mores. Perhaps that is why I'm still here writing about this. Sometimes the joy really does eclipse all that negative bullshit inside of me just waiting to simmer to the surface. And taking it day by day helps. Today is young yet, but there are already several loving birthday messages from friends to make me smile. On to the next day...