I Am So Popular: Black Men Are Everywhere!

The black thing, too, is no doubt rooted in childhood brainwashing. For example, I grew up being taught that should I ever wander from the small town in which I was raised, I would likely be raped, tortured, and killed by a big, scary black man (unless there were none around, in which case a Puerto Rican would get me). Of course, these folks were not referred to as black or Puerto Rican. Oh, no, in our house, the preferred terminology was sp**s and n****rs.

It wasn’t like we were seated at the table while my father stood before a chalkboard jotting down reasons why we must hate the non-honkies of the world. Rather the racist language and notions were pervasive, ubiquitous, and thus inescapable. For example, if, say, my siblings or I made some misstep, we were told, “You could screw up a n****rs’ picnic,” the same way some other child might be gently told not to wipe his nose on his sleeve.

In my parents’ living room, as recently as a few years ago, there hung a photograph of my father marching in the Mummers’ Parade, a New Years’ Day tradition in Philly. In the picture, my father is wearing blackface. You know, like Al Jolson. When I protested, my mother, as I recall, said it wasn’t an offensive picture, and that’s just how it was then.

She had a point. Lots and lots of participants—all men, all white, most drunk— wore blackface in that parade, until —Oh, progress! – blackface was banned in 1964. (Blacks, who had in the earliest days been allowed in the parade until being banned in 1929, eventually “won” the right to march again, though it’s still mostly drunk white guys).

Here’s something else – beginning in 1976, I was bussed through towns with mixed-race high schools to what was, for all intents and purposes, an all-white high school. I recall that of our 1200-member student body, there were two black students. Nobody made a big deal or a secret over the fact that this zoning was clearly racist. Where I come from, that’s just how it goes.

So when I grew up and went out into the world and had my eyes opened to just how incredibly racist my upbringing had been, I was, of course, aghast. And, being prone to guilt—something else I grew up with plenty of—I began to try to make amends. Which has shaken down to an ongoing, wildly embarrassing over-correction, itself a form of racism.

Allow me to offer a hyperbolic illustration of this point. Let’s say I’m walking down the street and a strange man is coming towards me. I don’t really give a rat’s ass what color the guy is or even, for that matter, that he’s a guy— being the hyper vigilant sort, my inclination is to want to cross the street regardless. But I’m less apt to do that if the guy walking toward me is black because how is he going to know that all strangers regardless of race, creed, color, or gender make me nervous? I worry that if I cross, the black dude is going to think, “Aha, another one raised to think I’m going to rape, torture and kill her!”

Next point—I live in the ‘hood, east of I-35, the neighborhood I was cautioned to avoid when I moved here in 1991 because, you got it, it was the non-white side of the tracks. I bought a house here in 2005. In amongst the 50,000 pieces of home-buying paperwork I received was a history of the house, which was built in the ‘40’s. Dated February 26, 1947, this Travis County Record states, under item number 6:

No part of the premises or property covered hereby ever shall be rented, leased, sold, demised or conveyed to, or otherwise become the property of, or come into the possession of any persons other than white persons of strict Caucasian blood, except that this covenant and restriction shall not prevent occupancy of quarters by those of a different race or nationality if and when they are employed by the resident owner in this subdivision or a tenant of an owner as domestic help for said resident owner or tenant.

I wonder how my next-door neighbor, an elderly black man, felt when he got his copy of that paperwork upon procuring his mortgage?

Which brings me to Obama—that one, over there! And with him an opportunity to make my father roll over in his grave merely by punching a button on a voting machine!

Early on, back during the primaries, I used to get chapped that everyone called him the black candidate. My beef was personal. Obama’s mama was white. More importantly to me than that, though, is that she was a single mother, as am I. Calling him black felt, to me, dismissive of the parent who stuck around. But then, look at the guy. Because we can’t see the white portion of his heritage on the surface, he is all black by default. And if he’d tried to claim otherwise—well, the guy would’ve been between a rock and a hard place.

I planned to vote early, the first day the polls opened. But first, I had to wait for the cable guy because, even though I don’t do TV, I broke down and borrowed one because I cannot go one more day during this campaign without ready access to the Daily Show.

The cable guy, as luck would have it, was black. My racism kicked into high gear and I fought the urge to run out to the driveway and embrace him. As he hooked up the cable, he noted my Obama yard sign. And when he started talking about the elections, and when I heard the excitement in his voice, I had to double fight the urge to hug him. What kind of racism was he raised with? How pathetic is it that in 2008 it will be history making if a black dude gets into the White House because he is a black dude? And would the cable guy have wanted to hug me for similar overcoming-isms-ism if it had been Hilary kicking McCain’s ass?

Oh, who the fuck cares?

After he left, I went to vote. I thought about my next-door neighbor and my cable guy. And despite what I call an angry complacency—a cynical belief that we are more likely to discover George W. Bush has a brain than ever, ever, ever be able to use our little votes to get even part way out of the fucking mess he and his war criminal-laden administration has foisted on us, I admit I got a little thrill as I waited for my turn.

My overcompensatory racism kicked in. In front of me: a tall, young black man in a bright orange work vest and steel toed boots, likely on his lunch break, eager to cast his vote and I didn’t have to guess for who. This immediately catapulted my imagination into Hallmark Greeting Card mode and I wanted to embrace him, too, and say, Isn’t it Awesome?! Yay Black Man for President! Yay you, too, you black man!

But the guy was turned away (turns out he was from Williamson County and has to vote there), so that imagined episode got pretty anticlimactic pretty fast. Until… wait, there was another black man! He was behind me. And then—no really—he cut right in front of me. I wanted to say, “Hey buddy, hold on a minute. I have a dream here! And it doesn’t involve you exhibiting the sort of behavior I associate with middle aged white guys in the airport security line.”

But I kept myself in check, still embarrassed—always embarrassed—by my unshakeable racism. And then I went in there and I voted for Obama. Funny thing was, I didn’t at all vote for him because he’s black. I didn’t vote for him to spite my father. I voted for him because he’s smart and, though I pity him for the steaming shit pile he is going to have to deal with, well, you know what? It is just such a damn relief to finally, at long last, maybe really get a chance to say goodbye to the assholes.

Spike Gillespie is going to keep on trying til she gets it just right. She appreciates your patience in the meanwhile. She blogs regularly for LaunchPad Coworking and at www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. You can email her at spike@spikeg.com to reserve seats for the November 12th show.