The Myth of A Post-Racial America

It’s that time of year again. February means the ushering in of Black History month. The time of year children learn about MLK, the civil rights movement and how George Washington Carver discovered the peanut.

We received a paper home from my daughter’s school saying how the students would be talking about difficult topics like slavery and hearing uncomfortable words (the “N” word I’m sure). The “N” word. The word you aren’t supposed to encounter anymore in post-racial America, right? Well, tell that to my 11 year-old daughter. She informed me the other night that a boy on the playground called her this racial slur back in the Michigan school we left. You could see in her face how this encounter still wounded her.

He didn’t say it in anger really, she said. He just blurted it out at her. Some kid crushed my daughter’s spirit for sport. I looked at her and said “you are not what he says you are. He’s the one that has something wrong with him, not you!” I was angry. Sad. I was hurt that she waited so long to tell me. I was devastated to know that a word with such a terrible history was launched at my naive, innocent child. The myth of post-racial America.

I comforted her but reminded her that being a person of color in this world is not always easy. I told her the stories of her ancestors and people just like us who were not allowed to sit where they wanted. Eat where they wanted. The “N” word could be hurled out loud in public with no fear of repercussions. How everyday people had to find the courage to walk through the streets being hated and move into neighborhoods they weren’t welcome in.

People like us could be falsely accused and arrested, assaulted or even killed with nowhere to seek justice. Go to the police? You mean the police infiltrated by the KKK? That police?

I told her about a little girl named Ruby Bridges, probably not much different than her, who was the first black child to integrate an all white school. This innocent 6 year-old had to go through an angry mob of people, grown men and women, hurling racial slurs and insults. A scared, confused little girl having to be escorted by U.S. Marshals for her own protection.

“But this is the 21 century,” she said. “This shouldn’t happen anymore.” But racism never went away, people just were shamed and shushed into silence. Eventually, on the backs of brave souls like Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, little Ruby Bridges and everyday heroes, our rights were gained. Outright racism has become no longer acceptable behavior. But it didn’t disappear. It’s been swept under the rug. It’s no longer talked about openly in the streets, but at dinner tables. The “N” word is no longer ok to yell at your black neighbor, but now muttered under ones breath. People feel it’s fine to send “funny” racist memes or tell racist jokes to a friend, but “I’m not racist!” they swear.

Racism is still alive and well even in the 21st century, I had to tell my daughter. “But you are not what they say you are. You are smart. You are beautiful. You are funny. Don’t let anyone make you feel less than or make you wish you were someone else,” I continued.

Kids used to want to touch her hair at the previous school. She would tell me how much that bothered her. And I would tell her: “You are not some animal on display at the zoo!” She was different. And she felt it. The myth of post-racial America.

I didn’t have the same experiences that my daughter did while in the small town we lived in. And this is not a knock on that town, because it could have happened anywhere. I thought everything was fine and had nothing but positive encounters. Children are obviously not as subtle as their parents unfortunately. I’ve never in my life been called the “N” word, though I’ve been looked at like one and treated as such. Even so, I can’t imagine the sting of hearing that directed at me.

I wish that I could say that she would never hear that word again. We’ve moved to a much bigger place where there is more diversity. But we are still the minority by far. And racism exists everywhere. In big, melting pots and small towns like the one we left. We can’t escape the threat of it, no matter where we go.

Just the other day, while we were going for our daily family walk, a woman driving by in her black BMW was staring at us. She had tinted windows, but she could not hide behind the darkness. I still saw her. “Really?” I thought. She about came to a complete stop in the middle of the street to stare. And I guarantee it wasn’t because she thought we were such a beautiful, blended family.

I hear all the time how unfair it is that African Americans can be proud of their heritage, but others can’t. I teach my children to be proud of who they are and where they come from because what is the alternative? We spend our lives fighting stereotypes: Black people are lazy, uneducated, ignorant, loud, violent, ghetto, ugly. I have to lift them up before they start to believe those things. I have to hold them high while a segment of society seeks to pull them down.

I tell my children about the black inventors, doctors, scientists, entrepreneurs, college graduates and now even a President to remind them: “You are not who they say you are.” Not to make them proud just for being born a certain color or to show them how to boast of superiority over another. I just want them to look at others like them and know that they too can do or be that. We as people of color are not superior to anyone, I remind them. And you can rest assured, no one is superior to us. We are not who they say we are.

I told my daughter that I’ve caught people staring at me with the nastiest looks. A look of “I don’t like you.” You learn that most people who don’t like you yet don’t know a thing about you are most likely basing it off of the melanin in your skin. When I was younger, I used to look away, uncomfortable by such a rude display and unsure of how to handle it. But now I stare back. And I keep staring until they are uncomfortable enough to look away first. “Stare back,” I told her. “I don’t mean literally, because you may not encounter the same situations. But shame them into submission by your strength.”

I want my children to treat the unkind looks, racial slurs or mistreatment as guns without bullets. Meant to harm, but causing no damage. I want them to take back the narrative of who they are and write their own stories. I asked my husband once, when will it end? Will our grandchildren still have to deal with this? Our great-grandchildren? When will it end? The myth of a post-racial America.

Featured Image Credit: Thomas Hawk