I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Despite all the advances, racism is still just as alive and well in America as it was in 1964
I hardly know where to start this morning. I have been thinking for the past week about what I would write this morning, and all that has done is left me angry that I should need to write anything specific at all. Here we are at yet another Martin Luther King, Jr. day, and I would be hard pressed to define any substantial way in which matters of racism have improved. There are days when I wonder if we’ve actually moved backward.
When President Obama took office in 2009, it was widely assumed that we had entered a post-racial era; we must be beyond racism for us to elect a black president. What the past eight years has shown us, though, is a very different picture. The hate and animosity hurled toward the president, not just in secret but openly and defiantly, has been unprecedented. Over the past eight years, we have seen more public demonstrations of hate toward people of color, any color, than since the civil rights movements of the 1960s.
Over the past eight years, we have come to realize that not only are our cities and our schools still segregated in very real ways, but that the playing field of opportunity is tilted against people of color. There is, in far too many cities and states, a different system of justice for people of color than what exists for whites. The Ku Klux Klan has been allowed to return and the prevalence of armed neo-nazi groups has been steadily on the rise.
There is no justification for such blatant racism. There is no excuse. I’m tired of hearing people start a sentence with “I’m not racist,” and then turn right around and follow that with some form of slander against people of color. I’m weary of having people tell me they’re reluctant to go into certain parts of town because of the number of blacks present. I’m exhausted from seeing white people, especially white people of affluence, go out of their way to avoid coming into contact not only with those whose skin is a different color,but whose religion requires a different manner of dress.
One of the most public, and disgusting slights came just this past week when the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced the nominees for their annual awards; you know, the ones most commonly referred to as the Oscars. While the Academy is just fine having a black person host the show (Chris Rock), and utilizing people of color as presenters, for the second year in a row every last one of the nominees for major awards is white. There are no blacks up for best actor or actress. There is no one of Asian ancestry nominated in a supporting role. There is no one of Hispanic or Persian heritage anywhere on the list.
What frustrates me the most is that white people just don’t seem to understand how very racist they are. Bring up the subject and they are quick to say something like, “I have black friends,” or “my next-door neighbor is black,” or “I have black employees.” Apparently, too many white people fail to see how condescending their actions are, how they speak to and treat people of color differently than they do other white people.
Racism isn’t something we can just legislate away. Racism is an attitude, a belief system built upon the principle that one group of people are better than another simply because of the pigmentation of their skin. Eliminating racism means doing away with that belief system that has been ingrained within the human race for millennia.
Here’s the rub: scientifically, there is no such thing as race. There is no differentiation of species that make humans from the African continent any different from humans in Asia. Humans in South America are exactly the same as those in North America. Any difference in pigmentation is an adaptive trait based upon the climate and has absolutely no bearing on the species at all. From a scientific perspective, race doesn’t exist; it is all in our stupid little heads.
Yet, here we are, more than 50 years after the fact, still chasing a dream that is rooted in common sense and plain decency. We like to tout our progress while completely ignoring our many failings. We have set aside today to celebrate a dream, but we refuse to allow that dream to become reality. How can we call today a holiday when the person for whom it is named is just as likely to be arrested on false charges today as he was in 1964? This is no dream. This is a nightmare.
Don’t ask me for a solution when the solution is you. The solution is each of us. I can only work on myself. I might try to hold immediate members of my family accountable, but ultimately the decision is one we each make for ourselves. Racism isn’t an accident and until we universally adjust our attitudes the dream can never become reality.
When The Fairy Tale Ends
Happiness is like those palaces in fairy tales whose gates are guarded by dragons: we must fight in order to conquer it.—Alexandre Dumas
Not every day is a good one, nor should we ever expect them to be.
One of my dear friends, Jane, whose birthday I missed yesterday and who writes a most wonderful blog, frequently reminds her students that the versions of fairy tales they see presented by Disney and the like are not true. When Hans Christian Anderson wrote The Little Mermaid, he justifiably kills his title character at the end; that’s right, the little mermaid dies. In the original telling of Cinderella, the evil stepsisters have their eyes plucked out. The tales penned by the brothers Grimm were bloody, vicious and violent. Why? Because such stories were meant to be cautionary tales, warnings against dangerous, self-centered, and inappropriate behavior. Life is not fair, the stories warn, and happily ever after is a myth.
This week has been a painful reminder of just how unhappy life can be. People we have admired, who have entertained us, who have sacrificed for us, who saved our lives, have passed on. Not just one or two people, as we are rather accustomed to hearing, but several people of some noteworthiness, have left us. Here’s a partial list, in case you weren’t paying attention:
All those people, gone in the span of seven days. There were more, of course. Many died whose names are not so familiar to us. On Friday, a terrorist attack on a Burkina Faso hotel left at least 28 dead, including an American missionary. All around the world, in every hospital in every city, families gathered as loved ones, some old and suffering, some never really having a chance at life, moved on.
So much for a fairy tale with happy endings. This week seems to have gone out of its way to show us that there is no “happily ever after.” Even the lives that seem the most wonderful and glamorous, those who appear to have everything in the world going their way, still die.
What, then, shall we do when the fairy tale is over? When we have run out of tears to cry and are weary from mourning, how do we face this incredibly cruel world? Any good reader should know the answer to that question. When one fairy tale ends, you start another. Tragedy is the platform upon which the foundation of comedy arises. The ending of one story, or one set of stories, prepares us for the beginning of the next.
Yes, it is true that even the next story likely ends with its main character’s demise, but every story is worth the telling. There are lessons to be learned even in the most heart-breaking situations. We do not stop here. We keep going.
I have been distantly following the continuing saga of Cory and Joey Feek, as have millions of others. I’m not going to sit here anre pretend that I was ever a fan. I’m not big into contemporary country music, and until their lives took a tragic turn I’d not even heard of them. Now, it appears that Joey’s story is nearing its end. When it does, headlines will focus on the love of a mother for her daughter, and a husband for his wife, and many will share in their grief. What’s important is that we realize that there is a story that goes onward. Their daughter, Indiana, is just beginning her story, even as her mother’s is ending.
While it is easy to become emeshed in the stories of others, however, we must remember that we are the ones writing our own stories. While our tales may be entertwined with those of others, we are ultimately the authors of our own fates. Even in circumstances where we might not have control of when or how our story ends, we still decide through the way we live and the decisions we make whether our fairy tale is tragic or happy.
2016 seems to be getting off to a very rough start, but perhaps this is this universe telling us that we need to focus more on the future, not the past; that we should focus less on the lives lost and more on those still living. Not that we don’t remember those who have died, but we realize that their passing is but the end of a chapter, not the whole book. The fairy tale is not over. There is so much more to be written and it is up to you to do the writing.
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