I didn’t live through the racial tensions of the 1960’s. Unlike my 75-year old father, I was never arrested for sitting in front of a “White’s Only” divider on a bus, nor did I witness a friend beaten to near death for being in the wrong neighborhood. But I can recall several profound instances in which my “blackness”, my scarlet letter, was psychologically suffocating.
Once, during an exit interview as I was leaving for graduate school, the director of personnel for the Fortune 100 company that I worked for couldn’t bring himself to extend a counteroffer to me. “You have to understand how difficult it is for a white man of my generation to come crawling to you like this,” he finally said, agitated. I was stunned and speechless. I left his office – and the company – feeling humiliated, marginalized and, somehow, ashamed of who I was. I’ve often wondered if that was his intent.
On another occasion, my graduate school classmates – primarily white, but a few minorities, many of them my friends – chose, as part of an annual Variety Show, to sing and dance to their own original lyrics:
“I want to be a minority
So companies can come looking for me
All in the name of equality”
I recall walking out of the auditorium, again feeling hurt and humiliated, wondering if that was secretly in my white classmates’ minds whenever a black person was extended a job offer. “You go, Affirmative Action Girl!” I imagined them saying. This time I was not marginalized but angry and outraged. Humor and Freedom of Speech, my classmates and the University defended. Divisive and insulting, I replied. In retrospect, both perspectives were right.
My skin has gotten thicker over time. I often wonder, though, if someone like me -- educated, solidly middle class, having been accepted into some of the leading institutions in the country -- could struggle with feelings of inadequacy and marginalization, how must others who are less fortunate, indeed less included, feel everyday?
It's hard to describe how I felt when Barack Obama was declared the next President. I recall being so moved when I saw the tears stream down Jesse Jackson’s face. I felt happy and relieved and, oddly, exonerated. I was no longer "guilty" of being black. My humanity, my equality had been validated. Perhaps one of my Facebook Friends said it best when he posted his post-election status as “ecstatic that when he tells his daughters that in
Next Tuesday, Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. And I wonder, when the ceremony ends, the crowd leaves and the barricades are removed, where do we go from here?
