I wrote my college history thesis on the Vietnam anti-war movement at the University of Virgina. A rather narrow topic that required many hours spent in the basement of Alderman Library and in personal interviews with a tape recorder in hand. I took notes in my spiral bound notebook because the Trapper Keeper was too bulky. I had the honor and pleasure of talking to men who were outraged at the political, racial, and social divisions of their day. Men who took a stand, often against their upbringing, their parents, their professors, and their fraternity brothers.
Keep in mind it was 1969 when these men clad in suit coats and ties were quietly protesting the Vietnam war at a conservative Southern school
where women (4 of them) had just been admitted. Nevermind that it took The University from 1895 to 1969 to finally admit women to its hallowed halls. The anti-war movement at UVa. was not newsworthy on the same scale as Kent State, Berkley or the Universities of Michigan and Wisconsin. But is was news in Charlottesville, a quintessentially quaint college town.
The climate is much the same now.
If those old cassette tapes still worked I know I would sense the same emotion, zeal, and frustration that I sense among my peers today. The handful of protesting men could sit as bystanders no longer. The racist jokes and chauvanist banter could be ignored no more. They took action, as a small group, and faced jeering, mimickry, and black balling. But they did not shed their convictions. They did not silence their battlecry.
I had a History of the Civil Rights Movement professor in college who inspired me to write about this small, unknown anti-war movement in the South. He told tales of small groups of citizens banding together for a common cause, to right what was wrong. He spoke of grassroots power, civil disobedience, living by conviction. Perhaps you've heard of my professor,
Julian Bond. He regaled us with harrowing tales of the civil rights movement. He brought in speakers who marched, protested, organized, and battled for us. All of us. Rosa Parks spoke. I can still hear her story and see her grandmotherly face.
I read to my kids about Rosa Parks now and I am proud to tell them I heard her tale spun from her own frail lips.
Julian Bond, Rosa Parks, and the men of UVa. cemented for me the reality of the fight they fought. The made it more than a chapter in a history book. They were more than answers on a test or names engraved on a plaque covered in ivy. The gave me faces of change. Of hope. Of grassroots power.
Our climate is much the same today.
I used to joke that people who vote for John McCain are either greedy or stupid. Sure, that's anger rearing its snarky head. But one thing I cannot shake is that
some people voting for John McCain are racist. I say this from firsthand experience. I realize it is no small claim but I stand behind my words and assessment.
The beast that is Racism snarls its rotten teeth and growls its hot gasp in corners we don't suspect. Let me recount a conversation I just had with someone very close to me. She had just taken a Greyhound trip and arrived delightfully on time. I asked about her trip, and she commented it was fine, easy, and swift. She went on to tell me the trip was fine because there were lots of white people on the bus. As soon as the words escaped her lips she backpedaled, trying to suck them back in. Racism managed to squeak past, stealth in its manner. She felt ashamed and disappointed in her remarks. But the sad truth is that the feelings and the words were there, hovering above us. It made me sick to my stomach. This person is voting for Barack Obama and has been a staunch, tireless supporter and volunteer. I tell you this tale so you see how camoflaged and unexpected Racism can be.
Another friend has been saying for months now that she simply cannot vote for Obama because she is worried about his safety. She, a 30-something white woman, speaks with feigned empathy and concern as she says a vote against Obama will help spare his life. She cannot bear for the country to experience another Martin Luther King or Bobby Kennedy tragedy. Oh to hear her treacly earnestness is enough to make a diabetic go into shock. I call bullshit here. She takes issue with Obama's race. Period. She cannot get past it. She knows nothing of either candidate's policies. She is not politically active, much less aware. She has said that Obama will be assassinated while in office and she does not want to be responsible for the country's loss and his family's loss with her vote. This is simple Racism hiding in the wings of sympathy. I don't buy it.
I hear this story, this canned rationale, from a number of people. My friends have shared similar tales. We see through you. We distrust you. We're calling you on it.
These subtle forms of racism affect me as a woman of color who was not born in this country or raised Christian (YIKES! Someone alert the authorities!). My boys are of mixed race since Mac Daddy is as white as they make 'em up in Wisconsin. They are first generation American. They will always be the children of a brown immigrant mother. We teach them what an honor that is.
It would be a lie if I told that life is peachy keen. When we are out as a family we get plenty of stares and snickers, especially when we are off the beaten path. Race is a hot topic in these parts, and many people see the world as black and white, literally and figuratively. When acquaintances or neighbors rant about immigrants or funny accents, I remind them that I am an immigrant, that my parents speak English with an accent,
that they speak Bengali, Hindi, German, French, and Italian with an accent too. And then I try to bite my tongue and not remark about how the rest of the country thinks a Southern accent sounds hick.
Anyway, when I gently interject a reminder of who I am into the conversation, I get a blase head toss, waving hand as if to say pshaw and an "Oh, you're different. We don't even think of you as Indian." Whhaaaaatttt????? This is supposed to make me feel better? To discount my heritage, my appearance, my identity is supposed to make me feel better? Does "different" mean "better?" Is it somehow complimentary that they don't see me as Indian because I am "good enough" to be considered one of them? Someone help me understand what the fuck a comment like that means.
News flash, folks, that's Racism snickering in your psyche.
This is how our friends at Merriam Webster define racism:
1 : a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race
2 : racial prejudice or discrimination
— rac·ist \-sist also -shist\ noun or adjective
The underslying subtleties of racism are difficult to express in words. But I feel them all the time. During this heated, and historic, election, I hear them all the time. Silent racism plagues more people than we realize. Many friends in our lifetime will come to disappoint us when they give voice to their silent racism. Bear to witness my friend who is voting for John McCain in principle of race alone.
I think back to the professorial, driven, enchanting Julian Bond. I think of Rosa Parks speaking from what might as well have been a pulpit. I think of the brave men who were willing to put their necks on the line at a conservative good ol' boys' school. I think of the faceless, countless others who have devoted their time, and their lives, to bring equality to our country. A country founded on eqality and freedom in the first place. I think of them and feel unabashed pride in my vote.
I am not voting for Obama because he is black. I am voting for him because he will help make this country change into what the people who inspired me back in 1990 at the University of Virginia fought for. It is no understatement to say that he is our Bobby Kennedy.
Happy Halloween!
