The Colour of Racism

When I was a child, one of my closest friends had skin that was darker than mine.

But that didn't matter much to me.

Frankly, I was so pale, everybody's skin was darker than mine.

I didn't see skin colour in people; I saw people in people.

The school I went to was the 'inner-city' collector school for the many children who were arriving in Ottawa with no command of the English language.  These newcomers to our country were being thrust into our schools and were expected to assimilate seamlessly.

The Polish girl was my friend, as was the German boy, and the twins from Czechoslovakia ...

We all played together and the Canadian children helped the newcomers to grasp their new language.  I learned at a very early age that everybody is really the same; we all just come from different places.

One of my closest friends was a girl who lived one street over from me, and she was not an immigrant to Canada; she too had been born in Ottawa.

What I didn't realize at the time, because I am people-colour blind, was that her father was black and her mother was white.  I didn't think of her as my black friend.  She was, quite simply, my friend.

Fast forward to my dating years when a dashing young black man asked me out on a date and I had no qualms about accepting.

Why not?  He's a guy and I'm a gal and that's what guys and gals do, after all.

"Not so fast," says society. "That's not allowed!"

"Just watch me," says I (yes, this was a few years before Pierre Trudeau mouthed the famous phrase).

It was then that it was brought home to me in graphic fashion that my good childhood friend was black.  To this day, it amuses me to think that I truly did not realize that that girl was black until I was seventeen years old; I just had never thought of her as anything other than my friend.

Throughout my dating years, I dared to date a few people ... not all were of colour but the title of this post suggests that I will discuss racism, so ...

I started dating my little chickadee's father when I was the ripe old age of nineteen, and I used to talk about my boyfriend at my workplace.

One day, while my colleagues and I were out for a lunch time stroll, we happened to meet up with my then-boyfriend who was on a stroll with some of his colleagues (our offices were within five blocks of each other).

As we approached, we said 'hi' to each other and we stopped to chat briefly.

He was eating an ice cream cone.

I reached over, took a bite of his cone and handed it back to him.

Then we went on our respective ways.

My colleagues immediately asked who that had been (the meeting had been so fleeting that neither of us had bothered with introductions).

When I told them that it was my boyfriend, they said, "You never told us he's black."

To which I responded, "Did I ever mention that he's Catholic?"

Their next question, of course, was, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"About as much as his colour does," I replied.

To me, the colour of my boyfriend's skin was really not relevant to anything.

Fast forward about ten years, when my little chickadee was about five years old; we were visiting at her aunt's place and she was outside playing.

She came in crying, but she was somewhat embarrassed about it.

Her father asked her what was wrong and she said, "Those kids called me nigger."

She knew she was upset, but she really wasn't sure why.

He hugged her tightly and told her, very matter of factly, that nigger was a really mean word to use.  And if she wanted to, she could go outside and tell them that she was actually black, but they were 'HONKIES.'

And that is exactly what she did, with her head held high.

In one very quick lesson, he taught her to take pride in who she is.

Many years later, I was using a van service to commute to work.  This was a somewhat private service and the same 15 passengers had been riding for several years.  One afternoon, a passenger was opining that the 'value of his neighbourhood' might be under threat because he had heard that some black people might be moving into town.

I said nothing.  I just sat and listened to the discussion.

And then I quietly opened my wallet, and reached for a photo of my little chickadee, about whom they had heard plenty over the years.

As I offered the photo to be passed around, I said, "Have I ever showed you a photo of my daughter?"   

Except for the road noise coming from the van as it rolled along the highway, you could have heard a pin drop.

Until the numb nuts who had started the discussion asked, "How did that happen?  Is there black somewhere way back in your family tree or something?"

So I smiled sweetly and replied, "C'mon, you know how babies are made, don't you?"

That exchange just happened to have occurred on the last day I was using the service; the driver took great pleasure in letting  the others think that I didn't have the stomach to ride with such a bigoted lot as they.

Why am I telling you this?

Because racism, however veiled, really saddens me.

And yesterday, my grandson announced that a boy in his class "was mean to half the world."

My little chickadee thought he was exaggerating just a tad until he explained what he meant.

During history class (this is grade three -- they are learning about the first peoples to inhabit Canada), a child had asked about people "with normal skin" -- and it turned out he was talking about white people.

Fortunately, the teacher handled it well and explained that there are no "normal" skin colours. 

But my beautiful boy was offended by the question because he felt that the other child was being mean to him and to all the other people in the world who don't have white skin.

He was comforted once he talked to his mom about the situation and she was able to reinforce for him that he is just as worthy as anyone else in this world, as are all people -- whatever the colour of their skin.   

This wasn't his first experience with the black/white question, and it surely won't be his last.

The sad part of this story is that the child who asked the question is himself a child of colour -- but he's not of 'black' heritage.

So the lessons of racism are being brought home to roost still at a very early age.

We've not come very far in 50 years --- the bar has just moved a bit I guess.