I haven't yet participated in this thread, but I did make it the subject of my Fraywatch column and have been engaging in discussion over in the Fraywatch forum.
Since you both seem to have stuck with this thread for over a week now, I do want to thank you for starting and continuing this discussion. I think it's an important topic, and you have both shared perspectives that I've seen too little of online, but encountered much of in my life in Oakland.
From my perspective, I think most whites have done themselves a grave disservice by thinking about the problems of white racism from a purely subjective standpoint. It's true that many whites are virulently and proudly racist when they think they're "out of earshot" of black or liberal hearing. I wade through too much of that kind of whinging on a daily basis here on these boards.
But, I also think a lot of whites treat racism as a problem of spiritual purity - as if there's some invisible checklist they can fill out to absolve themselves of all errors. "I haven't lynched anyone. I haven't spit on anyone. I haven't called anyone a 'nigger.' Am I done yet?" In that sense, the palpable images of racial oppression from the American South and abroad in regimes like Nazi Germany or aparthed South Africa can actually be misleading. When a term like racism encompasses such horrors, it's very hard to own it as a personal failing when your sole sin is clutching more tightly to your purse because a black man has boarded the bus.
In my own life, I think I've lived rather unusually for a white man. I've lived in the south side of Chicago, the MacArthur district of Oakland, and the downtown district. I'm no less white for the experiences, but I've at least had a chance to hear perspectives--to be called a racist to my face, and to see some truth to the assertion--that have made me listen more carefully to how white racism is experienced... to scrutinize impact as closely as I scrutinize how it feels to think I'm being racist.
When I was in high school, my best friend was black. We were teammates, both socially misfits. We spent a great deal of time together. Like many other posters here, neither of us thought too much about race, and almost never discussed it. We also, by coincidence, wound up as undergraduates at Stanford together. Later, we'd overlap in graduate school at UCLA. It's only as we've aged that we've both become more sensitive to the facts of race in our background--back then we were too young to see it.
I remember I used to urge him to cut loose, more. He used to drive like a total grandmother, while my (white) friends would push their cars to the limit, often drag racing at speeds over 100mph. And yet, my only experiences of being pulled over by police cars was as a passenger in his car. I remember we got stopped at one point by a cop in Irvine who just wanted to "remind" him that state law required front license plates. My friend had a Camaro, and pointed out that the front molding of that car design didn't allow such plates, and that the relevant law had a grand-father clause exempting older models such as his. He even carried a copy of the law in his glove compartment! Amazingly, it took the story about racial profiling in New Jersey to help me make the racial connection! Back then, we both just thought it was the way the world worked.
When we were older, he once expressed his regrets that I'd experimented so much with drugs and come to terms with my identity as a gay man... when he was still afraid to cross the lines and had failed to make contact with his identity as a black man.
Another formative moment for me, in terms of race consciousness, happened on the Red Line train in Chicago. In 1999, I lived on the South Side and worked on the North Side. I'd take the Red Line downtown for work. I'd board at 95th street, and often be the only white person in the car until Jackson street. After Jackson street, within four stops, the racial composition of the ridership would change completely, until it was all white except for one or two black people. I've never encountered segregation quite that stark in all my time in California.
Before Jackson Street, I would get nervous being the only white person on the train. It's not that I was afraid of anyone... it's just that being white in a sea of black faces made me keenly aware of my own difference. It was uncomfortable. I'd never realized before how dependent I was upon the security of anonymity - of being just another white face in a white crowd. Experiencing that disorienting reversal made me wonder what life had been like for my high school friend. Being black in that part of Orange County meant always standing out in a sea of white faces. While some kids are surely strong enough to handle that sort of pressure, I can't believe that all are.
I can't pretend to understand how to solve the "problem" of race in America. But I've learned enough to realize that it lies in the deeds (and many cases, the hearts) of white Americans. Integration can be a wonderful thing - but too many white liberals seem to support it on the basis of dreams of a "universal culture" -- a culture transcending race and perfectly identical to the one they already have. In other words, universal whiteness, even among blacks. Though it sounds like a noble ideal, it's hard not to admit that there's something a tad genocidal in the desire... it reeks of an assimilationist imperialism that shuts down the debate before it's even started.
In my own mind, if white Americans don't change our own political debate - from discussing what can be done to blacks to ameliorate racism, to discussing what can be done for blacks to ameliorate racism - we're not going to achieve much of anything but further injustice. In that sense, I regret both Brown and the current state of integration doctrine (officially "color-blind"). We need to be able to talk about race and its attendant problems in America as adults to one another. Throwing children into a multi-racial cauldron without teaching them how to be themselves in a pluralistic society strike me as a recipe for heartache.
Though I don't have any answers, I know we're not going to reach one without frank and honest discussions from clearly delineated adult perspectives. By writing to the Fray, you've reached tens of thousands of Americans, and through them, probably even more. For that, I'm grateful, and for that, I thank you.
