I became conscious of my height about the time it peaked in my late teens. When I joined the Coast Guard at seventeen I felt, as did most of my company, innocent and confused by the demands of the institution. We struggled together to conform to the expectations of our trainers and officers. But when they lined us up to drill on the marching field, they arranged us by height, and most of the time I led my column. I didn’t ask why, but privately I felt somehow better than the others.
After boot camp, I was sent to a training school in
Connecticut to learn about engines, my chosen field. I learned along with my
classmates all the details of internal combustion engines; how to tear them
down and put them together again. We compiled our new knowledge into notebooks,
ostensibly for future reference in the field. Due primarily to the schools I
had attended up to that point, I had a verbal advantage over many of my
classmates. On the basis of my test scores and the elaborate notebook I had
prepared, I ended the course at the head of my class. Privately, I felt better than them.
During my high school years, the United States was at war,
and we were deluged by propaganda to keep us focused on winning the war. (It
wasn’t called propaganda, a term that
was used by our leaders to describe the efforts of the enemy countries to
influence their citizens in their own agendas.) A large proportion of our
propaganda stressed that we were better
than them, more powerful and more moral in character. Along with everybody
I knew, I felt lucky to be an American.
We were better than them.
Recently, a lot has been written about racism in our
country. I’ve counted myself “liberal” and morally superior to the white
supremacists and alt-right nationalists that have attracted so much attention.
I’ve sympathized with “Black Lives Matter” protests, and with most of the
identity politics that have been written about and circulated in social media.
I’ve taken the time to seriously consider the ramifications of Black reparations
proposals by such writers as Ta-Nehisi Coates and James Baldwin. While I almost
never encounter Black people in my daily life, I have felt confident that my
viewpoints and even my actions are blameless regarding race.
It was only while reading Robin Diangelo’s White Fragility that I began to
recognize my “whiteness” and my participation, however unconscious, in the
systemic racism in Western culture. I may have condemned for many years the
colonialism by European countries, and sometimes even the colonialism inherent
in the United States relationships with places such as the Philippines and
Puerto Rico. I may have cheered hearing the recent news of a possible new cure
for sickle cell anemia because it could relieve a lot of mostly Black people of
horrible suffering. My ego is rewarded by occasional thoughts that I’m on “the
right side” of current controversies. I’m better
than them.
In the middle of last night it occurred to me: I’m so lucky to be white. Like being
tall, it’s not because of anything I’ve done, but it brings me advantages and
prestige. I don’t have to face some of the things that non-whites encounter
every day. I don’t have to live with the daily fear that Nina Simone spoke of
in a recent documentary. When I am stopped by the police for a minor traffic
violation, I can be polite and expect them to be polite. I don’t have to be
afraid of being beaten or shot. I can rent a car or buy a home or walk through
a neighborhood without being watched through closed window drapes.
I need to pay more attention to the plights of others not so
lucky, and do what I can to nudge the system in the right direction. It isn’t
easy because most of it is invisible to me. It’s just the way the world
works—for a white man.
I need to remember more often how lucky I am. I need to
become more aware of my part in the injustices of the world.
