The Color Bind--What We See and Don't See

October 31, 2010

I'm reading Kathryn Stockett's "The Help," a compelling story of black maids in the '60s South, and, not surprisingly, I can't seem to shake race from my mind.

In my most private moments, I recall what I can only assume is an actual memory, fuzzied around its edges by shame as much as by the passage of time. I assume it's an actual memory because I can't imagine that I'd make up something that would put me in such a bad light.

I was 9 or 10, and found myself in the bouncy backseat of an old Buick. I don't know what I was doing with my sister and her friend, Jane, but I do recall settling a dispute with the traditional "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. Catch a tiger by its toe..." Only I didn't say "tiger." Did I mention that Jane's black cleaning lady was in the car with us?

My ears still burn with shame when I recall that moment, that word that I'd never uttered before, the ensuing silence and its unconscious yet blatant us-and-them reminder.

It would be hard to imagine such an incident occurring these days. That doesn't mean that I believe we live in a post-racial world, though. I'm not sure why, but we don't seem to be able to figure out what to do with all this human skin in so many colors.

Just last week, I watched with interest as Alex Trebek put on his kid gloves as he responded to the stately black contestant, an older woman wearing her Sunday hat. Right or wrong, her answers were treated differently than those of her competitors. It was hard to ignore her race, in part because of how few blacks ever compete on "Jeopardy." And I even kind of understood Trebek's interactions with her, as though he wanted to move beyond the ugly past and build bridges. Still, he's a game-show host, not a civil-rights leader, and his demeanor was difficult to watch.

I recall a fascinating story I heard from a former KFOR coworker, who grew up in pasty-white Minnesota. He said that it wasn't until he was an adult when he found out that his third-grade teacher was a black woman. I couldn't believe it. And I wondered what it said about Brad and his family and his third-grade teacher. How did an 8-year-old white kid get so post-racial?

One of the reasons I loved Allison's volleyball season so much was because of the variety of colors on her team. Hers was, by far, the most racially-diverse team I saw on the court all season, and none of those teammates seemed to give a hoot about that fact. This, I think, is a good sign.

I attended a high school with precisely two blacks, but Eric and Allison--and lots of other kids who go to schools other than Lincoln High--regularly find themselves walking down hallways filled with more languages than they have fingers on their hands. I don't think today's teens have that keen awareness of color, that strange mix of fear and embarrassment towards skin tone, that so many of us adults still have. Maybe today's teens have more in common with Brad's third-grade self than they do with their own parents, who are supposed to guide and advise them through these tricky times.

As much as the topic of race incites and inflames people, though, I don't really wish we lived in a post-racial world. I don't think we'd benefit from ignoring each other's skin. Without these colorful reminders, we might forget how different our back stories are. And back stories are important. They are the threads that connect us with past and future, the chance we have to enlarge our own worlds and let more people in.