Prejudice
A few years ago, I remember hearing that in America, when people are asked to choose three adjectives that best describe themselves, minorities typically write their race as one of the three. Caucasians never do. In my informal survey of many friends, I have found this to be accurate. Why do those of us who are not white think of our race as an integral part of who we are? Is it because of how we are treated by the “in” group? I think so.
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There has been a strong movement afoot to erase racism from our culture; to accept others who are different and to respect diversity in all forms. In recent history, we have made huge progress. But in the U.S., we take three steps forward and then two steps backward. Change is difficult to come by. That’s life. Too many of us learned bias and prejudice early on. We stubbornly cling to our inherited stories, unwilling to open our hearts and our minds even in the face of a new reality.
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When President Clinton visited Annapolis, Maryland years ago, his secret service detail ate at Denny’s restaurant on West St. The white Secret Service men were served quickly. The African American Secret Service detail were made to wait and wait before being served. My sweet white friend Hope said, “Oh for goodness sake! What are those men complaining about? Everyone has to wait to be served at Denny’s.”
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She didn’t get it. I wish she’d witnessed me sitting in restaurants in North Dakota where I’m frequently mistaken for a Native American because of my German–Chinese heritage. It doesn’t matter who was seated after I sat down, but I would be served only if every single white customer was served first. Waiting at the deli counter offered the same experience. And if I went to book a motel room, the receptionist would offer the white person ahead of me a room near the sauna, or near the pool, or an upstairs room where it is quieter, when his transaction was done and it’s my turn, the clerk would look at me and say, “I’m sorry. We are all full. There are no vacancies.” Since then I’ve learned to stay in the car, slide down in my seat so I can’t be seen, and ask my white husband to go in and book a room for us.
On the way to North Dakota each summer, I learned to put on my mental armor. If I forgot, and I walked in to use a gas station restroom, the dirty look I got from many attendants said, Oh God, are you going to pee all over the bathroom? That look pierces my soul and hurts me to the core. You don’t know me. Why do you hate me?
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When I attended the University of ND, I hung with the Lakota Sioux because my family lived on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation. Most of my classmates were Chippewa or Sioux. One Chippewa friend and I had been good friends for over a year when he found out I was half-white. At that point, he refused to talk to me. I couldn't understand it. I was the same person he befriended for a long time. Nothing had changed. But he had so much hurt from the whites and so much hatred towards them, that he could no longer bear to continue our friendship.
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I think back to the year when I applied for a teaching job at the Green Street Elementary School in Annapolis. It paid better than my private school. My girls were all going to college, and I thought I’d try to earn more money. It was the early 1980s and this school had a good reputation. I knew they were looking for a teacher so I made an appointment with the principal. As I walked into her office, she took one look at me and said, “Oh, my quota of minority teachers is already filled.” She never bothered to find out whether I’d be a good teacher. My “minority” face did me in.
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In 1958 I wanted to marry in Virginia and found that the anti-miscegenation law did not allow me to marry my white husband. We married in Washington, D.C. It was a wonderful marriage lasting 54 years until my husband’s death. Why had such a law been written and enforced? Who were the lawmakers trying to protect?
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Not only have I been subjected to prejudice, I discovered I’m guilty of it as well. My daughter was getting her postdoc in Japan when we decided to visit her. In preparation for the visit, I put on a kimono she had sent. Suddenly I found my hackles rising and a powerful hatred filled me. I was shocked and ashamed. Where had that feeling come? Yes, growing up in China and hearing about the horrors of WWII and of what the Japanese did to the Chinese had its effect. But that was a long time ago. I had spent years teaching my students not ever to hate a group of people. “You can dislike someone who acted badly towards you, but never decide that everyone who looks like him behaves like him.” I’d preach. Here I am filled with unjustified anger. I soundly scolded myself and worked the hatred out. Our visit to Japan, and meeting the kind and generous friends of my daughter was a crucial growth for me, a very flawed human.
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Here we are now in the autumn of 2017. There have been some positive changes over the years. I see more interracial couples with beautiful halfie children. I watch children play together on the playgrounds black, brown, yellow, white kids together. At the senior center, people of all colors exercise together, talk together, play cards, and laugh together. It seems that race makes no difference to the very young nor the old. I’m focusing now on those years in between, the years when a person needs to decide who he or she is, what he or she needs to do and how best to do it.
We need to review our opinions and prejudices. We need to learn about and understand others’ views, religions, cultures, and lifestyles. The more we learn, the better we will behave. All of us. It’s time for each and every one of us to do our homework.