The Pot or the Kettle?

I am not prejudiced. I should be, but I'm not. Why do I say I should be? I was born and raised in a small town very near a city that's 99% black, and 97% ghetto.
Most white people are prejudiced here, simply because of the association. In this area, most of the stereotypes are true, for a large number of the black population.

Why am I not prejudiced? Partly due to Joe's influence (if you haven't read my last post, he was my brother). Joe's disturbances caused him to need to feel superior to others, and around here, it is easy to despise black people, and Joe most certainly did. A case in point :there were several black tv sitcoms when we were growing up, most of them situated in a ghetto. I watched them, because they were funny. The color of the people's skin didn't make a difference. If the people had been white, or Chinese, or whatever, I would still have laughed. Joe would walk past while I was watching, and shout "Nigger" over and over, half at me and half at the tv screen.

My 7th grade year, my school established a new special education program for the blind. Two of the students were black, from the ghetto. One was a girl a few years older than I, and the other a little boy. They were driven to school in a cab, by a black man. At first, I had little to do with Rhonda. She was in the 8th grade, and she had tons of kids hanging onto her, because she was different. She didn't need another one. I don't remember how we got to be friends-- I normally didn't hang out with the older students. In fact, I didn't hang out with anyone. However it happened, by the middle of the schoolyear, we were best friends. We hung out together on the schoolyard (children our age did NOT play, and would have been offended at the accusation), we ate lunch together, she even visited my house a few times, as Chuck the cab driver was always a half-hour or so late. In the mornings, Chuck would park at the local grocery store on my way to work, and wait for me to come by. Riding to school in a cab was a big thrill.

Over time, I became impatient with Rhonda's handicap, and eventually began to hate her, for dragging me down to her level. By the time the year ended, our friendship had, as well. But Rhonda taught me many things, including the fact that black people are just that: people. They have thoughts and feelings akin to my own, and the same hopes and dreams as whites do.

My first job was at a nursing home, and the woman who trained me was a black woman from the ghetto. She was one of the most excellent workers I've ever met, and was all in all a Good person. She worked my tail off, but when she was through training me, I knew my job inside and out. We never became friends, for she was an older woman, and I was only just out of school, but I quickly learned to respect and value her.

The Cosby show was on at this time, and for whatever it might not have been, it did two things very well. The blacks on that show were affluent, loved their families, and had "real" lives. Secondly, it brought to the whites a peek at black culture-- the paintings on the walls were done by black artists, the music they listened to was by black musicians... yet it was all in the background. Those people on tv could have been living right next door. For a white girl in a depressed area, it was an important lesson.

Throughout my years at the daycare centers, we had both black children and black staff. Some good, some bad, but all human. As I was living in a white ghetto at the time, the fact that the black children I cared for were economically better off was yet another lesson to absorb.

Even the media is slanted white here. On the news, in the papers, a person is assumed white, unless it is stated that he is black (or of any other minority). I tested this theory once, with my parents. We were in a fancy restaurant, with a piano bar. Several of the servers took turns playing the piano. Only one of them was black. I said something about liking his music, and my parents asked me which server. I described the man WITHOUT mentioning the color of his skin. They couldn't find him. It wasn't until I said, "the black guy" that they knew who I was talking about.

When meeting black people, whether it be at the supermarket, the mall, a restaurant, I find myself needing to prove to them that I am not prejudiced. I will go out of my way to be friendly, which I suppose is a form of discrimination. And after all, why would it matter to these people if one owl they have never seen before and will never see again hates them, loves them, or feels nothing? A two-minute interaction is not going to change their lives, or mine. Yet I still have a need to prove myself to them. Recently, I've realized this, and have made an effort to not force myself on them. Who wants to have to relate to a stranger on their own screwed-up terms, based on nothing more than skin color? It's degrading, dehumanizing, and offensive, as is prejudism. So I suppose my first statement on this entry was a lie. I am prejudiced. I do treat people differently because of the color of their skin.

One last note, if you will. I currently take care of developmentally disabled adults. One of them is black, the others white. A few weeks ago, one of the white ones got angry at the black lady, and called her the worst name she could think of. She called her a honky.