Columnist Carol Daniel
That’s what a listener said to me in an email following a conversation on KMOX about a Jena, La. resident who wrote that locals were upset that the American Red Cross supplied first aid and water to the thousands of marchers.
I suppose the listener was responding to my comment, “Let’s just cut to the chase. What is wrong with my country when some white people are upset that some black people are getting water from the Red Cross?”
While another listener complained to my boss (in an email sent to him and not me) that “her bias is clear,” this listener, who identified himself as a black man, wrote, “I never had a feel for how ‘black’ you really are.” He added that my comments on the show had erased all doubt.
Now before you jump on any, and I mean any, bandwagon, let’s take a moment and reflect.
First of all, those of you who have read me for any length of time know that I immediately thought, “Thank you for the column fodder.”
Second, you and I know it’s an old and ever-present issue for everyone involved. I wrote about it when folks questioned U.S. Senator Barack Obama’s ethnic authenticity. I wrote about it when an elderly white man once beamed, “You speak well for your people.” I’ve been reacting to and addressing the “you sound white” issue since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.
And I know that the man who is now clear about my blackness meant no ill will, no harm, no criticism. I took none. It is what it is! He just heard a level of indignation from me that you don’t often hear broadcast.
There are many of you, like me, who work in an environment where you can’t very well (nor should you) run around screaming, “Whitey!” all day. And as our economic and professional fortunes increase, maybe we’ve settled into a pace that no longer mirrors the time when the civil rights struggle was a daily and dangerous movement.
However, prejudice is never too far from our thoughts. Problems can arise when one becomes oblivious or comfortable, and then the race card slaps you in the forehead. Sometimes it’s overt and sometimes it’s not.
Maybe it happens when you enter the store and no one addresses you, but the white lady behind you gets a rundown of the sales and a tour of the store.
Maybe it happens when your son is driving your nice car in your neighborhood and the police keep stopping him and asking him what he’s doing.
Maybe it happens when you read that regardless of income, black folk pay more for mortgages than whites.
In any case, I find myself just trying to be a person, a woman, a sistah, a mother, a wife, a believer. I never carried a chip on my shoulder, but I am ready, if need be, to defend, explain or correct.
I’ll add that – despite my proper inflection, my diction, my command of grammar, my position, my salary, my bank account and my awards – there are times when I see someone looking through me, discounting me or judging me. The interesting and sometimes sad thing is that, while those looks do come from those whose skin tone is much lighter than mine, there are those who are looking at me, who sometimes look like me.