Would they be kissing each other if they had different skin color?

This spontaneous act of affection that completely caught the parents and those observing, so off guard, begs the question:

What draws two children together in the early stirrings of affection, trust and a common bond?

Is this innocent pairing of toddlers a predisposition of their DNA?

What do they know of their cultural backgrounds, opposing religious beliefs, parents of differing means and social standing?

Are they the product of  selective breeding with children of the same color, same race, backgrounds and values?  Will they ever know or experience strong prejudice?  Are we born into racism? 

Have we evolved enough to prevent our children and grandchildren from becoming racial profilers?

*

From the 'sublime to the ridiculous,' there has been so much talk about racism lately.  It's no wonder, given the heated nature of all the tasks and expectations put before our first black president.

But, wait.  Isn't that a racist remark in and of itself?  "First ever elected black president?"  Why should this be such a shocking reality?  Isn't it about time?  Isn't it well deserved beyond a shadow of a doubt?

Barack Obama has an ethnic, cultural, religious, educational, experiential and diverse background like no other president in history.  He is more qualified than most, to say the least.  He may be the quintessential American of today.  He's the real deal.  Yet his very persona breeds contempt among those surrounding him, left and right, who would be riddled with racism as their calling card.

It is everywhere.  It is in each of us.  It is in every major city in America where we can find defined areas designated to specific groups of people:  China Town, Japan Town, Little Italy,  German Town, areas where ethnicities are segregated by neighborhoods, shops and restaurants centered around these diverse cultural influences.  

The list is long and I am not purposely leaving out any one group or geographic area in America where various ethnic groups have settled en masse.  We are all too familiar with this reality and it's seeming normalcy within our country.

It is a part of the fabric of this melting pot, in which we live.  There could be an inherited trait which allows us and others to believe we /they are the superior race, common to many nationalities across the globe.  It is reeking havoc around the world as fanatical nations battle each other to their ultimate extinction.  It is happening right here at home, on our soil.  Americans viciously attacking one another for their ethnic, religious, political, self righteous differences.  Racism morphing into fanaticism all around; closing in on us.  Have we all gone mad?

And yet we dare to hope we will survive economically, socially, spiritually and recover as a nation?

Who are "we" anymore?

*

I hesitated to write another post on an apparently prickly topic and one that has the hair standing on the backs of so many in today's teetering political climate.  There is no doubt that anyone attempting to describe one's own feelings or beliefs about the origins of racism in their own lives, is open to speculaiton, criticism and protest.  It goes with the territory and is not intended for the meek.

What spurred me on to do this post is a stirring up of some childhood memories and ones that may have shaped my beliefs about racism in general.  Nothing carved in stone here, however, it is worthy of some reflection and a look backward to arrive at my present attitudes.  I am no different than most; I am parts of many, as we all are.

*

My memories posed some questions, stemming from childhood circumstances.  Where I lived while growing up.  The various cities, suburbs, lack of ethnic presence in my schools.  All of our circumstances were different to varying degrees and somewhat dictated by where we were born; who we were born to.

  Is it racist to be white and play with a black child or vice versa?  If children of any color, race or cultural and religious backgrounds come together without worldly knowledge, guilt or malice, is there subsequent racism, whether real or perceived?  Tough questions for kids, but as adults looking back, do we spin this way out of proportion? Or is this so deeply rooted in us that we cannot see it for what it is?

Were my parents really racists or did they merely exhibit shades of racism in certain circumstances?  Did my dad tell racist jokes?  For sure.  Did I laugh at his jokes?  You bet I did.  But was it the content of the jokes or the fact that my dad couldn't stop laughing before he barely got out the punch line?  His laughter was contagious, so I laughed with him, heartily.  Most of the time.

There is this memory, which I tell gingerly and with some apprehension.  We all come from different backgrounds, walks of life and mixed emotions around this subject, so I apologize in advance, if anything sounds racial or prejudiced as that is the last impression I want to make here.

While pondering to what level my parents were racially inclined, if at all, I had a big flash back which gave me some answers.  I also found some perplexing questions which remain.  It's a fairly simple memory but with far reaching implications, as I recall it now. 

My mother, with six children at this stage in our family's progression, needed some domestic help from time to time.  No live in nanny; no live in housekeeper, nothing like that.  She didn't even have a regular cleaning person to help manage the major messes left by us on a daily basis.  This was an occasional luxury for some much needed extra deep cleaning.

A friend and neighbor of ours recommended a wonderful and reliable woman who would help my mother on an as need basis.  She was a black woman with great references and my mother was thrilled to have her.  I remember her beautiful skin, cheerful disposition and that she was very friendly and nice to me.  I was and am the eldest of seven.  She thought the world of my mother and I found her to be a very sincere, warm individual.

On one of her days at our house, she brought her daughter along, who was my age and around 1o or 11 years old.  We hit it off immediately, played for hours while her mother cleaned the house  and we became fast friends.  Mom and Dad didnt seem to be phased by this new comraderie and thought it was very nice.

It soon came to pass that I was invited to spend a Saturday at her house to play.  I was thrilled to be invited.  At first, everything was swell and we played to our hearts content.  Later that day, her father came home and noticeably questioned the mother why I was there.  His discomfort was palpable. We were urged to go outside while they talked.

Soon after, others in the neighborhood, kids of varying ages, started to come around and were making sneering remarks about the white girl who was playing in their neighborhood.  Suddenly, I felt out of place, unwanted and even threatened.  I insisted that they call my mother to come and take me home.  My new friend started to cry and begged me to stay but it was useless.  The discomfort of the others was very real and I knew that I didn't belong there.  It was one of the oddest, saddest and emptiest feelings I could have imagined at that age.

Once my mom came to pick me up, there was an awkwardness that hadn't been there before.  The woman who was so kind to me and her sweet, innocent daughter who wanted me to be her friend, were never seen in our home or talked about again. 

It was like a mere droplet in a pond.  The circles of water reaching out, spreading farther and farther apart, becoming parts of my psyche , whispering thoughts of things not so good between friends of different colors.  The sadness lived inside of me for a long time to come.  And then it was gone.  I forgot all about it.  Till today.

*

And then there was Johathon.  He was the only black student in my entire high school and one of the most popular kids.  He was smart, atheltic, liked by everyone, very handsome and someone I will never forget.  He sat next to me in Homeroom and he would make me laugh all the time.  He was an all around great guy and no one ever treated him like he was from another planet or had darker skin than everyone else.  It mattered not.  I often think of him and wonder where he is and what he is doing today.  He was destined for great things.  Of that, I am certain.

*

So, the memory was really no big deal afterall.  Or was it?  It sure opened a can of worms, I can tell you that.  It forced me to think of things differently;  things I never have before today.  Some of these ponderings are melancholy; some very eye opening.  Some questions remain.

One thing I know for sure and can say unequivocally about my life is...that through the course of my upbringing, my Catholic/Christian foundation and my own sense of right and wrong, I have never thought less of anyone of color, race or their inherent differences.  I was taught to be kind and charitable to all people of all backgrounds and especially those in need or those being persecuted for their race or religion.  I have always felt deep compassion for most people walking this planet, unless they would do me or my family, harm.  I see the good in nearly everyone. 

I have been called naive, gullible and yes, even a dumb blonde, from time to time.  So be it.  I have never been called a racist or considered to be prejudiced, ever.

While I am not convinced of my innocence in all of this, I do know that I love and value people of all walks of life and wish no man any less than I would want for myself.  I do not wear rose colored glasses but I do want to see clearly how it is I affect others in my life.  Simply put, I care.

I want to believe that the way we have defined racism in the past, has indeed evolved into a greater understanding of it's futility and damaging effects on humanity.  I focus on being an active participant in a new generation that is teaching our youth new ways of thinking, of being, with openness, tolerance for each other's differences and generosity of spirit.

"Hope runs eternal."

(my mom)