I posted this on my Facebook wall today:
Someone struck up a conversation while in line at a store. “Wow, you are very unique looking. What are you? It’s hard to tell, but I’m gonna guess you are mixed, a halfbreed, right? That’s gotta be rough right now.”
Today I sat in silence. Reflected on that conversation. Cried about a sad story that is indicative of our times. Appealed to my HP for guidance on the subject matter for my CD. Opened myself up to the knowledge that not everyone will accept my words with grace and dignity. Realized it doesn’t really matter as long as I can reach even one person. Embraced the subject not as one of condemnation or combativeness, rather an understanding of how being a ghost in this society has enabled me to live on two sides of the racial fence and see the beautiful and the ugly on both sides. I’m ready. Are you?
I have not let racist comments toward me cause me much emotional harm. For the most part, I have ignored the ignorance of such people. I have turned a blind eye and deaf ear to those that have such thought processes.
Unfortunately, I have had more blatant racist experiences over the past three months than I have had over the past couple of decades. I’ve certainly had the occasional nasty look or nasty comment, but lately it has been over the top. I can’t definitely attribute it to our current POTUS, but I can attribute it to the climate he has created in this country. It seems the closet and under the rock racists are slithering out into the daylight, emboldened in their words and actions. The level of bravery these people exhibit without fear of retaliation, boggles my mind.
There are two sides of this for me:
- I have been called a Nigger, told “my kind” is not wanted, more diligently followed in stores, and it goes on and on.
- I have been scorned by the other part of my heritage in that I’ve been told I’m too light skinned to understand the black American’s struggle.
Hence, I call myself a ghost. Drifting between two races not wholly accepted by either and struggling still, 52 years later, trying to understand where I belong and what I have to do to be embraced as part of a culture.
I’ll be writing about this.