Unchallenged, the racist meme is ever cemented. We’ve watched it be used as fuel for the engine of a political movement. That’s been allowed to happen, allowed by the media of this era who feel no sense of connection to truth. A media that feels no obligation to the American public, its readers, its watchers. And, no obligation whatsoever to the American public that is not white. Seems other agendas are afoot.  No one has to provide context of any sort, no one has to do research. Seems as though little to no knowledge is necessary. Say what you want and it’s relayed as a legitimate position. Your feelings, the darkest and most ugly you have, can now be expressed with abandon…legitimately as thought.  No need to check yourself. No need to ask yourself, or anyone else for that matter, if you’re being fucked up.  And, apparently, no publisher will think to question it either.  Say whatever you want. There is no accountability. You might have to say sorry, maybe…but that’s it. More likely, you’ll have to say sorry to Rush Limbaugh for taking back whatever sense you spoke.  So, while watching the lines blur on TV, I ran across this blurred piece by Joel Stein, published by a blurred TIME Magazine. This overtly racist immigration commentary pretends, I guess, to be a comedic piece. It’s entitled “My Own Private India”:

TIME/Joel Stein piece: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1999416,00.html#ixzz0swFRA2eC

Mr. Stein begins his racist diatribe with:

“I am very much in favor of immigration everywhere in the U.S. except Edison, N.J. The mostly white suburban town I left when I graduated from high school in 1989 — the town that was called Menlo Park when Thomas Alva Edison set up shop there and was later renamed in his honor — has become home to one of the biggest Indian communities in the U.S., as familiar to people in India as how to instruct stupid Americans to reboot their Internet routers.”

I hear: My middle class white town, a town with a very serious white inventor history, I might add, has been taken over by a bunch of brown people who seem to not know their actual place…which is not to live in my town, but rather to provide technical support for my computer via telephone from their own damn nation.

“My town is totally unfamiliar to me. The Pizza Hut where my busboy friends stole pies for our drunken parties is now an Indian sweets shop with a completely inappropriate roof. The A&P I shoplifted from is now an Indian grocery. The multiplex where we snuck into R-rated movies now shows only Bollywood films and serves samosas. The Italian restaurant that my friends stole cash from as waiters is now Moghul, one of the most famous Indian restaurants in the country. There is an entire generation of white children in Edison who have nowhere to learn crime.”

I hear: We white people have lost all the stuff that makes us white: Pizza Hut, A&P, multiplexes, Italian food. All things quintessentially middle income America. These Indians have taken everything from us…all that we know and understand…we’re really American and they’re not. They’re messing it all up.  And, to mitigate any cries of racism, I’m going to attempt to equalize the situation by throwing in some white kid teen antics to let you know that I’ve risen above my previous social station and can quite clearly see and critique which rung of the American ladder of dreams my town hung on, while simultaneously cementing the concept of the “real America” which is where I come from. Famous food is not a plus.

“I never knew how a bunch of people half a world away chose a random town in New Jersey to populate. Were they from some Indian state that got made fun of by all the other Indian states and didn’t want to give up that feeling? Are the malls in India that bad? Did we accidentally keep numbering our parkway exits all the way to Mumbai?”

I hear:  Why the fuck did you pick my town, you damn Indians? Of all the places, why my fucking town? I mean, we might suck and all but we don’t suck that fucking much…to make you think you can ALL come here.

“I called James W. Hughes, policy-school dean at Rutgers University, who explained that Lyndon Johnson’s 1965 immigration law raised immigration caps for non-European countries. LBJ apparently had some weird relationship with Asians in which he liked both inviting them over and going over to Asia to kill them.”

I hear: I did research to figure out how this shit happened. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? It’s all that damn LBJ’s fault you see…raising the non-Euro cap. And, even he couldn’t make up his mind: accept them or reject them. Because…they’re all the same. All Asians. Every country, every culture. All alike…not like us.

“After the law passed, when I was a kid, a few engineers and doctors from Gujarat moved to Edison because of its proximity to AT&T, good schools and reasonably priced, if slightly deteriorating, post–WW II housing. For a while, we assumed all Indians were geniuses. Then, in the 1980s, the doctors and engineers brought over their merchant cousins, and we were no longer so sure about the genius thing. In the 1990s, the not-as-brilliant merchants brought their even-less-bright cousins, and we started to understand why India is so damn poor.”

I hear: And, you see, it was okish years ago because only the really fucking smart ones came over. We only had a few. And, those few were the crème de la crème. I mean, acceptable ass Indians. The kind we white people can deal with. The ones who don’t act too Indian outside the home, imposing all their Indian bullshit on us. We only realized how much we totally hated them when there got to be too many. Listen, we don’t hate all Indians, just the ones that make India poor. We only like the superIndians, and then, only a few of those. Don’t get fucking ridiculous and bring everyone. That’s not what this is about. Not my American town.

“Eventually, there were enough Indians in Edison to change the culture. At which point my townsfolk started calling the new Edisonians “dot heads.” One kid I knew in high school drove down an Indian-dense street yelling for its residents to “go home to India.” In retrospect, I question just how good our schools were if “dot heads” was the best racist insult we could come up with for a group of people whose gods have multiple arms and an elephant nose.”

I wonder: Hmmm. Is changing the culture what white people are doing to Harlem? What should the well educated black people of Harlem call the white people doing that? What should the less well educated people call them?

“Unlike some of my friends in the 1980s, I liked a lot of things about the way my town changed: far better restaurants, friends dorky enough to play Dungeons & Dragons with me, restaurant owners who didn’t card us because all white people look old. But sometime after I left, the town became a maze of charmless Indian strip malls and housing developments. Whenever I go back, I feel what people in Arizona talk about: a sense of loss and anomie and disbelief that anyone can eat food that spicy.”

I hear: The good news for me, the kind of white person I am, is that when I was a kid, and the Indians were smartest, I could play nerdy computer games with them and eat food cause I’m adventurous like that, but then, it got out of hand. They’re everywhere. I get the racist fear of white Arizonans, the way they see this as a white country, their country, cause I feel the same way.

“To figure out why it bothered me so much, I talked to a friend of mine from high school, Jun Choi, who just finished a term as mayor of Edison. Choi said that part of what I don’t like about the new Edison is the reduction of wealth, which probably would have been worse without the arrival of so many Indians, many of whom, fittingly for a town called Edison, are inventors and engineers. And no place is immune to change. In the 11 years I lived in Manhattan’s Chelsea district, that area transformed from a place with gangs and hookers to a place with gays and transvestite hookers to a place with artists and no hookers to a place with rich families and, I’m guessing, mistresses who live a lot like hookers. As Choi pointed out, I was a participant in at least one of those changes. We left it at that.”

I hear: My friend, the ex-Mayor told me to see the silver lining in the brown cloud. My town would be in dire financial straits if the Indians didn’t come and save it to some degree with their financial investments. I get it…kinda…I live in Chelsea (which means to some that I’m coolish and not definable).

“Unlike previous waves of immigrants, who couldn’t fly home or Skype with relatives, Edison’s first Indian generation didn’t quickly assimilate (and give their kids Western names). But if you look at the current Facebook photos of students at my old high school, J.P. Stevens, which would be very creepy of you, you’ll see that, while the population seems at least half Indian, a lot of them look like the Italian Guidos I grew up with in the 1980s: gold chains, gelled hair, unbuttoned shirts. In fact, they are called Guindians. Their assimilation is so wonderfully American that if the Statue of Liberty could shed a tear, she would. Because of the amount of cologne they wear.”

I hear: To explain further, these Indians won’t assimilate like the ones that came before them. Wtf? They’re supposed to pretend…even if we all know we don’t like them and won’t actually accept them.  But, I take some solace in the fact that they are at least trying to copy someone here…even if they’re Guidos. I understand Guidos and am comfortable with their socio-economic status and rung on the American ladder. That makes me feel better. But, those Indians should shower more.

What I read I’d expect to literally hear coming out of Andrew Dice Clay’s mouth in a stand-up routine. A routine based on seriously fucked up racist shit that other racists think is funny. In a club. A club I don’t want to go to. Why was this published in TIME Magazine?  Again, seems to me to lend validity to racism as a legitimate point of view, not the ugly “I hate people that are different from me…I’m afraid of them and I want to keep this country and all of its rights solely for us” thing that it truly is.

TIME, as you can see below, sent regret.  Joel Stein’s stomach hurts. And, I see you both.

TIME responds: We sincerely regret that any of our readers were upset by Joel Stein’s recent humor column “My Own Private India.” It was in no way intended to cause offense.

Joel Stein responds: I truly feel stomach-sick that I hurt so many people. I was trying to explain how, as someone who believes that immigration has enriched American life and my hometown in particular, I was shocked that I could feel a tiny bit uncomfortable with my changing town when I went to visit it. If we could understand that reaction, we’d be better equipped to debate people on the other side of the immigration issue.

As Health Care Legislation was voted upon in the House of Representatives, Twitter’s Liberal Progressives, Moderate Dems and Obama supporters watched C-SPAN together. We paid rapt attention to all speaking. We commented, hoped, crossed our fingers, and there was victory. The bill made it through. The Stupak Amendment was incredibly problematic, but I believe most of us thought we could find a way to undo it. We emerged a little scraped up, but, we also understood that a fight is a fight and we were winning. No one comes out unscathed. Since that moment, things have changed. People argue, factions have emerged, people feel they have been silenced and many are afraid to say what they think about what’s going on in government in the Twitter forum for fear that the mere act of disagreeing and challenging the President or his Administration could be deemed traitorous by those staunchly in support of the man Barack Obama. There are a lot of feelings brewing within our community. Why? Because no one has any real information. No one knows what is going on. What we all know is that it’s not what we thought would be going on. The real problem, it seems to me, is that no one really knows what any and all of what is going on actually means. We are confused. The sheer lack of understanding of the aims and goals of the Administration has created a vacuum. It’s turned the world into black and white (no pun truly intended).

In this netherworld, it has created a situation where one is either for or against the man named Barack Obama. I suspect because people have nothing to work with. We have no knowledge as to why certain decisions have been made, or why certain things that were spoken of as absolutely essential no longer are.  Fundamentally, we have been asked to work on blind faith. After the deeds of the Bush Administration, the bailouts and calamities which have affected us all, one would think that those on top would realize that the American people are a bit too skittish for that. Everything is so uncertain that people need something firm and solid to look to, to work with because we have nothing to hold on to in the present. We need information and deeds you can believe in. If the good deeds can’t be performed, we need to know why.

When I voted for the person to fill the office of President of the United States, I voted for a platform, an agenda, not a man. That the man with the message I wanted to hear was of color was a nice twist perhaps, a visual bonus for me of sorts, but, I also knew that a person of color holding that position in our nation, visually representing the United States of America, might very well usher in an era of newfangled racist backlash for all the rest of us people of color within this nation. I knew that it might strike a chord of fear in those who control all the power, and in some irrational way (racism is irrational), come back to bite us all. The U.S. power elite never disappoint any of its perceived enemies.  From Gov. Rick Perry, Tea Parties, the Senate confirmation hearings of Sonia Sotomayor, Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Michelle Malkin, Pat Buchannan, Rep. Michelle Bachmann, Sarah Palin, to obstructionist behavior by the Senate, the self-stated goal of these self-appointed “real Americans” is to stop this President. The position they have taken is intractable. It should be acknowledged that they are very good at what they do.

Maintaining the base, as well as holding on to Independent voters is essential for us. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to do those two things. There is a fundamental lack of confidence. Why? Seems to me that part of it revolves around the lack of communication by the Administration and/or the Party that many see as dismissive, forcing them to wonder about the aims and goals of the President. The American people are in a bad way. We’ve lost and are losing jobs, homes and all future security. My and many other generations are afraid. We are afraid because the President, various economists and others have told us that our nation will go bankrupt without a Public Option. We were told on many occasions that we needed to control the cost of health care to ensure the economic future of the nation. We were told that American businesses could not compete globally, in a global economy, without relieving the burden of health care expenditures that many other nations companies, do not have to contend with. Finally, and perhaps, most important to many in a bad way these days, we were told that in order for American individuals to not be continuously raped and pillaged by pirates looking to increase their corporate and personal wealth, a Public Option would provide the capitalist competition that would drive down prices to normal, not pillaging, levels. Perhaps we would not be denied services we pay for monthly and potentially go bankrupt because of illness anymore. But, the President has backed down from this stance. Herein lies the problem. Many are left here wondering if and when the nation will meet its demise through this one problem alone. What I’d like to know is where the bridge is?  Where is the bridge between what you say must be and what you say is acceptable now? Where is the bridge between financial reform for Wall Street and little to no financial reform for Wall Street? Where is the bridge between end the war and send more troops?  Where is the bridge between gay marriage and the lack of gay marriage?  I could go on, but you get my point. No one can say something is totally essential and then say it’s not. There might be reasons why you can’t pull off what you said you believed in, and most importantly, what you said would save the nation, but what are they? And, why don’t we know what they are? Why are we so bereft of answers? Should we blindly believe what is being told us? I don’t think that this particular audience works that way. Wouldn’t that make us the GOP? There is palpable frustration.  If we were smart enough to help the President get elected, why aren’t we smart enough to be acknowledged? This inconsistency…particularly in light of the word “transparency” makes the populace nervous because its optics mirror how the American people were treated before. We were dismissed. We began this journey as a majority with a clear path. I hope we all know that roads can bifurcate, have a circuitous route, or dead end so that you have to turn around to go forth. None of that is necessarily problematic; it’s part of the journey. But, what can’t happen is people saying one thing and doing another without any clear explanation as to why. If one is governing for, of, and by the people, you can’t not include the people. I am one of the people, and I need to know why all legislation is being watered down. I need to know why this is happening. I need some communication from the Obama Administration. I want to know why this will work if you said it wouldn’t. And, by the way, I want to see others in the Administration explaining to the American public the significance of each and every piece of important legislation during these difficult times. If it revolves around health, let’s see the person in charge of health explaining various aspects. If this is about international relations, I want to see that person explaining the deal. To the extent that the government is not run by one person, I’d like to see those appointed to important positions take hold of the reigns of their office and speak to us about the issues under their purview. Finally, I’d like to see some consistency of thought. And, that consistency of thought must be communicated. If obstructionist GOP politics are what is really holding up or distorting the things we need, say that. Explain your position; explain why it has changed, and/or how you are getting around those folks. If you can’t explain for whatever reason, they give us a signal of some sort that this is part of a larger plan that will, in fact, make this situation work out somehow. The election has been won; it is now time to govern.

The issues and obstructionism that this President faces are unlike those of any of his predecessors. New situations require flexibility of thought. Can the nation be governed the same way every other Democratic President has governed thus far? The patent racism of the GOP requires that the Democratic machine function better than it has before and incorporate into its strategic planning the type of battle that is going on. The fight is a different fight, the war a different war because of whom/what he is. From top to bottom, communication and strategic planning in the face of this problem seems to be two of the elements lacking. The GOP stated from the beginning that they wanted this President to fail; they wanted to bring on his Waterloo. The use of the word bipartisan in this climate they’ve created befuddles me. While many media types seem to love the use of sports analogies, this is no game. Fact of the matter is, we are talking about the lives and quality of life of the American people. We are talking about the economic future of a nation and we can’t afford to lose much. Hence, we must stick together come what may. This is about us. We can’t fragment. We must work with the cards we have been dealt. We must have open conversations about what we feel is problematic and seek solutions. We are all on the same side…but we don’t have to see everything the same way. We must though act in concert to fight a larger foe. Whatever is going on here is not our fault. But, if we continue to behave the way we do, we will be part of the problem.

The GOP is unconscionably greedy, racist and vile. But, not so stupid as to not walk in lockstep. They seem unfazed by the perilous position of our nation and the world during this post-Bush apocalypse. They know what they don’t want even with the stakes as high as they are. Let this shed light on the power of power and the power of racism. Guess they’re hoping we’ll flinch. And, we seem to be flinching. Let it serve to prove to the Democratic machine that they need to do much better, that what they are doing does not work for many and that it’s their job to hold us together. And, let recognition of the GOP’s ability to stay together, signal that in order to avoid total, utter complete control by them of our nation, we, the people, need to do better. We need to listen to each other and not blindly dismiss those that we don’t agree with on any particular issue. We all want the same basic things. And, while many of us see different paths to the acquisition of these things, we need to collectively pick a methodology to get us there and work hard at it.  It would be a tragedy now and forever to get this all wrong.

If we concede that this nation is racist, if we concede that our nation has been racist since its inception, since slavery, then, it seems to me, we need to consider the “givens” that the situation has created. If we recognize that racism is inextricably woven into the fabric of our nation, we must concede that no one would be unaffected. That “given” is beyond your control if you were born in the United States and grew up here.

Our society has always devalued African-Americans, and every aspect of American culture promotes that devaluation. Negative myths were created centuries ago to justify slavery and have been transferred from generation to generation. Black men have very large penises and are very scary – they want to hurt you. Black women are sexual beasts. Black people are very aggressive, and of lesser intelligence. While base in nature, on whatever level, completely or just slightly, white people seem to actually believe in the validity of these myths or portions of them. Mix that with family and their assorted attitudes, geographical location (some parts of nation being more racist, others less so), and socio-economics, and we have a perpetual simmering stew of bad feelings. The media, in all of its forms (representing the powers that be), contribute to and perpetuate racism through the images they choose to show and the rhetoric they engage in. Criminals are black. All welfare recipients are black. Tea Parties are patriotic and teabaggers are fighting for America. “Their” America apparently needs to be taken back. We could belabor this point ad infinitum. How could any white person in our nation not be racist? It is beaten into us all from day one that black people are fundamentally inferior and animal. How would it t be possible to avoid the taint in a nation where the problem is endemic? And, has always existed? I don’t think it is possible. I think no one can be unaffected.

For those with power in our nation – the color white giving defacto power – it would be impossible to not be racist. I believe it’s a question of degrees. No one is immune. It’s just irrational to believe so. Some white people, for a whole host of reasons, are less affected. Others are affected much more. This is our nation’s reality. Unless we fight it, it will continue to exist in all its glory. During the Tea Party protests, I read how the people I follow on Twitter felt about the Teabaggers and their racist slogans and signs. There was recognition that those Americans were racist, that they are upset because their President is of color. People seemed to feel perfectly comfortable pointing out their racist behavior. That behavior is at the extreme end of the racist spectrum. People are also infuriated by Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Lou Dobbs and Fox News at large. Again, liberal white people seem perfectly comfortable pointing out racist behavior at the extreme end of the racist spectrum.

Now, let’s talk about Senator Reid in the context of a racist nation. Many are of the belief that Harry Reid is not a racist. I’m not picking on Harry Reid. I don’t think he’s a bad guy, but neither do I see how in the world Mr. Reid would be unaffected by the machinations of racism in the United States. He was born here. He grew up here. Recognition of a racist nation is what I think is missing from the discussion or dialogue about Senator Reid’s remark. Instead of using his comment as a teachable moment about endemic racism, even unconscious racism, no one will let the discussion move beyond a faux argument about him not being racist. And, within the logic of the recognition of racism, there is actually reason for Harry Reid to resign. It would make no fundamental sense. To be replaced by whom? A non-racist white Senator in the United States?

Within this framework, it makes no sense to me to say the comment Senator Reid made wasn’t racist. Of course it was. The fact that the statement is true, within the confines of the racist nation, does not mitigate the racist nature of the statement. Of course white people are less threatened by what they consider to be a black person who doesn’t irritate the eye by being too black, and who can switch registers to one that sounds less black. I think we all know this is true. Black is bad. That is the point. And, that is what we should be talking about. The real point to focus on in what he said is that the nation is so racist that the only way a person of color can achieve within it, is to appear to be less like themselves. Damage. Intense damage for people of color. Don’t you think? What I find even more disturbing is not the rally to Senator Reid’s side, but the rhetoric spewed in his defense. He’s not a racist. It’s not a racist statement because it’s true. Really?

At the end of the day, party politics seem to have trumped truth. Don’t split the party. Pretend the statement does not betray what it betrays because Democrats need to stay together in the face of the GOP. I think this is folly for many reasons and I personally resent it. Racism is not GOP specific. It is an American problem. It must be recognized in all corners. Post the Civil Rights Movement, racism was swept under the rug. It did not go away…it code switched. Instead of being in your face,” No Ni**ers” allowed, it became a mind game full of “you are not qualified” or “I’m sorry, we’ve already hired someone”. If you keep sweeping racism it under the rug, for whatever reason, you are complicit. Period.

In a previous blog post, I discussed this concept. I also talked about how, if upon realizing certain thoughts and behaviors of yours are racist, and you don’t metaphorically slap yourself in the head and vow to not do it again, then you are part of the problem and not part of the solution. A work in progress has to be worked upon. These feelings, and, they are feelings, don’t disappear overnight because you know they are wrong. You have to work at it. A lot has been done to you too. And, to rid yourself of it is a life’s work.

Now, you might ask yourself what it is that I want. I’ll tell you. I want people to stop pretending that people here aren’t racist. Every word spoken otherwise, denies my life and my struggles, those of my family and friends. I want people to see racism in degrees, because nothing else makes sense. I want people to admit when they’ve said something racist, and I want people to apologize when they make mistakes and vow to work on it. That’s all I want. And, I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Or, is it?

The first time I went to Spain was on a summer program after sophomore year of college. I went to the University of Salamanca in Spain to study language, literature and art. To be honest, I needed to get out of the country for a little while, I needed to pull myself together. My parents were always willing to fund any educational experience, particularly abroad, so I seized the opportunity, not only to learn, but to try and heal myself a little bit.

At Amherst College, one of my majors was a Spanish Literature. While I had fair mastery of the written word, like most people who study a foreign language a continent apart, my oral skills left something to be desired. I knew the best way to improve my ability to communicate with people, was to go to a Spanish speaking nation. I loved the language, but am also fascinated by people, other cultures, other ways of doing things, other ways of thinking. Language has the key to that door and, the way specific words chosen, the specific construction of a sentence can tell you a lot about the priorities of the people in a nation/culture.  All I really wanted to do was converse, ask questions and share.  I knew I  needed the type of immersion I’d experienced in Tunisia on a summer AFS program where I’d lived with a family. That type of constant interaction with people who spoke no English helped me immensely with my ability to speak French and understand the Tunisian people.

We arrived in Madrid, stayed a week, and then moved on to Salamanca. The University is one of the oldest in the world and I was excited to walk the halls as many had done before me over the centuries. I was hoping to find inspiration in the history and through that, the will to forge forward. I needed to find myself again. I was lost. I’d been involved in an abusive relationship with my boyfriend in college and I was confused, humiliated and had completely lost my bearings. I felt like I was living someone else’s life, or watching a movie where I was the main character. I felt detached from myself. I wanted to use this trip to figure out why this had happened to me and what it meant about me/for me. So, I left. It’s what I do when I need to figure something important out.

This was my first time in Spain and I loved it.  I loved the people – they were so open and friendly, and, I loved their way of life. There was an ease in the air I’d never experienced before. The collective stress level was much lower. I sensed a tacit acceptance of the flawed human soul. People didn’t seem to need to compete with each other in the way we do in the United States. Each person I met seemed to be doing their own thing, doing what they liked to do. No one asked you what school you went to, where you lived or what you did for a living as a measure of if they should even bother talking to you, of whether you were worth their time, whether you were one of them, or someone they could get something from. Life was a journey for Spaniards, not a destination. Spanish people seemed to appreciate the small things about life. Having a coffee and an interesting conversation might take precedence over any stupid chore you might have to accomplish on your self-imposed tight schedule. People seemed to take things in stride in a way Americans could not. They knew that everything did not have to be, nor would it be, perfect all the time. They knew happiness could be illusive and that the other feelings one had were to be savored as well, not rejected out of hand as inherently wrong or in need of drug therapy. I wanted to spend more time there and explore.

I was supposed to stay in Salamanca a month. I didn’t. I changed my ticket and decided to go to Cascais, Portugal for a month. I was still confused, still heartbroken and still very, very sad. But, that’s a story for another time.

I went back to school the following Fall semester and made plans to study in Spain again Spring semester. I chose to go to Sevilla because in 1985, no one spoke English there. I would be immersed, with no way out and I’d have to put all those words and constructions floating around my brain into some semblance of order to be able to communicate.

I left the U.S. on New Year’s Day. I wanted to start the year fresh. I was holding on by a thread. In the early ‘80s, domestic abuse wasn’t understood as well as it is now. It was a complete and total nightmare which involved the police as well as the administration. Everyone knew about my shame in this small New England College. I was humiliated and embarrassed; I needed to get away from this guy who was, at this point, literally stalking me. Who would think that would happen at Amherst College?  But, again, that’s a story for another day.

I arrived in Spain in the middle of the night, with no place to live. I’d lived with a family in Tunisia, I’d had that experience and wanted to do something totally different.  A woman on the plane recommended a hostel and we landed, I went straight there. It was disgusting, but I had no other options. It was the middle of the night, and everything in this “city” was closed.  I cried all night, got up early the next morning and moved into another hostel down the street I’d read about in a guide book. It was an extended stay hostel and had a communal kitchen for all guests. It was pretty nice and I made it my home for 6 months. I made crazy friends from all over the world and had a great time as I tried to communicate with my housemates. I went to school rarely. I didn’t want to hang out with Americans speaking English, so I forged my own path. I got a job teaching English to Spanish professionals and got an apartment. I dropped out of school. Needless to say, my parents were not pleased.

Sally in the '60s before moving to Spain

I began to meet the people of Seville. I lived in the old barrio, Santa Cruz, and made friends with my neighbors. I had a boyfriend (met him in a disco), the surest way to learn a language, and met a bunch of expatriate Americans who’d lived in Sevilla under Franco since the ‘60’s. I met these people sitting outside at a bar. We began talking and became friends. They had many fascinating stories to tell and all had led incredible lives.  I didn’t know what they did for a living, or where they had gone to college – it was all so refreshing. People were judged on what they said, not who they were. They liked me and found what I had to say interesting also. I felt like I’d found my safety spot. I felt I was being heard and being me for the first time. I started to feel better about myself.

I met John Fulton and Sally Stein on the same drunken night. We became fast friends and palled around every night in Sevilla. I had no phone in my apartment, so around 9pm each night, they would come and scream up to my third floor window in the tiny streets of the old barrio “Joy, Come out and play!” I did every night. They introduced to me many others, both Spaniards and foreigners and I became a part of their friend family. It was a magical time.

It's the '80 - leave my hair alone!

After many months, by accident, I found out my friend John Fulton was a famous bullfighter. He had been the first American bullfighter to fight in the ring in Mexico City as well as in the ring in Madrid. He had been Peter O’Toole’s understudy in Lawrence of Arabia and had the funniest stories about O’Toole in Franco’s Spain that I’d ever heard. He was an artist and a great man. He has since passed away and I miss him very much. He took me to my first bullfight and taught me the beauty of the dance between man and animal. I was fortunate. I met emotionally generous, amazing people who became my friends and developed solid loving friendships.

I want to talk specifically about one of them, the woman who became my best friend, Sally. I was tweeting about her the other morning. It was the first real time I had spoken about her, allowed myself to think about her. She committed suicide two years ago and I’ve not been back to my beloved Sevilla since.

Sally was singular. She was from Wichita, Kansas and had landed in Spain in the early ’60s. She’d gone there on vacation, a graduation gift from her parents and never left.  It happens a lot in Sevilla. There is something magical about it. None of us can put our fingers on it, maybe it’s the mix of cultures – Moors and Spaniards that gives it the special feeling that it has. Who knows? If you ever go there, all I have to say is beware. You might become one of us! Sally left the States after the assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK. She said she had become totally disillusioned with the United States. Maybe there was more to it than that, I don’t know. That’s what she told me.

We had a strange relationship. We were friends, we loved each other. We fought often, yelled, screamed and cried. While Sally was like a Spanish mother to me – she taught me much about life in Spain. She introduced me to new friends, she helped my find my apartment, figure out how to turn on the electricity and the phone, I was also like a mother to her. While I was much younger than she, I had more common sense. I helped her with work disputes, with friend disputes, with technology.  Our relationship was reciprocal, we helped each other.  We had fun, we giggled and laughed constantly like two little girls. We read very similar books and listened to the same types of music though we were generations and a culture apart. She also loved words as do I. That was an important bond. Many English speakers translated for Spaniards during those years. It’s how we all made extra money. She cared about doing a great job as much as I did. I appreciated that about her. For many years I visited Sevilla and Sally every 3 weeks. We traveled throughout Andalucia together eating all the fish and shell fish we could find. Over time, in order to not piss my husband off entirely, I started a business to help pay for my little oasis of sanity. I imported 16^th -19^th century Spanish antiques from Andalucia to New York. A Spanish friend that Sally introduced me to had/has an antique store in the old barrio and I bought antiques wholesale from Laura, and sold them retail in New York to architects and interior designers. It gave me something to do, some cash, and helped me immerse myself even deeper into Spanish culture. The latter had always been my true quest.

I talked to Sally every day on the phone from New York. It was as if she were a friend down the street. We were a large group of friends, many lived in other countries like I did, and we’d convene every so often in Sevilla  to tell the tales of our “other”  lives while drinking beer and eating tapas. Spain, for me was the antithesis of NYC. The things that I believed mattered, did matter there. No one talked about money; everyone was there for each other. There was no pedigree competition. You stood on the merits of your words.

Sally was a beautiful woman in her youth. We met when she was about my age now, 45. I turned 21 in Sevilla. Sally, like me was more comfortable in Sevilla. She appreciated the way of life for the same reasons I did. She worked as a secretary for some famous Spanish architects and had a nice life. She had a wonderful rooftop apt. in Sevilla, and a summer house on the coast in Vejer de la Frontera. We made many hysterical trips back and forth. I’ve always been amazed by how in a 2 hour trip to the coast, Spaniards have to stop every 20 minutes to get a roadside beer! It made me nervous for many years, then, I just got over it. There was nothing I could do about it.

As the years passed, we shared many secrets; she helped me with my marriage to David, with my kids, and held me together whenever I was falling apart. In 2001, after the demise of the World Trade Center where my husband spent 12 years of his life working as a banker, he decided to make some changes. He didn’t want to be a banker in a large firm anymore. He couldn’t stand the illegality of what his colleagues were doing, he couldn’t stand the assholes he worked with. Our lives changed dramatically. We sold our home and he started his own business. For all intents and purposes, we were broke. She was there for me. She let me cry every night, let me be afraid, told me it would be ok. Maybe it wouldn’t be ok tomorrow, but one day. I leaned on her, I needed her. I tried to be that for her too. She had serious kidney issues. I took her x-rays to Columbia Presbyterian and, through a friend got the head of urology to diagnose her. She was a very stubborn woman and waited 10 years to have her kidney removed. Later, she suffered from nodules in her throat. She believed it to be cancer. She was a very heavy smoker. She waited to go to the doctor until she almost couldn’t speak. The cancer was operable. She would have been fine. Instead, she chose to take her own life. It wasn’t just because of the throat problem; I think it had more to do with aging, being single, and not having any family around. She had been a Princess, beautiful, blond, tall, leggy and now, her reign was over. She was older, she wasn’t so beautiful anymore. All the men were married. She was too old for affairs. She made a bad property investment and lost her inheritance. She’d lost her job because of her kidney ailment; she was immobilized for some time. She was now living on social security and while she received money enough to live quite decently, she was going to have to downsize. She was going to have to watch her money closely. She didn’t want to do that. She wasn’t flexible. She couldn’t roll with the punches. She either wanted it all or nothing. To top it off,  I was basically her only family, and I had problems that precluded me from being around for support. I was depressed and could barely function. I didn’t have extra to give to anyone. I spent a lot of energy pretending I was ok in front of my children.

One day, I got a package in the mail with two plane tickets to Spain in it. They were gifts from Sally. The dates were firm and could not be changed. At the time, I was working full-time as a copy-editor and had to beg for time off in a rather precarious work situation. While on the surface, it seemed like a nice gesture, it wasn’t. It was strange, manipulative, intrusive and made me resent her. I told her I had problems at home, I was working  and couldn’t go to Spain right now. She didn’t care. She was forcing me to go there to spend time with her. The tickets were non-refundable.  If I didn’t come, she would lose the money and she didn’t have money to spare. I had to go.

I called a mutual friend (Ruth),  who lived in England. I told her what was going on and she decided to come with me. I told her Sally had been mentioning suicide, that she’d sent me the tickets. My British friend’s husband Mansour, (another mutual friend), had committed suicide one year earlier by diving off the cliffs of Penzance. When I heard that news out of Ruth’s screaming, crying mouth, I immediately thought of pirates and Broadway. I still feel a little bit guilty for that.

Thus, we both went to Sevilla to check on Sally. Sally had sworn me to silence about our conversations of suicide. She threatened me with cutting me off. On this trip, I decided her life was worth the cut off and I told our Spanish friends. They lived there, maybe they could help. What could I do from another continent? They all thought I was being a dramatic American. I am a couple of decades younger than all of my friends there, and sometimes, they think I’m not old enough to understand certain things. I’m sure they’re right, but this particular thing, I understood well. They shut me down and told me not to speak of such things.

Sally had Ruth and I over for dinner one night. We ordered Chinese food. Her living room seemed very different. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then, I realized it was slaughtered with framed photos of all of us. They were everywhere. It was like a shrine to someone’s life. We tried to talk to her, she wouldn’t hear of it. She told us if we continued this discussion, we would have to leave her home.  So, rather awkwardly, we ate disgusting Spanish Chinese food  and talked random bullshit all night. Two days later, after a drunken argument in a bar, I left Spain. I didn’t hug her, I was mad at her. I was mad at the entire situation and I was under a lot of stress at home. A family member was deeply involved in drugs and needed help. It was stressing out everyone in the family and along with my financial woes, I was having 10-20 anxiety attacks a day. I just felt overwhelmed.

I left Sevilla and went back to my home hell. I received two boxes in the mail and a large packet. I opened the packet and found a will, cremation papers, and a little note that began “I know you think this is wrong…”. I couldn’t open the boxes. I didn’t want to know what was in them. I didn’t want to talk to Sally, I was confused and angry. I didn’t know what to do. I called Ruth in England and she had received the same things in the mail. We tried to call Sally to no avail.

A couple of days later, I tried to call Sally on my cell phone from work. Nothing. She was always home, I was scared, but I also thought that maybe she’d gone to Italy. She sometimes did that without telling anyone to make you worry about her.  I called my friend/landlord Perdita in Sevilla. When she answered the phone, she was sobbing and screaming “Oh, Joy, Oh, Joy”. I started screaming “Oh Joy WHAT? WHAT?” She asked, “Didn’t anyone call you yet? Sally’s dead. She killed herself.” I started crying, hung up the phone and went to my desk, sobbing. My boss told me to go home. I drove from L.I. back to Manhattan afraid I would have an accident. I was having that out of body feeling and couldn’t really connect with what I was physically doing. I got home, sobbing while parking the car, through the lobby, elevator, and into the arms of my husband. I ran a bath, picked up a bottle of wine and proceeded to sob and get drunk in the bathtub.

Then, the phone rang. It was another friend from Sevilla, Robert Vavra. He was a close friend of Sally’s and had, in fact, financially supported her for the past few years. In her will, she left me 3K Euros. The first thing he said to me was that he thought I should give him the money after all he had done for her. I couldn’t believe my ears. My best friend was dead, and this guy was talking money. Robert is in his ‘70’s – a famous photographer of horses. He’s very dainty. He also has no soul. He was good friends with Leni Riefenstahl. I cussed his ass out. I was livid, drunk, sad, and disappointed that anyone would bring up money in this situation. I told him I would be there as soon as I could get a flight, and, that if he touched anything before I got there, I’d call the police.

I got on a plane, red-eyed and flew to Sevilla. First, I had to find my friends and get a drink. After the drinks, we went to her apartment. I had keys. She sent them in the packet. I walked in to see 2 chalkboards. One had my name and phone number. The other had a letter written to me on it while death had been approaching. She wrote about the pills kicking in, it being hard to breathe and then, the writing trailed off. There were pills and beer by the bed. There were also laminated notes taped to various things around the house. They were instructions for me about how to handle certain things.

The next morning, I went to the coroner’s office. I was charged with identifying Sally’s body. There were a lot of people just hanging around outside, waiting, smoking cigarettes. I walked in and was told to wait in line. I stood outside smoking too. Caskets rolled up, people came out crying and went off with them. There was this one casket with a gigantic Jesus cross on top of it. For some reason, I was mesmerized by it. Other caskets came and went, but this one remained. I couldn’t get the song “Along Came Sally” out of my mind. I felt like I was going crazy. Finally, that very ornate casket was wheeled inside and I was beckoned inside too. The coroner opened the top of the casket and there she was. She had frilly white ruffles surrounding her head. She looked like that rich girl vampire in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula”, the movie with Gary Oldman. I was shocked. She wasn’t even religious! What was all this?

The next step was to follow the casket to a hearse and then walk behind it down the street to the crematorium. Other friends were waiting there. They wheeled her casket into a great open fire and told us to go up the street for beer and come back in 3 hours. We did. It was very strange and awkward for me, these traditions very foreign. We went back after 3 hours and I picked up a purple thermal bag, the kind you put bottles in for babies. It was Sally and I took her home.

This captures my friend Sally perfectly

I just opened the first box she sent me last weekend. She’d put beautiful scarves from Italy in it and trinkets from Rome. I haven’t opened the second box yet.

Here’s the video:

The black man’s speech, albeit it from a mic ripped out of the white girl’s hand, was incited by the woman’s questioning of the black man’s love of America. What an ironic accusation. And, as a result, the fed-up black man felt the need to explain to any and all listening how very hurtful that accusation was.

I cried when I watched the video. I cried because I felt that black man’s pain. Sometimes it’s just hard, you know? You can feel yourself walking on the emotional edge for reasons that range from stupid to life altering.  Could be because of some stupid ass racist comment that stuck in your craw that you wish you’d responded better to, or some store employee humiliated you by asking you if  you know the price of the item you asked them to show you, or you were being followed around the drugstore like a criminal,  you were ignored and skipped in line on purpose by the deli dude, or you stood in a store looking lost and directly into the eyes of some employee who had no intention of helping you. You might be getting fucked at work while some stupid ass white idiot receives more recognition, just because they’re white. You are 100% sure it’s not you because even your co-workers have mentioned it. It’s hard to swallow racist bullshit day in and day out. Sometimes you just need to blow.

Not often is one presented with the opportunity to just let it all out and, and, with a microphone  in the street, no less.  This man seized the moment to tell the smug little white girl just how Goddamn American he was/is.  Now, was it done in the nicest of ways? Nope. She challenged him, rather naively, I might add, and he challenged  her back with some real, hard ass truth. It made her cry. And, I couldn’t care less. She’s not the point.

Shortly after my video tweet, I saw an RT of it with the hashtag  #bigot #blackman. I was indignant. I asked the person to please remove the hashtags. I was angry, because while I knew that classification made no sense whatsoever, I also knew why the person had done it. Delivery.

Why was a black guy a bigot for telling a white girl the truth?  I, personally, was moved to tears by what he said in his well-constructed historical timeline of slight. Moved by how he said we’ve loved their children, and them, died for their/our country and hadn’t gotten one Goddamn ounce of respect for it. He was right. It was true. He said it with passion, yet control.  It was linear, and he covered a hell of a lot of bases. Quite frankly, I thought he did a damn fine job. And, I’m sure he did it so well because he’d been thinking about all of that  for a very long time. All of us African-Americans/People of Color have/are. Our whole lives, in fact.

In college, while participating in race conversations with my white friends late into the night, I tried to explain that these discussions were not just intellectual for me, they were also emotional. How could they not be? These issues they had the luxury of intellectualizing, actually affected every single part of my life, my existence.  The passion in my voice stemmed from anger, frustration, sadness, and hope. Yes, hope. Hope that I would be heard. Hope that we could be honest. Hope that the conversation could somehow make a difference. Did I get loud sometimes, certainly. I still do. I do because I hurt and I want the pain acknowledged, not dismissed as hysterical or a “chip on my shoulder” or “militant”, whatever that means. No amount of “it’s better than it was before” or “we’ve made progress”  make it any better because it’s still fucked up. I shouldn’t  have to feel “good” that the KKK isn’t stringing me up right now, or that I can stay in a hotel with white people, or that I can go to a school I deserve to go to. Seriously, how much better should I feel? How much better would you feel?  Hence, the frustration. The frustration that I know I have, and the frustration that the black man was exhibiting on video. I am a human being and I am asking other human beings to tell the truth, acknowledge the reality of racism and talk about it. I am asking for people not to deny it, ameliorate, soft peddle it, run away from it, or seek to circumvent it by talking about “delivery”.

The tweeter I attempted to discuss the substantive part of the tweet with could only focus on the girl and her momentary brush with the uncomfortable. While I conceded that it wasn’t perhaps “nice”, neither did I give it much of a second thought. My twitter friend, though, couldn’t let go of the black man’s delivery, saying it wouldn’t win allies for “the cause”. Seemed to me that the passionate self-defense by the black man of himself, his people, and other people of color, was just too much to acknowledge. It was as though through defending the girl, he was defending himself and all others who don’t want to be “accused” of something or have to “admit” to something.  I found that unfortunate, as well as somewhat typical ( I don’t mean that pejoratively), for race discussions are very uncomfortable. Focus on delivery, in lieu of content, provided the escape clause – and was very blame the victimish, I might add. I read “I can’t hear you because I don’t like the way your saying it”.

Racism is an emotional topic. That being said, it’s not a valid way out of the conversation for white people to tell black people that their feelings about racism will only be heard if delivered in a way they deem palatable, in a way that saves their  feelings and that is comfortable. That type of dialogue control comes at the expense of black feelings and is antithetical to the point – sharing and truth. To insinuate what we will only be listened to on your terms, that all other modes of expression are rejected, is a non-starter.  Black people are not the caretakers of white feelings. We are here, though, to share our feelings and experiences with you.  Through honest listening, questioning, reflecting, and coming back for more, we can move this ball forward, if only a little bit. Let’s all try to understand how other people feel, what their experiences have been, what they’ve been through and what we all want for our nation. Stop rejecting that which needs to happen for all of us to move forward. If we can overcome cop outs like “delivery”, then perhaps we might be able to hear each other’s actual words and begin to  foster a much more rich, fulfilling discussion. Shared truth and the ensuing growing pains will cleanse us all.

Joy

Tyler Perry doesn’t bother me in the least. I’m not a fan or anything but, I have seen a couple of his films and to tell you the truth, while I don’t find the stories compelling, I do find some of the characters funny. They remind me of some of my old, black relatives. You know, the ones we ALL have! I picture my crazy aunts and uncles in D.C. saying all kinds of nonsense, the funny way that old black people do. His movies connect me with those memories. I think they make that connection for many black people. It’s why his work is so popular. It’s art for the masses. Art for the plebiscite. Same thing that Mozart created with his operas for the common man. Now, I am by no means insinuating that Perry and Mozart belong in the same sentence! In fact, in rereading that sentence, I shivered! But, my point is, humor exists on many levels. From idiotic to sophisticated and complex.

The real issue here is that there are not enough representative black images. How many black directors are there? We know the answer, very few. And, because there are so few, they become representative of the whole. They are “the” black people and, their films exist as the only representations we have.

It is very difficult to make a film, to find investors. And, because they are so expensive to make, target audiences are key. This is a money making enterprise, and high art is not necessarily involved. Tyler Perry gets to make movies because his movies make money. They resonate with a particular audience that’s willing to pay to go and see them. That’s the industry, that’s how it works.

Now, if there were room in America for more black directors,  if we were represented in many different ways, Tyler Perry wouldn’t have/be a problem. He’d be one part of a spectrum. Perhaps, the bottom, but part is the salient term. Because of the deficit of other images of black people in the film industry, Perry’s films are noticed. And, noticed a lot. Some black people are embarrassed by his coonery and think he does a disservice to the black community at large. I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel that way because I don’t care what white people think about Tyler Perry’s movies. I know the black community is not monolithic. And, I know many white people will never see it that way so, it doesn’t matter one damn bit how they feel.

Let’s get down to brass tacks. Tyler Perry makes movies for black people, not for white people. We understand who his characters are and what he’s making fun of. I’m not sure how white people see them, or if they see them, but I can guess how they’d feel about them – they’d think coon. So, the question really is, are the black people who Tyler Perry bends out of shape worried about what white people think? If we know our community, if we know that’s not representative of the entirety of black people, or that they are caricatures of very extreme personality types, why should it bother us that it exists?

As Frederick Douglas, W.E.B. Dubois, Carter G.Woodson, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison and Alice Walker exist, so can Tyler Perry. You know why? Many white people see us that way already. They are racist. So, what the hell difference does it make. Who are you embarrassed in front of? How don’t you want to be seen by whom? Is the answer white people? Think about it. I think it is and, I also think you shouldn’t give one good god damn.

All of us who grew up in this nation were infected with the disease of racism. Racism was fundamental at the creation of the nation, slavery acted as a very important economic driver and racism has continued to exist to this very day.

Bartolemé de las Casas was the Spanish priest who decided black people should be enslaved in the Americas. After enslaving the indigenous people, and cutting of their hands when they returned from mines without the gold that was not there, he began to speak with them. He formed friendships. He then, realized that the indigenous people had souls. And thus, he couldn’t enslave them because slavery was rationalized through the belief that these “others” were, in fact, soulless heathens. This presented a formidable problem, the Spaniard’s couldn’t pay people to do the heavy lifting in the “New World” and thus, de las Casas suggested they use Africans as slaves. And, as history shows, he knew better than to befriend those Africans.

The people who began enslaving others knew that their claim of  ”soullessness” was a rationalization. They needed what they needed and that was that. And, in order to feel comfortable with the horrors they would visit upon those Africans, they created a particular mythology. Black people were animals and stupid. We represented a lower species, Simeon like. Picture planet of the apes!

When you look at slavery in the United States, what’s interesting is the methodology employed to keep the slaves off-kilter. Slave masters broke up families, slaves were not allowed to read. If they believed black people to be fundamentally inferior, why would you need to do these things? Because they knew we were not inferior and they knew that through the strength of family and the knowledge that comes through learning, the slaves would challenge them.

The mythology created to rationalize enslaving human beings along the way became fact. Successive generations truly believed and continue to believe many of the various myths: animal, exotic, sexually powerful, not as intelligent, lazy, shiftless. I could go on and on.

Our nation continues to perpetuate these myths as facts. People believe them. Black men have larger penises, black women are animals in bed, we are not as smart, and we don’t really want to work, we just want white people to give us stuff.

I asked my husband, who is white, how racism was learned in his home. (His parents were none to happy about our marriage). He said no one ever said anything directly racist. It was more about what they didn’t say. At the dinner table, a conversation would go on that my husband, as a child, knew was wrong. He would wait for someone to say something confirming it was wrong, and it would never happen. He said that instinctively he knew not to say anything himself, that he’d get in trouble. Eventually, he stopped noticing, it was normal. For many, this slow inculcation just becomes reality and truth.

We have been inundated with media imagery. Whether it’s the darkened picture on Time Magazine of OJ’s mug shot, or the local news where they only show black crime. We, black people are only 12% of the nation. Most crime would have to be committed by others. Funny that we rarely see their images on TV.

So, here’s the deal. No one can be unaffected. Logically, this has had to penetrated each and every white American. Thus, all white people would have to be racist to some degree. How is it possible that anyone could come out clean? I think it should to be measured in degrees: lowest to highest. The lowest consists of people who probably don’t consider themselves to be racist. They love all people. I’m not saying that’s not possible. You can love all humans and still be a little sick from the ever-persistent infecting racist forces – you know, like that involuntary moving of the purse when a black person gets a little too near, or the group of black teens that gets on your subway car and makes your heart skip a beat for a minute. These things mean something, and it’s not your fault.

You grew up here, it was done to you. But, if you know you do this and you don’t try to fight it, if you don’t smack yourself when you do/think it, and say “Ah ha…I know what this is!” then, it is your fault. You have to own this and continually fight against it. You can’t just say the right things, you have to try and modify that behavior. Take control of it because it has controlled you. You also have to call your friends out. If they say something racist in your company, you have to tell them you disapprove, you have to explain, and you have to stop them from doing it again. This is not our responsibility, it belongs to you. Only you can fix you. We have to fix us.

This is the definition of CULTURE:

n.

1. The totality of socially transmitted behavior patterns, arts, beliefs, institutions, and all other products of human work and thought.
2. These patterns, traits, and products considered as the expression of a particular period, class, community, or population: Edwardian culture; Japanese culture; the culture of poverty.
3. These patterns, traits, and products considered with respect to a particular category, such as a field, subject, or mode of expression: religious culture in the Middle Ages; musical culture; oral culture.
4. The predominating attitudes and behavior that characterize the functioning of a group or organization.

I am a graduate of Amherst College. I double majored in Political Science and Spanish Literature. I graduated in 1986, as part of the 5^th class of women admitted.  My husband and I met in college. We now have 14 year old twin boys. We are a visually “interesting” family, my husband is white and has one hand, I am a short African-American woman, younger twin (9 min), looks black and is taller than his brother, older son looks white with blue eyes and crazy curly locks. No one ever thinks we are related to each other in any way.