Me Racist?

     I knew I could easily point my finger at swaggering neo Nazi/white supremacists for being racist. But what about me, a nice white American? Do I unknowingly give off an air of racial superiority that insults minorities?
     So I asked two African American friends about the racial pain they’ve endured, hoping to learn from them. They revealed the trauma of how some people, who wouldn’t call themselves racist, wound them.
     It’s usually unintended little barbs, one said, like someone declaring, “You talk so eloquently, you sound like you’re white.” Or slapping him on the back and announcing, “You’re a good black guy.” Or believing it’s okay to banter with a racial joke. Or thinking it’s a compliment to tell him, “I’d be honored if you dated my daughter.”
     Sometimes it’s uglier. “You minorities ought to get your act together.” Or at an organization where my other friend is a member, the president tries to energize members by claiming, “We wouldn’t be so reserved if we weren’t all white.” (My friend winces. “It’s like he’s saying blacks act like apes. It’s rude.”)
     I swallowed slowly. “So how can we, who are white, do better?”
     They were silent, then spoke with carefully chosen words. And trained by habit to be gracious, they didn’t reveal any of my cultural sins. One encouraged me to listen, listen, listen. The other suggested that opening up more safe conversations like this would be good “to better understand what a big deal the pieces of each other’s lives are.”
​     Our time ended. I thanked them and left, breathless and busted. And I wondered, when others ignite my hotspots, will I be as generous as they are? And when I point a finger and call out evil as evil - as I should - will I remember that three fingers are pointing back at me?

(Image above is a detail from Michelangelo's Last Judgment)