Which Side Are You On?

“Right action is action that is appropriate to the whole.” Eckhart Tolle

I became Hispanic when I moved to a one-stop-light village in southwest Ohio.

It was “typical small-town America,” with brick houses brandishing the American flag, lawns trimmed and decorated with faux geese in bonnets, and kids riding their bikes in the streets.  “The people are friendly here,” my Dad would say, pointing out that neighbors would wave to him as he passed by.

From just looking at the place, one would not realize that it had a strong undercurrent of racism; but knowing that the area had once had a significant KKK presence it would not be a surprise either.  There was less than one percent minorities living in the town and despite its nearby access to an interstate highway it seemed purposefully isolated from the rest of the world.

For most my childhood neither the color of my skin nor the place of my mother’s birth had any meaning apart from its just being that way.  But when I moved to that small village, those around me ascribed to me its meaning.   Even though my white father grew up in the area, my El Salvadoran mother provided the one drop that made me non-white in the eyes of everyone around me.

I had no choice as to my racial identity.  Nor did I have a choice as to how people treated me as a result. 
No matter where I turned there was someone pointing there finger at me telling me I didn’t belong.  So, there was no way else to feel.

I was not white, so I was Hispanic.

I saw then, that the only way to gain control over my identity was to fully become it.  In order to do that, I had to strengthen the division between myself and whites.  I had to see them the same way they saw me:  not as an individual, but part of a whole; not similar, but different; not the same, but the other.

I held all whites accountable for the atrocities and injustices of the past, for their continued control over and participation in a prejudiced system, and their denial of their privileges created by it.

I was angry at whites for everything they had that non-whites didn’t. 

I blamed them for my suffering and the suffering of others like me, for their withholding of privileges, for my helplessness in their defining me.

***

Being ‘white’ is less about skin color than it is about acceptance and access to resources. 

Whiteness signifies wealth and opportunity.

White skin also carries a stigma of domination and exploitation.

***

Two years ago, I became white when I moved to Africa.

Living in Cameroon, kids call out to me, men greet me, and women talk to each other about me, all of them using the French and Fulfulde words meaning “white” in reference to me.  When I am called “blanche” or “Nassara” it is usually in a tone of curiosity, but in many ways it stirs the same sentiments of rejection as when I was growing up.  Although the languages are different, they have the same underlying meaning, which is “you don’t belong.”

The words are occasionally edged with a subtle or even not-so-subtle hostility.  When Western-African relations become strained, like in Libya or Ivory Coast, the ripples are felt in Cameroon.  The tone becomes more pronounced as politics rekindle the powerful feelings caused by a history of slavery and colonization.

Here, I have tried to explain that I am not exactly ‘white,’ but my efforts have been met with blank stares and disbelief.  There is only one meaning to the word ‘white’ here, and that is ‘money.’  It doesn’t matter that I live on a small stipend, my skin color denotes my income, and I am charged the highest prices. 

Sometimes I am accused of being a spy.  Whites are not to be trusted because relations with western countries have often resulted in the exploitation of resources.  For example, despite its proximity to Nigeria, an oil source for the world, gas prices here are nearly three times what they are in the United States.  Therefore, I am seen as rich at the expense of those who are poor.

Through the eyes of Africans, I am what I once believed others were.

I am white and all it denotes.

And because I am white, I now appreciate what it is like to be white.

I now understand what it is like to be held accountable for wrongdoings I did not commit but which were committed by the collective to whom I belong, to be so helplessly involved with something with which I do not agree, and to want to deny that I have silently accepted the privileges.

I now know what it is like to be angry at others because deep down I am angry at myself for being powerless to give them what I have enjoyed at their expense.   Some of those privileges I don’t even want to acknowledge because I never asked for them and for others I myself have had to fight.

And I now see how easy it can be to turn the blame outward and say they are not trying hard enough, or they do not want it enough, or they are excluding themselves.

***

The struggle is the same on both ‘sides.’ It is the struggle to have control over our own identities, to be able to define ourselves as individuals and not by the collectives to which we belong, and for our experiences to be believed, recognized, and understood.

In Eastern religion there is a story about a man who is enjoying himself in a boat on the river when he sees another boat coming his way.  He notices that it is quickly coming directly towards him, and so he stands up and begins to shout, then scream and wave for the boat to turn aside, but to no avail.  Finally, the two boats collide, and he sees that the other boat is empty.

I recently saw a photograph depicting a young Latina girl face to face with an older white male police officer during an immigration rally.  Her expression is fixed in angry defiance and his is indignant.  I immediately recognized myself in that girl - enraged by my vulnerability to be defined by others and convinced of my moral high ground.  But for the first time ever, I also saw myself in the man as well – furiously wanting to defend a system too secure to risk questioning. 

Underneath their different story lines there was the same experience:  the desperate need to be right for fear that they would lose their identities if they accept another.

While waiting for a car the other day, I saw a young Cameroonian man wearing a gaudy confederate flag belt buckle, the exact kind my old classmates used to wear as a symbol of hate.  Immediately, I felt repulsion and wanted to run to him to explain what it meant so that he would never wear it again.  But then I realized that it only had the significance that I gave it, so, I said nothing. 

By reacting to other’s attempts to define me, I have let them define me.

While surfing Facebook, I recently came across a friend’s frantic postings regarding an impromptu rally in response to the defilement of a large MLK mural in Columbus with a racial epithet.  People were outraged.

Most my life I have been outraged.  I’ve been in that boat raising my fists and screaming for change. I never realized that the only person I was up against was me, that the only person I could change was me.  All along it was just me in the boat, alone with my rage, my bitterness, and my righteousness. 

By believing in an enemy, I became the enemy.

In the racial divide, I no longer see myself on a side.  Nor do I think there is a “right side.” I only see that when there is more than one side, they are both wrong.