Asking the hard question: Am I racist?

The headlines the last few weeks make my stomach turn.

Another black man — a child of God — senselessly and brutally murdered by the same people sworn to protect him.

A woman using her privilege and the unspoken, but loudly observed bias of local law enforcement to try and have a man arrested because she didn’t like that he asked her to follow the rules.

And there is more.

There is always more.

Which is precisely the problem.

From my comfortable home in a gated community in a predominantly white county I read the headlines, see the photos, watch the videos and feel horrified! Outraged! Physically sick, really.

I vow to make a difference by educating myself, talking to friends and colleagues of color to better understand their fears, and to raise my kids to know and do better.

But does any of it really make a difference?

Earlier this year my eldest daughter and I spent five days driving to six different colleges throughout Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee for her to tour. On our first night we stayed at a hotel I’d booked in advance in Newport News, VA. A name brand chain hotel, with an affordable price.

As we arrived at the building after dark, and drove into the parking lot, I started to feel a little uncomfortable about the location. We walked in and I saw the Plexiglas barrier between me and the front desk associate and the scantily dressed, loud guests walking in and out of the lobby and I began to feel even more uncomfortable. I’ve stayed in my fair share of sketchy places over the years — I’m no princess — but I had my 16 year old daughter with me, and this mama bear was worried about just how safe we would be at this hotel, where sound proofing walls and cleaning under the beds, were clearly not top priority.

After we checked in and dropped our bags, we went back out to the car to find a pharmacy and a place for dessert. As soon as we got in the car and closed our doors a man began to approach my window. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and noted I hadn’t locked the doors yet.

I rolled my window down about 5 inches — just enough to talk to him, but not enough for him to easily reach inside. He told us how he and his wife were stuck there with a sick kid and a broken down car and needed to get his child home. Did I have any money to spare to help them rent a car? With my heart pounding and acutely aware that my daughter was watching my every move, I gave him what little cash I had and said I would pray for his family. He graciously thanked me and we drove away.

The man was black.

I have since asked myself a dozen times, would I have been just as nervous and on-edge if it had been a white man who approached us in that dark parking lot?

My head says yes, but…there is part of me that wonders.

And I know what you might be thinking, because you’re all kind, lovely people. You might say to me, “Oh well that wasn’t racism, that was you already being in a scary situation and wanting to be cautious.” Or maybe you’d say, “But look! You helped him. You gave him money and prayed for him.”

Both statements are true, but I feel like I still need to ask myself the hard question: Would I have been just as afraid, if it was a white man who approached my car that night?

Because here’s the thing, if I don’t ask myself that question, then I can’t challenge myself to do better. To BE better.

It’s too easy to say I don’t have any prejudice and believe it because it isn’t glaring; because I have friends of color whom I love and respect.

But it’s not that blatant racists — the neo-Nazi, white supremacists — that we really have to worry about in this world. Their hatred is obvious and, in a way, that makes it less scary because you know what you’re gonna get with them.

What we really have to be afraid of — what my black friends who are raising sons have to be afraid of — is the hidden prejudice and systematic racism that is infecting our communities and our hearts. The people who would swear up and down they love all of God’s creatures and “don’t see color”. (Which I’m sorry, but just no; we all see color.)

Yet when confronted by a man in a park, they call the police.

Or when driving in a “black neighborhood” they lock their doors and tighten their hands on their steering wheel.

Or when seeing images of a black man kneeling at a football game they get highly offended and call him “entitled”, “disgusting”, or worse.

We have to be afraid of those hidden prejudices, because when we think we aren’t part of the problem it’s too easy to look the other way, or be sideline commentators who aren’t actually doing a darn thing to change what’s going on.

What’s still going on.

So, I don’t know the answer to my question — whether I have hidden prejudices I’ve overlooked — but I sure as heck know I need to be closely examining my heart and asking that question.

Then I need to get up, get out of my comfort zone, and do something about it.

Because hasn’t it already been too long?

Featured image by Joshua Hanks on Unsplash