I am not a racist.
…and neither is George W. Bush, apparently. Now, I haven’t read his book, nor did I see Kanye West’s post-Katrina accusation, or any recent interviews with Bush or West. So my highly informed opinion is based on clips I’ve heard on the radio–of Matt Lauer’s interviews, to be precise…
What struck me most was George II’s deep pain at being called racist. (Well, West actually said he “doesn’t care about black people,” which, I suppose, is about the same thing.) Yes, looking back on one of the most devastating disasters in our history, the president is most concerned about his image and fragile feelings. Mr. Lauer was also concerned about this, so he checked in with West, emphasizing that this was the only time in the entire 3-hour interview when G-II became emotional. Not, it would seem, about the tragic loss of life and cataclysmic damage to personal property and an historic city. Nope, he was crying because mean Mr. West said he didn’t care about black people. Poor President Bush: he’s so sensitive. (Lauer went back to Bush after speaking with West to get a response to his response–way to make the news, Matt.)
Which, of course, has nothing to do with me. Except…
I was a party a few weeks ago, at a friend’s house, let’s call her V. I didn’t know anyone there, except V’s immediate family. It was a big party, so I got a drink and milled about. I met new people, sat with some of them at dinner, exchanged contact information. A good evening all around. In the car on the way home, I got to thinking. Most of the people at V’s party were African-American. Most of the people I talked with were white. Not all, but most.
Did I do that? Not on purpose, of course, but still… Or did we all do it, black and white alike. I told this story to another friend, M, who had a similar experience. M has gone a number of unintentionally segregated parties. She attributes the chromatic separation to the fact that the host’s white friends and black friends are from different parts of her life, and don’t know each other. Each group hangs out with the people they know, who all happen to be the same color. I don’t have this excuse, since I didn’t know the black people or the white people. But it could be part and parcel of the same impulse. Right? I’m not racist.
A few days later, I was at a restaurant, trying to flag down our server–a slim, young, Asian woman. It took only moments for me to discover that all the servers were slim, young, Asian women. Not in a uniform, but all in variations of black and white: stripes, solids, plaid even. I had no idea which one was ours. My companion was equally flummoxed. We shared a slightly embarrassed they-all-look-alike moment, and enjoyed a good belly-laugh before I caught the first server passing by to make my request.
I’m not a racist.
So why do I feel vaguely icky about these two events? I feel guilty, even. But, really… should I make a greater effort to talk to everyone at a party? If I pay attention to the color of their skin for a more balanced party-going experience, is that affirmative action socializing? Racial profiling? Would that be even worse? What if we have nothing to talk about, should I soldier on, just to be balanced? And would I have recognized my server any better if she had been white? Probably not. Maybe I’m not a racist, but a classist?!
No, I don’t actually think I’m racist. But I’m not color blind either. And I sort of expect myself to be. I think I should probably lower the bar on this one. I can admit that I am more comfortable around people like me. And, really, that’s not unreasonable–we all are, based on any number of factors, not just skin color. They call them affinity groups, and affinity groups are good too, as long as you’re not friends with Bernie Madoff, that is.