Breathing While Black

I love American history. As a child I couldn't get enough of it, specifically mass movements that were ultimately about American Progress—stories of men and women who fearlessly advanced noble causes that inspired and empowered their fellow citizens for generations to come. You know who they are, the ones we've named schools and streets after.

I don't mean to be glib; I'm just deeply discouraged. It comes with adulthood I suppose, along with the realization that American Progress has never been a steady march forward—that for every legal and moral stride this nation has taken, some noxious legislative obstruction and petty grievance has stood in the way, the overarching goal (crafted by some frightened, shrinking base of power) being to maintain a status quo that is deeply rooted in racial inequality, be it in housing, employment, education, criminal justice or treatment in police custody. You know, those pursuit of happiness things that the armed (and un-arrested) Michigan protesters are so fond of.

So what am I, a middle-aged white man, talking about? I'm talking about privilege, my privilege. Why now? Because another black man in America (accused of committing a non-violent offense) was killed with cruel indifference by police while in their custody.

Relax, I am not going to rail against cops. I'm sure it's a tough job on a good day. But just as there are lousy teachers, lawyers, judges, engineers, computer programmers, systems analysts, nurses, doctors, and self-serving politicians . . . . there are plenty of bad cops, too. But this isn't about them.

It's about me and my privilege. To be fair, I don't believe I've received an institutional helping hand at any important phase of my life, some artificial boost because of the color of my skin. On the contrary, I would say I have largely pushed through problems (either those of my own making or one of life's routine hurdles) on my own or with the help of friends and family—a luxury I have always taken for granted. Therefore, I can state unequivocally that my whiteness has never gotten in my way, ever. But why would it in a nation whose history and laws (both written and unwritten) have never been objectively stacked against me?

For example, on many summer days I head to the lakes of South Minneapolis. To get there, I drive down a stretch of I-94 that splits northern Minneapolis in two; the largely white population on the east side of the freeway from the largely African-American population to the west. Always anxious to get where I'm going, I often struggle to drive even close to the posted speed limit of 60 mph, and occasionally heap a little scorn on the various rule followers I pass along the way. But over time I began to notice something. None of the drivers going 60 mph or less were white. Not one. Ever. The simple act of driving from one place to another without fear of being pulled over had been reduced to the only difference I could see—skin color. That's it. And what's worse, the only people I have ever seen pulled over in this notorious I-94 speed trap were African-American. Every time. Anecdotal evidence, sure. But can anyone really chalk it up to coincidence? I can't. Getting safely from Point A to Point B (something we all do a mind-numbing number of times in our lives) shouldn't be a privilege, but too often it is. 

I'm certain that from time to time in my life I have been considered many things by people who have known me: boring, lame, sarcastic, aloof, detached, selfish, long-winded. But I can guarantee that no stranger has ever regarded me as a potential threat based solely on the color of my skin. That is a privilege I never earned but an unjust, systemic, centuries-old shackle African-Americans wear every day of their lives. Why is that so hard for this nation to admit to itself and accept as true? Are we so afraid that if we do our carefully crafted mythology of Exceptionalism might crumble? My God, even Germany faced up to and took responsibility for the worst twelve years of human history (1933-45). To this day, all Germans are required to learn about their horrific Nazi past (how it happened and why), not as a shaming device, but as a tool for teaching tolerance and understanding. To use a dated expression, the German government and its people manned up. Heaven forbid that we might ever do the same and acknowledge that our tragic history of race relations was—AND STILL IS—rooted in America's original sin, slavery. Are we so insecure and jingoistic that Love It or Leave It has replaced our national motto, E Pluribus Unum: Out of Many, One? Is that all we are now? Is that all we've ever been?

I don't know. But President Kennedy—a keen student of history and a man who understood his privilege and yet still devoted his life to public service—did. He cut to the crux of the matter fifty-seven long years ago:

"The heart of the question is whether all Americans are to be afforded equal rights and equal opportunities, whether we are going to treat our fellow Americans as we want to be treated. If an American . . . cannot enjoy the full and free life which all of us want, then who among us would be content to have the color of his skin changed and stand in his place?"

Who indeed.