Boxes. I have a lot of stuff in a lot of boxes. A funny thing happens when you start packing up your home, you start digging through your closets and discovering junk that you forgot existed (hello garage sale!); you also come across things that you forgot existed but remember the important reason why you tucked them away. As I was packing I came across a box of letters that I'd saved from a pen pal I had just over 20 years ago (sigh, I'm old enough to have had a pen pal 20 years ago). These letters began when I was around 11, back in the days when people actually sent each other letters. My pen pal's name was Erica and lived in North Carolina. I never actually met Erica, but I still considered her to be a friend and confidant. My mother suggested I begin a correspondence with someone when she saw an ad from one of our church's magazines from an agency that matched kids from the U.S. that had similar interests and ages. So I filled out my self-addressed, stamped envelope and began exchanging letters and cards young Erica, who was slightly older than me (a few months is a big deal when you're eleven). I saved some of these letters along with a picture that she'd sent me and had them stowed away in the back of my closet.
If my memory serves me well, Erica and I wrote each other for about a year. We talked about the typical things pre-teen girls talk about. I enjoyed receiving her letters and writing back to her. We even convinced our parents to let us call each other long distance once or twice (this was before cell phones, internet, and Skype, after all). One fateful day we decided to send each other a photograph of ourselves, since we had no idea what the other person looked like. I was so excited when the letter came that held the picture of my distant pal. It was the first thing I looked at when I opened the envelope. Everything about Erica was just as she had described: glasses, brown hair, slim. She had a gorgeous smile and straight, white teeth that would make anyone jealous. She was a very pretty girl, but there was something about her that I wasn't expecting: Erica was black.
Now, before you gasp at my racist remark, let me say this: I wouldn't have cared if Erica was purple (though I'd probably have some questions about how she attained such a lovely hue). Also, she'd never mentioned anything about her color. Not that she had to, but at the time it struck me as odd and I felt silly for picturing a girl who looked more like me than her; so I mentally adjusted the image that I'd had of her in my head, set the picture down, and began reading her letter. It began as the typical letter that I would get: she answered the questions I'd asked in my last correspondence, asked some follow-up questions about something I'd said, and told me about school. She signed her name. And there, under her signature, she wrote: "P.S. I hope you don't mind that I'm black."
"I hope you don't mind that I'm black." I read that part over again and couldn't for the life of me figure out why she wrote it. Why would I mind? There wasn't anything wrong with being black, but yet the line sounded so apologetic, as if she was asking me to forgive her for having more melanin than me. It didn't make any sense. I didn't know how to respond. Then, I did the unthinkable, I asked my mom what I should say.
My parents taught me and my brothers that everyone was different and that was what made the human race so awesome. We were different, but the same. They taught us to choose our friends based on the content of their character, not the color of their skin or any other discriminating factors. So, you can imagine my surprise that my mother wasn't surprised by what Erica had said. She asked me if I did care that my friend was black. I didn't, why should I? And furthermore, why would anyone care? Then my mom's face took on a sad expression. It was an expression I imagine many parents get when they have to tell their child something about the world that they had hoped they'd never have to tell them. My mom was going to have to take away a piece of my innocence and it pained her to do it...because I knew about racism, I knew about our ugly history of segregation and Indian removal and how white people used to treat people who didn't look like them, but I didn't know it was still happening. I was sheltered from that. I didn't know that people still decided whether or not they like somebody by the color of their skin. I still don't know if that was a good or bad thing. I do know that it means that I had good examples of how to treat people, though.
I didn't care that Erica was black and the thought that she thought I might really bothered me. I wrote her back and told her it didn't make any difference to me, she was Erica and that was what was important. How differently I would have responded today, because it has only been recently that I've learned what really bothered me about that little post script: I was taught to see color. I was taught that every experience that you've had, where you're from, what you believe, the language you speak, the color of your skin, and so many other things are all a part of who you are. I've met so many white people that think they should get a gold medal because they are friends with someone of a different race, and often it's because the "friend" "doesn't act (insert race here)." Erica's world seemed to be one of whitewashing: white people accepted her if she acted white. My world was one where color was recognized as part of who you are. It didn't define you, but it added to you.
Race doesn't matter. That's one of the biggest lies I've ever heard. Of course race matters. I have some wonderful friends of varied backgrounds and races. Two of my dearest friends are black and native. I bring up their race because it's important. I bring up their race because it's a part of them and it's part of why I love them. For me, right or wrong, not mentioning this seems like denying that part of them exists. They bring so much to my world because of who they are. How unfortunate would I be if they "acted white" around me? What new insights and perspectives would I be missing out on? Knowing who they are as individuals of a different race keeps me in check. It deters racism and stereotypes. The ugly truth is, they probably have to hide some part of who they are, or hold their tongue against bigoted remarks because it's still a white man's world. Saying that race doesn't matter is like saying being white is the only thing that matters. Maybe that sounds a little overboard, but think about it: we focus on stereotypes because we don't actually know people of another race aside from small talk. How many times have your heard, "well, she didn't sound black" or "he's more like us"? If you're a white chick like me you've heard it a lot.
I've never had to deal with the things that people of other races have had to deal with. Sure, I've had false assumptions made about me: that I don't take care of my skin because I have adult acne and scarring, that I had the morals of an alley cat because of the width of my hips (which I actually find hilariously idiotic), and that I don't celebrate birthdays because I'm Seventh-day Adventist (wrong denomination, people), but these were only misconceptions vocalized by a few people so I can shrug them off as ignorance and move on. What if the majority of people I interacted with on a daily basis made these assumptions about me? How would I feel? Would I start making apologies for myself? "I hope you don't mind that I have scars." "Sorry about my wide hips." "Just forget I'm SDA for a minute." Doesn't that sound ridiculous? And yet there are people that are basically having to apologize for who they are every day so they can fit in and make it in this society. I can't be the only one who sees the wrong in this. We can't say that racism is going away or getting better when so many are having to work twice as a hard and deny parts of who they are just to get half of what the majority gets.
If I responded to Erica today, I would tell her this: I care that you're black. I care because the color of your skin is part of who you are and it's part of what makes you special. I'm sorry if there are people in your life that make the fact that your skin is different from theirs an issue. I hope that you are proud of your heritage and who you are. I pray that the world changes so you never feel like not being white is a problem. It isn't a problem. Don't believe anyone who tells you that it is.
I guess my point is this, don't deny someone the right to be who they are. Don't be afraid of someone just because they speak a little differently than you or if they have darker skin or if they're tall or short or have freckles. You're only letting yourself down by not getting to know the wonderful tapestry of people that God created. Don't limit yourself by limiting others.
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