Race to the finish

I want to tell you about a guy I’ll call “Ron.” That’s an alias. I didn’t pick a goofy one, because Ron’s story isn’t particularly funny.

 

See, Ron is a racist.

 

What makes that difficult to admit is that Ron and I have a history going back to grade school; we’ve got one of those rare bonds that’s forged through the sheer accumulation of years and common experience. Our friendship dissolved just before the holidays, not with a climactic blowout but in a quiet, melancholy moment which passed sadly at the site of so many of our shared memories.

 

I was back home for Christmas. A mutual friend of ours, “Ken” – a non-racist, and absolute sweetheart – was paying me a visit. As we were sitting at the kitchen table, swapping war stories over foamy microbrews, Ken got a text. “Ron’s in town,” he said. “Do you mind if he pops by?”

 

It was easy to say yes. Months had passed since I had last seen Ron. Years before, he had attended law school in Florida, and after passing that state’s bar exam, got a job with a firm just outside of Miami. Distance, and his commitment to his career, had prevented us from engaging in the kind of laugh-laden backslapping that was typical of so many moments in our now-distant youth. It also prevented me from witnessing just how much he had changed.

After exchanging a few pleasantries and chuckling over some old tales from our high school days, the talk turned to politics, world affairs, and education. We shared the view that the educational system in America was in dire straights. We did not agree as to why.

 

“There are so many minorities in the Florida school system,” he said. “They drag the white kids down. They’d be learning at a much higher level if only the other kids could speak English.”

 

Sometimes a comment hits you with the force of a violent thunderclap, jolting you into a moment with crystalline clarity. And I didn’t say anything. To my shame.

 

“A black guy, a Hispanic guy, and an Irishman walk into a bar.” A lot of jokes start off that way. I’ve chuckled at a few; told a few. Maybe you have, too. I’ve always justified it by claiming that the humor in such jokes can be found in the fact that their very basis, the logic on which they’re built, is spectacularly untrue. Hyperbole is funny. Mentally, I always wiggled my way out of guilt by telling myself that if a black guy, Hispanic guy, and an Irishman did happen to walk into a bar, they would be judged on their relative merits, and not on the odious stereotyping that provides the punchline. That’s easy to do in a region that’s overwhelmingly white; there are fewer tests of character, fewer opportunities to rise to the promise of enlightenment.

 

You coast on cognitive dissonance. And then you encounter a serious comment so disgusting, so morally reprehensible, that it shocks you into contrition. 

 

Some will tell you that racism is no longer a problem in this country. Look, they say, at all the advances that have been made. Jim Crow segregation, internment camps for Japanese-Americans, slavery – all dusty relics of a distant and bygone age. Those were historical blips, they argue, with no residual effects, no need to ensure that the long march of progress doesn’t stumble and fall.

 

It’s a fool’s argument. In a nation where all people are supposedly presumed equal, it’s difficult to realize that some are still considered less equal than others. The signs are more subtle. But that’s exactly why it’s important to not become complacent. You don’t ease up on the gas when the finish line is still so far away.

 

A few years ago, my mother backed up some old home movies to DVD in an effort to preserve them digitally – an invaluable resource for miners of personal history. I watched one of them recently. It featured footage from my sixth grade graduation ceremony, a folding-chair event in a gymnasium awash in orange light. The principal, Mr. Whitfield, was handing out certificates for various accomplishments, like high grades or good attendance. One by one he read our names, and one by one we walked to the podium to collect our prizes. At one point, he called Ron’s name; and a few seconds later, out of the edge of the frame, a 12-year-old boy appeared, all gangly limbs and goofy smile. My heart broke. Because I could see our future: Joyrides in his boat-like Lincoln, nighttime tennis in a misty rain, school video projects filmed at the kitchen table. The very table where, 20 years later, he would reveal a sad and sorry prejudice.

 

I’ll never know if the grinning boy in that clip was innocent, only to be warped by an ignorant tribalism, or whether the seeds of racism were already sown. I’d like to think that bigotry is learned, that we’re born free of pernicious worldviews, but who can say for sure? It’s hard not having an answer to that question.

 

I’ve been fortunate enough to make some close friends in my life, and collectively they hold wide-ranging views on a variety of topics, from politics to religion and the nature of morality; and that’s fine. In many cases, our differences make our friendships stronger. There comes a point, though, when you have to acknowledge that someone has chosen a path you simply can’t follow. Your values have just evolved in different directions. And that’s painful. It’s unfair. But it’s life.

 

Most everyone has heard the old Edmund Burke bromide: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” When Ron dropped his bombshell, I had a chance to say something and didn’t. But I do have one action left to me. If Ken once more sits at the table and asks if Ron is allowed to visit, I can simply say no.

 

A black guy, a Hispanic guy, and an Irishman walk into a bar. I forget the rest. It doesn’t matter anymore.