Humor by John Christmann
People of Color
This was a good, long weekend for people of color. On Saturday, the gold Saints and the blue Colts prevailed in their race to the Super Bowl. The following day the purple Vikings and the green New York Jets rounded out the list of playoff contenders.
In the end zone, fans without dignity, hair, or winter coats painted their skin in support of their teams while on the sidelines a bunch of white guys, a bunch of black guys, and a few large Samoans, identified only by their colored jerseys, pummeled each mercilessly as men in black and white stripes kept order.
If this wasn’t colorful enough, at the movie theaters the fighting blue warriors from Pandora continued their undefeated run to Avatar box office dominance as they saved their world from a ruthless band of multiracial corporate mercenaries armed with loud weapons and really bad hair cuts.
Then, on Sunday night, the red carpet rolled out to the Golden Globe Awards and we were able to witness a parade of beautiful people in exquisite color-rich designer gowns and black evening wear make their way into the Beverly Hilton Hotel to win some awards for something important before we grew bored and went to bed.
Finally, the day after, as we remembered Martin Luther King Jr., we got to be Monday morning quarterbacks and contemplate what it really means to be a person of color.
Now before I stick a Harry Reid in my mouth and make a complete Imus of myself addressing race in this country, there is something that has always bothered me: When, as a white guy, do I get to earn my stripes and have some hue? Because I would really like to be considered a man of color in the world today without having to paint the left half of my face yellow and moving to Green Bay.
But according to the official rule book for responsible labeling—Wikipedia—I cannot be considered a “person of color” because the term was coined by white people to identify people who are not white.
I blame this state of affairs on my distant European ancestors who ruthlessly ran across the world with an entitled sense of supremacy in the absence of men in stripes to throw penalties. These arrogant people considered anyone wearing a different color jersey to be inferior and worthy of exploitation.
It’s too bad they couldn’t have seen their two-toned progeny in the end zones of the NFL playoff games this past weekend, or they might have rethought their relative position in the world.
Sadly, the social issues that surround racial differences are institutionalized now, and extend far beyond differences in skin color. And until this is reconciled, I may never be considered a person of color. At least by Wikipedia.
Recently my son read To Kill A Mockingbird in school. This is the famous book written by Harper Lee which explores themes of benevolence and courage through the innocent eyes of a young girl as her father—Atticus Finch, the only lawyer in town who looks like Gregory Peck—defends a black man against a crime he did not commit in a town that would prefer lynching to trial.
The story is powerful, and lays bare racism at its ugliest.
My son had to write a paper taking the point of view of one of the book’s minor characters using quotes lifted directly from the text. He chose to write from the perspective of the prosecuting attorney; only to discover that the quotes Harper Lee gave him to work with violated his moral codes, not to mention those of political correctness arbiters everywhere.
“I can’t write this!” he protested. “It makes me sound like a racist!”
“I think that’s the point.” I told him. “Racism is something that takes courage to acknowledge and confront; in yourself and in others. And despite our revulsion, we must acknowledge that we live in a world shaped by centuries of injustice.”
And so, in the space of two paragraphs, during the middle of his cross examination, the prosecuting attorney discovered the ugliness of his ways while still managing to fulfill his obligation to the legal profession as a ruthless trial lawyer. By the end of the trial, and the paper, the enlightened character had become more like an outraged juror—the only juror in town who looked like Henry Fonda.
If only it were that simple.
“Dad?” my son asked me hesitantly, “Are you . . . racist?”
No, I told him. “I like to think I am ‘race sensitive’. I want to acknowledge and support differences without assumption of superiority.”
But I had to think a minute. We had just seen the movie Avatar and at one point during the film I briefly considered how the ten-foot tall, superior blue aliens from the moon Pandora could easily dominate the Super Bowl.
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