On not being a racist

Abigail Wheetly
Feckless Pondering

I like to think that I am not a racist. In school, when February came, I drew pictures of black children and white children holding hands. In history class now I am affected by the film of police dogs being set on black protesters. I tell myself I would never judge any one on the color of their skin.

I am a good person and I support the idea of racial harmony and love.

A few weeks ago, I watched a documentary about the Nazi Youth in World War II Germany. They were children, preteens and teen-agers who rounded up Jews, dispersed information and propaganda and participated in the Holocaust, albeit from a distance. After the war was over, as a punishment to those too young to be charged with war crimes, the Nazi Youth was taken to the concentration camp sites and shown the death and suffering that they had helped cause.

One such woman, very old now, was still bitter about that punishment. She was no longer a Nazi and felt remorseful about what happened but could not see herself as someone who should have been punished. "What am I guilty of?" she asked. "Of being enthusiastic about something? Of shouting 'hail' with my arm outstretched?"

I thought her question a good one. She didn't personally kill anyone. In fact, those who did not participate were often put under suspicion, and some were arrested. The only thing that she is guilty of is what most citizens of Germany were guilty of, which is accepting without question the ideas of their society.

As I said, I don't want think of myself as a racist. There is, however, societal rules that I willingly follow that I know are not right.

There is a part of town that is mainly African-American. There is nothing legal to put one color in one part, or to keep out any one person from any neighbor hood; that would be archaic and illegal. However, we all know who lives there, and we accept that the houses are cheaper, the property taxes lower and the streets and schools ill-equipped.

One day, driving through such a neighborhood, I noticed a park, one very much like Turley or Evergreen parks, only not in the side of town that I take my children to. It seemed clean, safe and with the same structures that any other park has. I had yet, in five years, to take my children there. What disturbed me more than anything is that I had never thought about it. I hadn't said to myself, "I don't want my children playing with black children." Not only had I not said it, it isn't true. My children have played with black children, and I was relieved to see that it didn't bother me.

I hadn't said to myself, "That part of town is unsafe." Actually, there is a park where I do occasionally take my children where there is not lighting at night, and as a result, in the daytime, there are bottles and used condoms on the ground. I have to make a quick round of the premises before I can let them lose. I take them there, and not to the other park because that is what I feel is expected. By whom, I couldn't say. But I know I am not alone, and I know that the ability to even realize that we obey unwritten rules is not easy.

I don't want to contribute to something that is wrong. I don't like accepting that when a white child is murdered it will be taken more seriously and investigated more fully than when a black child is.

I am insulted that popular culture is geared toward a white audience and that we are pandered to and shown stereotypes that we do readily accept. I know that I would usually testify that my classrooms are diverse; however, when I find myself to be one of the six or seven white people in a room full of African-Americans, I can feel the difference. And I am bothered that we, the white members of society, only talk about these things behind closed doors so that we don't say anything that might seem racist.

I want to be a better person, the type who takes her children to the "other park" not as a political statement but because it seems like a nice place to play.

The young Nazi girl was probably loved, smart and even-tempered and yet she allowed herself to be part of something bigger and more destructive than she could have comprehended at the age she was.

Am I a racist? I really don't think so.

But am I guilty? Yes, I am.

And when the day comes I hope I can face my accusers with the knowledge, at least, that I was aware.

Feckless Pondering appears every other Friday. Abigail is a senior in English. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the Daily Egyptian.

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