Over the years of doing this column I have frequently written about race and racism. Affirmative action, reparations, achievement gap, sports, village identity, crime, high school discipline and the legacy of slavery have been frequent ideas for columns. I have had strong views on the subject, which have evolved over time. I have sometimes written to provoke and have succeeded.
Recent national events pretty clearly indicate that Gunnar Myrdahl’s American Dilemma is not going to be resolved anytime soon. The high school’s African American-exclusive “Black Lives Matter” forum was a recent local reminder of the unsettled state of these matters, even in liberal, integrated Oak Park. Race and racism deserve analysis and discussion.
But I am done with discussing race and racism because I’ve concluded that I have no idea what I’m talking about. Although I have read a lot of African American history and literature, and watched lots of African American themed movies, avidly follow the NBA, have had some African American acquaintances and have lived here since 1976, I don’t know anything about being black.
I have never been pulled over in my car because of my race. No one ever moves to another seat on the el or crosses the street when they see me. No one ever asks me what white people think about an issue. No teacher ever suggested that my child shouldn’t take honors classes. No one ever called me the “n” word. My grandparents and parents weren’t beaten, lynched, fired or humiliated because of their race. I’ve never experienced a drive-by shooting or had my son join a gang or have a friend, loved one, parent, child or grandchild murdered. I have never been involved in the criminal justice or welfare system. Not only have I never experienced these things, I don’t even know people who have.
So as much as I might want to participate in a “courageous conversation about race,” or spout uninformed opinion, I’m afraid I don’t really have anything to say.
From now on, I think I will just listen.
