The more I live outside the United States, the more I realize what an anomaly it is. As a white American, I never had to question my race or self-image; it seems as though my whole life, the world which surrounded me catered to my own ideas of self, and I never had to contemplate what it meant to be white. It seemed to encompass my worldview, and I saw with, and things were presented to me through, a white perspective. I never knew of anything more.
I grew up in a rural town in Pennsylvania, and although there are stereotypes about those sorts of places, I think my lifestyle, education, and general experience was comparable to most other white Americans. The one large difference was the lack of diversity. Seeming natural to me at the time, almost everyone around me was white with a very, very few exceptions. Despite this, one of my best friends when I was in elementary school was African American. Although I was much too young and naive to contemplate the issues of race, I nonetheless saw him as just like me. The idea of skin color taking on symbolic meaning was completely unheard of as far as I was concerned. Many people will commend this “color blindness” view, and I myself would have defended it until recently, but I am beginning of realize that I cannot simply ignore race.
That friend of mine and I would eventually go in separate directions and even grow to dislike each other after a time. Later on, as I moved into higher levels of education, I would learn about ideas like race, slavery, inequality, and prejudice. I knew about the diversity of America, but I never really thought about it because I did not experience it at home. When I moved away to college I got my first real shock of the variation of people, including differences in skin color, background, wealth, gender, politics, religion, sexuality, and lifestyle. Never before had I met people with such varying experiences, and I learned much from everyone I met.
Just beginning to scratch the surface of looking through eyes other than my own, I had the fortunate experience of discussing race with some people in the Multicultural Affairs Office at Syracuse University. They challenged me to realize that the reality of America that I know is my own, but many others share realities much different than I. They tried to explain to me that being a Black American or Asian American or any minority race has its tribulations, things difficult to comprehend for they are nonexistent to me as a white American. I cannot say I fully understood their imparting words nor agreed with some of the things they said. Much later, with the hint of understanding I took from that conversation, I tried to justify the Black History Month celebration to my white friends. To celebrate Black history was, in their opinion, discrimination and “reverse racism,” for it gave praise to one people and placed inferior importance on others. I parroted the response i got from the Multicultural Affairs people, that white history is celebrated year-round, in text books, holidays, and everywhere in between. Black people have accomplishments and a a history that is discussed little and only as a sidebar to white history, as if Blacks existed only in reference to their White counterparts. I wasn’t able to convince them otherwise, which is fine because I’m not sure I had been convinced. I told myself, however, that at this point in my life I cannot comprehend what it means to be Black, or Latino, or Middle Eastern, or Asian, and that I would seek out new ideas and opinions in the future so that I may better understand and formulate my own beliefs.
That was about two years ago. It took me until now to realize that my mentors, the staff in the Multicultural Affairs Office, might be right, and that America is presented as a White nation. I had this epiphany about five minutes ago. My neighbors here in Cambodia were coloring in a book that my family sent from America. A picture of a little girl, obviously Caucasian with her big eyes and huge straight hair, was laying open, and I, glancing at it, didn’t notice anything right away. As I sat down on the other side of the room preparing to read, my eyes fell upon the picture again, and it caused me to stop and consider their artistry. My neighbors could have colored the little girl with any assortment of colors, but they chose a light pink for the skin and yellow for the hair. Thinking about it, I realized that they recognized someone that was not themselves, even in a black and white picture, and colored her accordingly. When I thought back, my coloring books had all been of people who looked like me. My money contained the images of my white ancestors, my god was fair skinned with brown hair, and the history books contained the images of the European conquerors I praised as founding fathers. My world was made up of people who looked like me.
What’s more, anyone of a different race, whether on the street on in a magazine, was obviously a foreigner or had a resent foreign ancestor. I understood these people to be Americans, but I think my unconscious mind constantly evoked ideas of foreign heritage. What is strange is that I never saw myself as foreign or other white people as potential immigrants. It is as if white people were nationals, that their presence in this land was a given as if they’d lived here all along. Even Native Americans, who traversed these lands long before the Europeans, seemed to be out of date, like Old English, and were strange and alien to me. Maybe a partial cause or example of this might reside in the names chosen for the races. African, Asian, Latin American, Middle Eastern, Pacific Islander, and all others contain references to their affiliate’s origins. Caucasian, a term which used to refer to peoples stretching from Western Europe to South Asia, has been appropriated to denote individuals of white skin color (at least in America). We do not call ourselves Europeans, but by a term that has lost geographical connotations as if, once again, white people were native to the land while all others came from distant places. Once again, I believe that these thoughts of mine were entirely on a subconscious level, though it may have influenced my conscious actions and beliefs. It is only as I sit here and write that I am able to pull these thoughts from somewhere, not knowing if they were real at one point or if I am just imagining, though deep inside I believe them to be true.
Not until I looked at the coloring book did it hit me: what does foreign mean to me? In Cambodia, people are constantly presented with images and ideas of foreignness, whether it is the U.S. dollars, which are accepted everywhere, the street signs, which contain English and Khmer, or the TV shows and billboards portraying “beautiful,” light-skinned people from other countries. Cambodians are constantly bombarded with ideas of what they are and what they are not. In America, my race was never challenged. I was what was natural and desirable, never foreign or strange. I never had to stop and consider the implications of my own actions in association with my appearance. I had a kind of sovereignty over my identity, not that I could control it, but that it was never questioned.
At some point in a baby’s life it can recognize itself in a mirror. I am curious when we are able to recognize foreignness, and what happens if we are never forced to look into the mirror and ask ourselves that question. I certainly never did when I was young, but I wonder now if my friend all those many years ago had any identity issues being the only African American kid living in the school district. I wonder if he was constantly aware of his skin color, unlike me. I wonder if he recognized foreignness in himself or in the people around him.
Quite opposite of the saying about the forest and the trees, I think white Americans cannot see the people for the society. The society is a kind of “reality” understood by all whites, and America’s society has a white identity, a white ethnicity. We subconsciously believe this even as we interact with peoples of varying diversities. We are not without cause to view this way, for a quick look around will reveal that whiteness dominates most sectors that involve power, including politics, business, and history. It is only a recent development, for instance, that America has seen other races (and genders for that matter) take commanding seats in the government. Therefore, it is easy for white Americans to identify with their like-skinned leaders and role models, for that which is powerful must be admirable and superior. In this way, they need never question the accepted establishment. However, people of other races may embrace a history and a collective experience that is dissimilar or even conflicting to that of whites. In a world dominated by white people who endorse the existing establishment of white dominance, minority people may have a few qualms with the status quo.
I do not believe that white Americans desire to keep people of other races in check or subservient, but I think we have developed a reality where we are comfortable. A person’s reality is so ingrained in their sense of self that an attack on their reality and almost like a personal assault. In this way, any time a minority brings up the the issue of race, white Americans get very defensive. The best example I can think of is my argument with my friends about Black History Month. In celebrating African Americans, whites, for once, are marginalized, for once are denied, and we notice it like a slap in the face. For once, the minority group is not the footnote of the majority story, which instead takes a back row seat to the praise and glory of the minority. The idea of a white-dominated America is shattered, and our reality, and therefore our identity and personal sovereignty, is attacked. I think this helps to explain some white resistance to a more racially integrated and equal society.
Some people, understanding that race is a human invention, think that the best coarse of action is to reject all notions of race and assume a “color blind” viewpoint. I, myself, favored this approach for a long time. The people in the Multicultural Affairs Office told me, however, that color blindness is a common viewpoint for many white people, but is not a completely positive stance on race. By endorsing that view, they told me, you deny minority people their claim to their own reality and any plights they face by making race a non-issue. The reality is that race is an issue, one that has few consequences for whites but many for other minority people. The reality is that race is a part of our history, and although we may choose not to follow its dogma, we can nevertheless not reject its existence and implications. We must understand that reality is based on experiential knowledge, and there is no one single reality for there is no one single experience.
I have since come to realize that this “reality” I am so fond of is really just a white perspective of the world. While I may be perfectly happy with the way things are, the status quo may be completely intolerable for other Americans, hence the creation of things like Black History Month. The real color blindness, it seems, is white Americans’ own inability to recognize their own race and the implications it has for them. We do not question what is good and easy, for why should we when it brings only happiness. It is only when we are alienated, made to suffer, and/or denied equality that we notice something is wrong. It is only then that we experience what it means not to be white.
This article was written as if presenting facts, though I claim none of it to be. It is simply the thoughts I have attained and feel like sharing. I believe that through dialogue we can grow as a single human race, and I hope to promote it with my writings. If the reader should agree or disagree, I invite you to please comment on this piece. I am not opposed to having my mind changed or admitting I was incorrect.
