Race has always been a fuzzy area for me.
I was raised in Southern Florida, an area blessed with vibrant cultural diversity. Black Americans, white Americans, Cubans, Haitians (sak pase zanmi mwen yo!), people from all over the Caribbean, Central and South America, Asia, proud Southerners, Yankees, French Canadians, a healthy Jewish population, a growing Muslim community—all call sunny South Florida their home.
I’m also mixed, which often led to some confusion. In kindergarden, I remember my mother asking me, after hanging up the telephone, “Why did you tell your teacher I was black?”
It made sense at the time. I knew Whitney Houston was black; I knew my mom was darker than Whitney: totally logical in my five year-old head. “It’s complicated,” being her answer to why she was, in fact, not black. “…I’m confused,” being my reply.
Photos of my sister and I at the beach with white-blond hair and near-black skin, my father’s green eyes, my aunt Roseni’s afro, the rainbow of children I went to school with… none of it made any sense.
I first encountered racism not directly, but through the struggle of my black friends. I was sickened when I witnessed first-hand that people actually were pulled over for “driving while black.” After that incident—livid and set for revolution—I asked my friend, who seemed saddened but not too fussed, how he could be alright with what just happened. “It’s okay, Andrew. That’s how these things are.”
Racism is still alive and well. You know who can attest to that? Black people. They know because they encounter it every day of their lives. It’s white people who think they’re doing everyone this big favour.
It was only when I came to New Zealand that I discovered just how “white” white people could be, and not only New Zealanders but other Americans. Foolishly, I’d always assumed that “my” American was the same as the rest of American; in many ways, it was more of a culture shock meeting students from Minnesota and Tennessee than it was meeting Kiwis. You always assume that your ways are the ways of the world…. or at least your own country. This is why we travel; it’s a big world… and a big country.
New Zealand has its own struggle with racism.
There’s a healthy dose of stereotyping on TV, especially the ads: Instant Finance commercials—predatory lenders—marketing directly to Maori and Pacific Islanders. “SPLAY AND WARK AWAY!” Melanesians talking American jive, trying to get their phones reconnected, “It’ my cousin’ fault. Mmm-hmm.” What’s the reasoning behind this? What does it serve?
This appalling ‘warrior gene’ theory—which says more about the motives of the ‘scientist’ than about any claim to science—was a basic human rights infringement. Did you ever ask yourself why someone would sit down and try to ‘prove’, scientifically, that Maori were more prone to violence than other races? Where do you even go from there? “Oh, just flag ‘em… they’re built wrong.”
It’s a convenient diagnosis which allows for no prognosis, to make that status quo appear more acceptable. The real solutions to these issues—for which there are no shortage of examples, the world over, whenever one group is marginalised by another—involves a questioning of our societal values, our moral framework, challenging our assumptions, and a genuine willingness to meet in the middle. Racism is more convenient.
There’s this nonsense about the ‘h’ in Wanganui, with morons saying they’ll fight the decision all the way. “It is an attack upon the integrity of my city. […] an affront to democracy and every concept of equity.”
What? There’s no need to wrap yourself in the flag; just spell the word right.
It’s not as if Wanganui is some bastion of racial equality. Shall we shamelessly pander to people’s prejudice for political reasons? Do you know where that road leads?
Whether it’s those ‘white power’ boys or the Mongrel Mob, their racism and hatred all stem from the same place: ignorance, intolerance, and a demonisation of the Other. You really wanna keep fanning the flames?
“Oh, but the local dialect doesn’t even pronounce the ‘h!’” Good, you’ll have less to change; you can keep calling in ‘Wanganui’. But spell the damned word right!
This is meaningless conversation… absolutely meaningless.
It’s not as if we’re in an era of economic prosperity where you could actually afford to play the wedge issue, Mr. Laws—to which we’re now all grotesquely accustomed. That’s what this is, a wedge issue designed to keep you divided.
You stick the wedge to the wood, bang on it with a hammer and the wood comes apart. It’s breaking your house—trashing your house—and when the foundation’s gone you’ll have to lay a whole new slab. You all live in same house; do yourself a favour, stop it.
Mum was right; it is complicated. To be completely fair, New Zealand, you’re doing better than a lot of places. Of course, these things aren’t easily changed. But the change has to start somewhere. Let it start with you. We’ll get there eventually. Early days now… baby-steps.
That’s the beauty of this Obama presidency. A young, African-American family now lives in big White House built by slaves. I’d never thought I’d live to see a black President in my lifetime; I’ve never been prouder to call myself an American. We’ve finally started the 21st century. This is the natural progression of things.