I stayed awake for three days straight during senior year fraternity rush. All day socializing with prospective members, late night parties back in the halcyon days of age 18 alcohol, topped by after-hour meetings deciding which guys to offer a bid. Who did we want to welcome as fellow Phi Delts? We took it very seriously.
When a freshman caught enough attention, an upper classman was designated to be his mentor, made sure he met all the brothers, and tried to keep him away from rival houses. At the after-midnight meeting, each mentor made the case for giving his guy a bid.
I was assigned to ‘Jerry.’ Jerry was unlike any other freshmen touring our fraternity; he was black. The previous year, 1975, a black student had visited our house during rush, but he didn’t gain much consideration. A single member could squash any potential brother, and ‘Harold’ was blackballed when his name got mentioned. Two black freshmen joined another fraternity that year; the first African-American fraternity brothers at our school. I was determined that 1976 was the year we’d follow suit. Jerry was a good guy; and besides, it was time.
I agonized how to present Jerry at our midnight meeting. I described his high school background, his interests, that he wanted to study EE and play football. What I never said—ever—was the most obvious thing about Jerry. I never uttered the word ‘black.’
According to the Oxford English Dictionary there are up to 50,000 adjectives in the English language. Most of us use no more than 500. Rarely do we apply more than two or three to embellish a particular noun. The most appropriate adjective is the one that best differentiates. Which is why, if I hadn’t stirred myself into a PC muddle, I would have described Jerry as ‘the black guy’ and everyone would have known exactly which freshman I meant.
I couldn’t bring myself to describe Jerry as black. No one ever called me white, a meaningless descriptor in the ubiquitously white world I inhabited. Yet the term black seemed targeted, prejudicial; a word blacks might choose among themselves, but not one I was allowed.
A variety of terms have described me over the years: chubby, devout, curly-haired, geek, husband architect, father, skinny, secular, balding, writer, cyclist. No one ever called me white, until I went to Haiti. There, I was called ‘blan,’ a Creole derivative of the French world for ‘white’ that’s applied to foreigners of any skin color. An African-American in Haiti might be called ‘blan’ while a fair-skinned native would not. In my case, there was no confusion; I am ‘blan’ in every respect.
In Haiti I began to think of myself as white, which, after all, is a minority human shade. I started calling myself a ‘white guy’. It felt awkward at first, a betrayal of color-blind liberalism.
When I returned home, I realized that whitewashing racial terminology would not make racism go away. On the contrary, as long as white people feel so much in control that we don’t even have to acknowledge the dominant attribute of our privilege, we propagate our superiority.
Whatever happened to ‘Jerry’ and my ridiculous attempt to champion a young man while pretending away his most obvious characteristic? We gave Jerry a bid, but he didn’t accept it. He joined the other fraternity, perhaps because he wouldn’t be the only black guy. The following year, the Phi Delts gave bids to other black guys. One joined; the next year a few more. Change happens over time. These days, fraternity men come in all colors.
Someday, I hope, I can stop calling myself a white guy. But not until white ceases to be the default color of power, and human skin shades become hues to celebrate rather than instantaneous ways to discriminate and divide.
I remember “Harold” – I thought it was ’74. Brian and Taylor and Ken and I really liked him. There was one of your class who was from the South and would not live with a black person. I’m actually FB friends with him, but we haven’t had any interactions. Not sure it’s worth the emotional investment.
How we trip over that adjective. During the Internet Bubble I was working at a start-up and hosting a series of potential partners in the office we shared with several other assorted businesses. I was getting impatient waiting for a prospect to arrive and wondering if he might be lost in the common lobby. I called his office and they insisted he was on site. I asked for a description so I might find him. Slender. Medium height. Glasses. Curly hair. Had they simply mentioned he was black I would have found him in an instant. Some time later I had a good laugh about that with a colleague at the company that had acquired that start-up. She was medium height. Glasses. Not slender, but not obese. Dark hair…
I like your graphics alongside this post. Interesting selections for a fellow who is “color blind:” 😉
I knew the day I met you and you squatted down allowing me to meet your eyes, the channel to the character, that your soul was pure….. you may not think this about yourself, but I have seen it clearly. A pure soul would have done what you did. I haven’t taken time to read your introdpects, but will find time more often. Sandra Gentle Heart
I’ve lived in places where white people, or Anglos as we’re called in New Mexico, were the minority. Pojoaque Pueblo, New Mexico, where (obviously) the Native people were the majority. Hertford County, North Carolina, where the population was around 80% black. It’s been a valuable experience to be not only a racial minority but a cultural minority.