We are ALL racists. Every human being on the planet is BORN a racist.
NO! you’re screaming at me. BULLSHIT, you whacked-out bitch. I am not a racist!
Racism is taught, not inherent to our nature is the common wisdom. And while it’s true racism, hate, fear can be taught by parents, community, schools, religious leaders, and conservative media, we are all born, to varying degrees, racists.
Mammals, the genome to which Humans belong, are born with an innate FEAR of THE OTHER — anything outside what is familiar to us. And this fear manifests as RACISM, and SEXISM, and NATIONALISM.
“FEAR of THE OTHER” should be the universal definition of racism. And humans manifest our fear in a variety of ways. Some, their fear is so overwhelming, their ignorance so great, it aligns with HATE, and they are violent against THE OTHER.
But sometimes, when our fear is acknowledged, and then examined, it motivates us to learn about THE OTHER. Only then, do we discover that regardless of color, or even gender, we are not so different. We all FEEL the same feelings.
BULLSHIT, you calling me out again. You don’t know how it FEELS to be Black.
You’re right. I’m White. But I know what it FEELS like to be dissed. I grew up overweight in chic L.A. I was the butt of fat jokes through elementary and middle school. I never got asked out on a date until I dropped the weight in my senior year of high school. And while I am now in “good shape,” I will go to my grave feeling fat. I will never fit in to the world where thin is the only way to be “in.” And I know what it FEELS like living forever on the outside wishing to be in.
So what if you were fat, you say. You lost the weight. Skinny or fat, I can’t stop being Asian, or gay.
And I am a woman. I know what it FEELS like being judged as lesser than because I am not a man. I know how it FEELS to be making two-thirds the salary of the guy next to me doing the exact same job. My first job out of college as an art director for a major jewelry manufacturer, the CEO of the company came into my first big meeting and grabbed my breast instead of my outstretched hand. He squeezed my tit like it was an orange and said, “Nice!” I know how it FEELS to be objectified for my body alone.
Being disrespected makes me FEEL valueless, ashamed, awkward, angry, mystified, enraged, scared, small, sad. And all these negative feelings manifest inside each of us when we are dissed. The fact is, Black, White, Fat or not, we’ve all experienced each of these feelings independently, or simultaneously, regardless if we are consciously aware of them. Each of us may react to our feelings differently, but most all of us are intimate with feeling dissed.
Most of us are also intimate with feeling happy, engaged [in a pleasing activity], safe, content in moments. Our reasons for feeling these things may vary, though not as much as you think. The love of a parent, guardian or friend, the comfort of a home, full bellies from tasty food makes most of us FEEL good. The intensity of our feelings varies wildly from person to person. Some enjoy positive feelings far more often than others born with internal angst, or into external misfortune. But the feelings of HAPPY and SAD, GOOD and BAD, PROUD and ASHAMED, EMPOWERED and DISSED are common to all of us.
Being alive means FEELING. The enormous, complex range of feelings we get to experience, both body and mind, is exclusively Human. The capacity of our brain power is what separates us from every other living creature on this planet. And while we all have different experiences, feeling the same things provides a natural bridge to unite us, a window for empathy, even camaraderie through our shared feelings.
We are all born racists. You, me, all humans are born with an innate fear of THE OTHER. Once again, we are standing on the precipice of change, Racism and Sexism the topics de jour. Perhaps this time, we will get off the politically correct train, admit we are all racists and choose to fight our innate fear of THE OTHER. We’ll acknowledge the benefits of integration and globalization as an opportunity to learn from the best of each other. We’ll not only believe in, but practice equal rights.
Stand up, or take a knee, but SPEAK OUT against hate, and educate the ignorant that there really are no substantive differences between us — not color, not culture, not gender, not religious or sexual preference, because most all humans being FEEL the same things.
My 21-year-old daughter decided to give me an assessment of my parenting of both her and her brother on her visit home from college at the end of summer break. Among my many crimes, I was cheap, though my college senior has never paid a bill in her life, not for her education since we float those bills, not her phone, not her car, which I gave her mine when she needed one, not even car insurance. Every birthday she received piles of presents that she actually wanted, (not clothes, like my mom gave me), usually well over a grand. And let me be clear, we are squarely middle-class, and at times throughout their formative years, we struggled to make the bills.
Spoiled brat? Maybe. But both my husband and I felt our kids should focus on academics and socialization, and use their meager part-time job earnings for fun. Adulting would come after college, along with the pressure of earning enough to pay their bills.
We sat at Caliente’s eating chips and waiting for our meals as she continued to list my failures. I gave unsolicited advice when we spoke, and she just wanted to rant. I tell people when and why I’m disappointed in their behavior, like customer service reps who show no desire to help, but no one cares what you have to say, Mother. I was violent sometimes when I got angry.
Did I ever hit you, or even spank you? Throw anything at you? I asked her, trying to be patient, listen carefully and address her complaints.
No, of course not.
Have you ever been afraid I’ll strike you? Or hurt you physically, ever?
No. I know you’ll never hit me, or throw anything at me, or hurt me like that. But when you yell, or cuss, or throw your napkin down on your plate when you’re angry, it’s really aggressive, so those times you’ve been emotionally violent. My daughter is on the medical track, to become a doctor, with a minor in psychology.
Wow. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Do you feel like I’m aggressive a lot? She was completely undermining my self-image. One of my best bits is I am non-violent in the extreme. I’ve preached to both my kids that violence is unacceptable other than in self-defense when in imminent danger.
No. Most of the time you’re pretty chill, except when you and Dad are at it, then you trigger quicker.
We went round about over aggressive vs violent, then she finally moved on to the coup de grace.
You raised your son like a girl, she said as the waiter put our meals in front of us, then retreated. You did, Mom. You taught him to share his feelings, and he does. Too much, for a guy. You made sure to point out sexism in social norms, movies, in politics, and business, and how often men think with their ‘little head.’ You raised your son to think like a woman, and it hasn’t helped him any.
I sat there chewing my first [and last] bite of the three Street Tacos on my plate. I chewed until it was basically mush in my mouth to swallow it because my throat had constricted with my daughter’s harsh critique. To her point, our son battles depression and has since his first year in middle school. But until my daughter called me out right then, I hadn’t considered raising him to be empathetic, more aware of his own feelings and how he affects the world around him as a ‘girl’ thing.
I raised you both the same, I told her, fighting the tears now welling in my eyes.
I know, she said with the confidence of a professor. That’s the problem. Beyond logistics, most boys don’t learn to communicate. They’re taught to compete, which is why boys make friends through sports.
We enrolled your brother in baseball, soccer, Boy Scouts, taekwondo—
Yeah. But he liked talking to his teammates more than playing the game. You made his life totally harder because he doesn’t fit into his gender. And he’s not gay. So, you really screwed him up —
I’m done, I said. You’ve spent the entire day beating me up. And I’m done. I threw my napkin on my plate. Oh, shit, that was aggressive, I said to my daughter, then got up, paid the lunch bill, and came back to where she still sat, staring down at her Carne Asada. I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face when I told her to take the car, and that I’d walk to get mine at the shop, but I didn’t want to be with her anymore right then. Then I walked away. I’d never, ever, walked away from either of my children.
I got maybe 100 yards, out of the mainstream and melted down, sank to my knees against a shop wall. It took me a good five minutes to stop hysterically crying before I was able to walk to the repair place and deal with the mechanic. I got my car and drove out to the lake, walked to the end of the pier and sat on the bench, sucking in the wet air to catch my breath, and reasonably, calmly, assess my daughter’s many assertions.
I’m cheap. Hmm, she didn’t use the word ‘cheap.’ She said, you’ve been tight with money. Too tight. A politically correct way to say ‘cheap.’ Since my daughter doesn’t have a clue about the cost of even her current lifestyle, I discounted her assertion I was cheap with her lack of actual knowledge.
I was violent. As I explained to my daughter over our brief lunch, the word ‘violent’ means “using physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something,” a la Google, as I asked her to look it up over chips and salsa. I abhor violence. Growing up, my 6’3”, 230-pound dad used to hit me when he encountered my resistance. My father was violent. I’ll cop to being aggressive when I’m angry. Maybe too aggressive, and I will work on backing that off.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a first step towards calm over anger, reason over rage.
I raised my son like a girl because I taught him the same lessons that I taught to my daughter…
I sat on that bench staring out at the lake until almost sunset thinking about her assertion. I realized I was shaking, I assumed from the chilly night approaching, until I got in my car and turned on the heater but didn’t stop. I was trembling with outrage.
I got home half an hour later. My daughter was in her room, very upset, my son assured me, though he didn’t know exactly why. She’d only told him we’d had a fight and I left. I went to her room and asked her to meet me in my office, a private space a quarter acre from the house, so we could talk. She came in a bit after me.
I love you, I began when we were seated. I love you, I repeated, locking my eyes on hers hoping to transfer the intensity of love I feel for her. I want the best for you, and for you to be the best of you.
I love you too, she said. And I’m so sorry for this afternoon. You are my best friend, and I’m sorry I hurt you.
I get it. Me too, for leaving. I’m sorry that hurt you. I needed space to think about all the stuff you said to me. I’m ready to talk to you about that now. And I may get aggressive because I am so hurt by so much of what you said, but I won’t ever be violent. I smiled to ease the tension.
She did too. I know, she conceded. I’m sorry I said that. I know it’s not true.
OK. Thanks. I took a breath but kept my eyes on hers. First, when you start paying for your education, your car, your insurance, your phone, and all your other expenses that we pay for, only then will you have the knowledge to assess if I am cheap.
I didn’t say you were cheap, Mom —
Yeah. Ya did. And I’m not going to sit here playing word games with you. You know what I mean. I felt my heart racing. A typical passive/aggressive play my husband, her father, engages in when we’re in conflict is grammar-nazi, nitpicking every word I use to derail the dialog.
I’m sorry, Mom. I know how hard you’ve worked to make sure we got taken care of through college. I’m really sorry I said that. And she started crying.
And so did I, seeing her hurt, and knowing I still had a hard lesson to teach. My talented, beautiful daughter, I began. I love you, I repeated, to remind myself how much I did amid the outrage I felt towards her right then. You accused me of raising my son like a girl. And out of all the things you said to me today, this cuts the deepest. Have you said this to your brother — that I raised him like a girl?
She looked down, said No, but I didn’t believe her. Then she looked at me and said, I don’t remember saying it to him. I don’t think I did, anyway…
If you’ve told your brother I raised him like a girl, you’ve diminished the best of him. The best of any human — man or woman. He is kind. Truly kind, not just words but actions, volunteering at the food bank, and working in nonprofit. Your brother is compassionate. He really cares about how people feel, knows how to listen, and empathize. He examines his feelings and has the grace, and humility to look for and admit his culpability, and then take responsibility for his screw-ups. And I get your brother may have a harder life being different from most men his age. But I refused to raise my son as most boys are still raised — to reflect their father’s bravado from our caveman days.
I felt my heart race and heard myself getting louder and faster with my delivery. I stopped speaking and took a deep breath. My daughter sat in my high-backed leather office chair, her hands clasped in her lap, looking rather small, way younger than her almost 22 years.
I love you, I repeated, to give her ground.
I love you too, my daughter said, tears streaming down her face.
You’ve admitted I raised both of you the same. And I meant to. I worked hard to treat you equally, and respect you both as individuals. I gave you the same messaging, not as male or female, but as people. I raised you both not to reflect your dad and I, but to be better than us — smarter, more connected inside yourself, and more responsive to the world you touch. Not boy/girl, or sexist norms passed through generations, but to meet our compassionate, creative potential regardless of gender — be the best of what we are. I fixed my eyes on my daughter’s, trying to impart to her what I know to be true.
Tears now streaming down both our faces, I stared at my daughter.
No pressure there, she said with a half-smile.
I smiled too. Between theory and the need to change the direction of our current reality is the grand fucking canyon. An audible sigh escaped me. Sorry, kid. You were born owing the gen before you to contribute to the living and the lives that follow yours. It comes with the privilege of being Human.
I get it, Mom. And I said things I didn’t mean today. And I’m sorry.
I know. Me too. For all the times I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry. I get you’re mad at me for something, but I’m thinking it ain’t most of what you said today. So, let’s explore what you’re feeling, and drill down on what you’re really upset about…
NOTHING TO HIDE? You never know… This IS what Insta, Google, FB, ChatGPT and every other big data SaaS app out there is doing with your personal information:
“The Third Reich was a diagnosis regime, obsessed with sorting the population into categories, cataloging people by race, religion, politics, sexuality, criminality and purported biological, mental and behavioral defects. Nazi officials created massive population indexes that compiled individuals’ medical, financial, educational, criminal and welfare records — even sports club files. (By 1942, approx. ten million Reich citizens had been indexed — 12% of the total population. These files, then, established the grounds for sterilization, deportation and extermination.” https://lnkd.in/d9txaahS)
Now our data is used to market us into buying, and believing (politics, social views and values) with recommendation systems.
On the short ride home from his Boy Scout meeting, my 11 yr old son was quiet and sullen. I asked him what was up. Had anything happened at the meeting that he wanted to talk about? I saw him looking at me from my rear view mirror, gauging how to tell me disappointing news.
“I found out tonight that I can’t become an Eagle Scout.”
He’d never been all that enamored with Boy Scouts. He didn’t much care for camping, or the tough kid role so many of his contemporaries played out with the survival skills and competitive war games his scout leaders chose. He’d decided to ‘bridge’ from ‘Webelo’ Cub Scout to a full-fledge Boy Scout to become an Eagle Scout for the prestige sold to him by his troop leaders. “Presidents, senators, and successful icons like Bill Gates, Steven Spielberg, Neil Armstrong were Eagle Scouts.”
“College admissions officers recognize the award and consider it in their decisions. Eagle Scouts are eligible for many scholarships. Many employment recruiters look for “Eagle Scout” on a resume.” These are just a few of the perks on an Eagle Scout information page for the Boy Scouts of America (BSA), and one of the reasons we agreed when our son said he wanted to stay in their program.
I assumed he wanted to quit Boy Scouts, as he was the outlier in his troop, and had complained of being bullied at meetings and on camping trips more than a few times. I was down with him quitting, as I too felt Scouts wasn’t the right fit for him, but it was the context of what he’d said that stuck in my head, so I sought clarity. “What do you mean you can’t become an Eagle Scout?”
Again we made eye contact in the rear view mirror, and I got that my son wasn’t sad, but bemused, bordering on angry. “Mr. Baker told me tonight that even if I get all my merit badges, and fulfilled all the other Boy Scout requirements through middle school and high school, I’m not qualified to become an Eagle Scout.”
I felt my heart start pounding. “Why?”
“The new scout master said in order to achieve Eagle Scouts, or any other rank, Boy Scouts must live the Scout Oath, which means we have to believe in God.”
My husband and I introduced our son to scouting when he was 5 yrs old. Fourteen Christians and one Jew, and our kid was the only member of his Webelo troop being raised without religion. Most of our neighbors, and our kids classmates attended the local church. My husband and I are Atheists. Our kids are not privy to the benefits of participating in this tight-knit religious network. Scouting seemed like a positive way for our son to meet other boys his age in our area.
We didn’t consider the Boy Scouts an exclusively religious organization. We’d heard stories, of course, and knew of the pending lawsuit in the supreme court filed by a father for discrimination against his son who claimed to be an atheist. It motivated me to ask the women at the Cub Scout table during school registration if their troop was religious, and if so, how. Both women assured me their Den had several different faiths among its members, and their policy was to keep religion at home, not practice it in scouting.
They were true to their word during the first five years our son belonged to their Den, participating in most events from hikes, to community drives for food banks, and even popcorn sales. He earned quite a few merit badges along the way. Religion, even prayer, was never practiced or promoted in any way. He bridged from Cub Scout at the end of fifth grade, and at 11 yrs old became a full Boy Scout with the aim of eventually becoming an Eagle Scout in high school.
Picking him up from his first official Boy Scout meeting a few months back, my son informed me the troop he’d bridged to said prayers at the end of their meetings. I asked him how he felt about that. He confessed he’d already branded himself a non-believer. The scout master asked him to lead the prayer at the end of that first meeting. He’d refused, stating he wasn’t sure there was a God, and he thought praying was a waste of time because he was certain there wasn’t anyone listening. Though he’d been publicly labeled “misinformed” by the scout master at that meeting, and endured jeers and taunts from several of the boys, every Webelo he’d been with the last five years had bridged to this new troop. Our son didn’t want to look for a new non-religious troop, with a bunch of kids he didn’t know. He just wouldn’t recite what he didn’t believe, he’d told me.
That wasn’t good enough for advancement, according to his new scout master, who asked him again last Friday night to say a closing prayer. No matter how lax about religion our son’s lower division den, rank of Boy Scouts and higher stuck to the rules of the BSA, he told our son. A religious association, and faith in God is required for rank advancement. Commitment to community service, practicing Scouting’s core values of “honesty, compassion,” as well as continually exhibiting “diligence as a contributing team member,” were irrelevant. Belief in a god was more important than social service. Atheism is a sin, the scout master assured our son at the end of last Friday’s meeting.
“I could lie that I believe,” my son suggested, “If I have to…”
“Think that’s a good idea?” I asked, glad to be driving, which made it easier to keep emotional distance and sound casual.
“Maybe. I just don’t get why I have to pretend I believe in God. The Boy Scout handbook says we’re supposed to ‘respect and defend the rights of others to practice their own beliefs.’ But they’re not.”
Ah, from the mouths of babes…
He’s right, of course. Click on the ‘Litigation’ link on the official BSA website, and bring up the “Duty to God” page. Part of the Scout Oath proclaims the scout will ‘do his duty to God [and country].’ Every level of advancement requires a promise or show of faith in God. Boy Scouts are instructed to respect the beliefs of others, but this respect should only be awarded to those that believe in the Christian/Judaeo God. Turns out, prejudice, hate, racism are systemic to the Boy Scouts of America, and a large part of what they promote.
Nowhere in the BSA literature we received and perused before or after our son joined the Boy Scouts did they say they were a faith-based organization that required their members to be believers to receive equal rights and privileges as those granted to religious members. Had they disclosed this with all transparency, as do churches and other religious organizations pushing their beliefs, I doubt my husband and I would have channeled our son to participate.
We impose no religion on our kids. We discuss it often— the concept of one god verses many; various cultures and their belief systems from ancient to modern man, using everything from the Tao to biblical references. Our kids get additional religious education through their friends, and faith-based celebrations with extended family. My husband and I hope to expose our children to many possibilities, and let them discover their own spirituality.
Parents who provide religious training for their kids early on, and, it would appear, register them in Boy Scouts, are looking to validate their beliefs by indoctrinating their kids with the religion in which they were raised. And most of these parents have never stopped to consider whether the rhetoric their parents sold them is truth. They are blind believers, and turn their children into the same.
“The Boy Scouts of America (BSA) takes a strong position, excluding atheists and agnostics,” according to Wikipedia. In 2014 the BSA finally voted to allow gay kids. They still ban atheists.
Perhaps the BSA is a front for the church, and works to convert unsuspecting non-believers working to advance in their organization. Hook the kids without religiosity when they’re young, in Cub Scouts. Get them to work hard for advancement, then deny them further advancement unless they convert to Christianity. Whatever BSAs agenda, and our son now sees they clearly have one, the meeting with his troop leader last Friday night soured him to continuing in scouting. It’s a shame, really, because the Boy Scouts have so many positives to offer. Weirdly enough, they tout much of the same morality I preach to my kids, like being courteous, and honest, loving and compassionate. The only difference between us is I don’t believe a god gave us this wisdom. I give credit to humanity, over eons, watching what works to build thriving societies.
There is no god that’ll save us from hate, prejudice, nationalism, and exclusionary religious sects like the BSA who lure kids in, like the Pied Piper, under the guise of community involvement, then change the rules mid-play. Regardless of our differences, religiously, culturally, politically, PEOPLE, me and you, must use our collective wisdom to unite as one race—the Human race—for our continued existence.
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