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…
Monica Lewinsky sucked Pres. Clinton’s cock, getting George W. Bush elected, which led to the 2008 financial meltdown with the Republican’s anti-regulation policies. The real estate recession of 2009 left not only millions of people without any retirement, but my father without enough money to care for himself, compelling us to use our little savings to help him. This investment into my father’s care comes out of our kids’ college funds and will most likely affect them down the line.
My husband was freaking out when he called me from his job at a well-known Silicon Valley startup a couple months ago. He’d entered the stairwell and saw the married CEO of his company sucking face with an employee. He had a right to be upset. The CEO is putting the company, its pre-IPO stock value, and its almost 300 employees at risk by displaying his extra-marital affair publicly. His sloppy behavior can not only get him fired, but eventually, lead to the demise of the company with scandalous press chasing away customers and business associations alike. And, of course, there are his two kids and a wife at home who will suffer, possibly lifetime scars from his selfish indiscretions.
When a butterfly flaps its wings in Central Park, it does NOT cause a typhoon in India. But the Butterfly Effect is very real, and very personal, for all of us.
The CEO sucking face with his employee saw my husband in the stairwell. He called my DH into his office later that day and made excuses that he was “just comforting” his graphic designer who [ostensibly] was grieving the death of her dog. Originally hired by the CEO, my husband had never had any issues working with the man until that day in the stairwell. After that day, the CEO was his new micro-manager, and my husband, tired of the bullshit, left the company a month later.
We all engage in the Butterfly Effect in one way or another. When my DH and I fight, I’m more apt to yell at our kids, causing them to snipe at each other. Continual fighting over time may result in fierce sibling rivalry. Instead of becoming balanced, socially aware people, they grow up defensive and afraid, and become CEOs and Presidents who seek physical contact over emotional intimacy to combat their gnawing loneliness.
The Butterfly Effect is an unalterable phenomenon of the human condition, but that doesn’t mean we must be doomed by it. Our ability to perceive the future, and then adapt our behavior in response is also uniquely human, and dramatically separates us from every other life form on this planet, and one of our greatest strengths.
Had President Clinton been thinking with his brain instead of his little head, or Ms. Lewinsky had stopped to consider the possible ramifications of Bill Clinton’s solicitation, perhaps either would have made a better choice. (Why do I sight Monica? Those who cheat are culpable for their actions, but those who are party to cheating are equally culpable.)
Like a gun sitting on a table, the Butterfly Effect is neutral, but it can generate productive outcomes by simply starting from a positive position. Awareness that no man, or woman, is an island is the key to directing the Butterfly Effect to consistently positive outcomes. Every day we touch the lives of many others, whether we’re at home, on the internet, at work, or shopping at Target. Holding a door open, giving a compliment, or showing appreciation for service rendered can make someone’s day a bit better. We affect those around us, our environment locally, even globally with our consumption of resources. Choosing a Prius over an SUV, and picking the appropriate sexual partners; helping someone in need, not just during the holidays but any day improves all our lives collectively.
Be acutely aware of your connection to others, and the cascading Butterfly Effect, and it may just be the lives you touch in your hometown today will indeed lead to the cure for cancer from someone on the other side of the world tomorrow.
I’m a guy’s girl, meaning I’ve spent most of my life hanging out with men instead of women. Like the freight train comin at ya, I prefer men’s straightforward nature, their directness, their unwavering, solution-oriented trajectory. Men are simpler than women. Not less intelligent, just not round-about, underneath, from behind.
Women, by contrast, are the poison in your food. Eons of subjugation have forced us to become puppet-masters to get what we want. Not a judgment call, simply a fact that until very recently might was right, and men assumed they controlled the household with superior strength—at first to kill the mastodon and be the provider of food, and in the modern world, until recently, be the supplier of money. Back as late as the 1990s, women were still, and believe it or not still are, the primary homemakers, caring for the kids, shopping for and preparing the meals…etc. In fact, 99% of all household product commercials still show the women cleaning up, even when the men create the mess.
Notice I said, “men assumedthey controlled the household.” Well, you know what happens when you ass (of) u (and) me…; -}
Seriously though, probably pretty early on, like cavemen times, women figured out how to get men to do what we want using our wiles—wits. Genetic transfer of memory over thousands of generations of women passing on how to be manipulative eventually became woven into our DNA and imprinted on our XX chromosomes.
Regardless of why women became…complex, the fact that we are scares me about us. Women don’t only manipulate men. Quite often our children, sometimes even our friends. I’d much rather face a freight train because if I’m paying attention I can get off the tracks before getting slammed. This also plays to why I’m a guy’s girl, why most of my friends have been men.
I knew I wanted kids for as long as I can remember. Two boys, I’d told any possible stakeholders, because boys are easier to raise. I now have two kids—a boy, 19, and a 16 year old girl, both of whom I’m madly in love with. Beyond proud, I’m humbled to know them. True to their ‘nature,’ my son is very direct with his feelings, practically the instant he feels something. He rarely lies, probably because he sucks at it, his facial expressions to the pause in his delivery clear indicators he’s not telling the truth or copping to. He’s a consummate whiner, but he respects the family rules and parental restrictions. My son is trustable, for which I’m eternally grateful.
My daughter, on the other hand, listens carefully, expresses just the right amount of contrition and understanding with every lecture, then does whatever she wants, whenever she wants, if she can get away with it. Went to kiss her goodnight a few nights ago and she was underneath her blanket watching Manga videos on her cellphone. She’d been viewing nightly since we took away her Kindle two weeks ago for watching videos on it instead of reading. Reading is all she’s allowed to do on the tablet, per our agreement when she got it for her birthday. (Is it too much to expect a 16½ year old to honor such an agreement when she gets plenty of electronics time on the weekends?)
While my son barely notices his reflection, my daughter spends hours in front of the mirror, preening. For eons a huge part of a woman’s value was/is defined by our physicality, so it’s natural, part of our nature now that our looks are important to us, or at the very least, more important to us than most men. My son likes violent movies. My daughter does not. She is deeply affected when families split up, or a parent or child dies in films, and even in books. Maternal instincts—reproducing and then caring for our offspring—is genetically encoded in our DNA. In fact, her reaction is not uncommon for most women.
Violent movies and video games are targeted at men because they are by far the predominant audience to engage with them.
Times truly are changing, though. Want part of a mastodon, a small ice-age relic? Buy one on Amazon. Most educated women who pursue a career path can pay their own way through life now, even if we still typically make less than men. Most of us don’t need a man’s support to survive, or even thrive. Technology, from the Pill to the personal computer has made it possible for women to control our own destinies, and function equally along side men in today’s business environments.
Sociological shifts in behavior are glacial, and true sexual equality is probably still a few generations in coming. Perhaps our great-grandchildren will share equal incomes, and split the household tasks of rearing the children to doing the dishes equitably as well.
From the dawn of man to present day the divide in humanity is not our race, religious orientation, education or income level. Our greatest division has been between men and women. I’m humbled to bear witness to a quantum shift in our evolution, that, for first time in our history, technology is providing us the ability to become an egalitarian race, and close this great divide.
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