Member-only story
You Don’t Know You’re Being Racist
And I’m trying to understand you
A Game of Categories
I have this thing that I do just for fun. I divide people into camps based on an observable everyday variable. It’s not meant to be serious. Cilantro or not? Sweet tooth or savory palate? My favorite one is whether you park into a spot backwards or forwards. I make assumptions about you; back parkers are planners, front parkers live in the moment. Stuff like that. It’s not something I do to judge you one way or the other. It’s just fun. It never evokes defensiveness. It just is.
In this iteration of Black Lives Matter, I have been dividing friends and family into camps and it’s not so fun. I had been outraged over all the previous incidences of senseless murder of black men and women at the hands of police or vigilantes, but it is different this time around. I feel it differently. I’m more angry. I’m more impatient. Yes, I suppose I’m more judgmental. And I’m categorizing people. Racist or antiracist?
So I get into these “conversations“ (if you can call them that) online (for now). I just can’t stand it when I see a friend’s racist post. And I doubly can’t stand it when they don’t even know it’s a racist post. And I am triply pissed when they get defensive when I reply in a way meant to enlighten them. I seriously want…
