My Complicity with Racism

It’s a church-related event. The title of the talk speaks to an issue of concern to me, so I’m eager to hear what the university professor has to say. I’m an engaged listener, taking down notes, thinking up questions to ask.

Then the professor does something unexpected. To illustrate a point, he verbally belittles a young woman. Then another one. Maybe three in total. Each time, the audience nervously laughs. We understand what he’s trying to do, even if it makes us a little uncomfortable.

In my mind, I excuse it. The women – “girls” really – look to be about twenty, give or take a year. One has her blond hair pulled up in a ponytail and is wearing a college sweatshirt. I think the professor addressed one of them by name. They’re probably his students. They probably expected this.

I continue to listen. Take notes. Rewrite my questions so they’ll sound more intelligent to everyone else in the room.

Then suddenly a hand grabs my arm. I look up startled. I stop writing in mid-sentence, and my pen drops to the floor. The professor pulls me up off the chair, but it’s one of those classroom desk-chair combos. When I stand, the desk-chair tips forward, and I frantically try to keep my handbag, notebook, Smart phone, and water bottle from falling to the floor. (A difficult task, when someone’s holding your arm.) Everyone nervously laughs again, but this time they’re laughing at me.

I feel my cheeks burning red. I am hurt – physically and emotionally. I am embarrassed. Humiliated. Underneath, I am fuming mad.

Of everyone in the room, why had the professor picked on me? I’m not one of his students. I’m old enough to be his students’ mother. Where’s his respect for age? Doesn’t he notice my wedding ring? Where’s his respect for a married woman?

Oh, but I’m not a thirty-something married woman, traditionally seen as someone deserving of more respect than a twenty-something college coed. I’m black. Not literally of course, but that’s definitely his perspective. I’m sexless. Ageless. Devoid of any indicators of status or education. Black.

The sixty-something white man sitting next to me helps me pick up my things. His eyes meet mine. I can see that he’s not blind to the real situation. I had an ally. Someone who would stand by me if I just spoke up. I just needed to speak up.

But I don’t. Why not? Because my big humiliating moment had passed, and I dread making a scene. The professor had not noticed anything amiss. He’d moved on to his next point.

I can no longer take notes. My oh-so-important questions are forgotten. I spend the rest of the hour inwardly kicking myself for not speaking up.

Then the professor decides to verbally belittle me. I get a second chance to speak up, but I don’t. Again, I don’t want to make a scene. I decide to wait until his talk is over.

When it’s over, I make another excuse. There are too many people around trying to talk to him. Again, I don’t want to make a scene. I leave.

A few days later, I’m brave enough to email the professor. I tell him how hurt I was, but I say nothing of the racist overtones in his actions.

He replies with a heartfelt apology, saying that he didn’t intend to hurt me. I believe him. I forgive him. He seems innocently unaware that anyone might consider his act racist. I could enlighten him, keep him from making the same mistake again.

But I don’t. I want to forget the whole incident, so I keep silent.