A Gimp, By Any Other Name…Part I

I admit it: my youth was a pretty sheltered one. I grew up in an affluent Chicago suburb. My brothers and I never lacked anything that we ever wanted or needed. I was taught to respect my elders and people who were different from me. The term “different” had many different meanings: different ethnicity, different hair color, different skin color, etc. I didn’t go to school with any black kids until I got to high school. Even then, there were only two that I remember.

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One was a nice girl, average like me. The only other black kid I remember going to high school with was Mr. T.’s daughter, Lesa. I don’t remember much about her, specifically, other than she drove to school in a white BMW that her dad supposedly bought her for her 16th birthday.

When I got to college, my perspective on the world changed dramatically. I was surrounded on a daily basis by kids of all creeds, colors and ethnicities. I remember thinking, ‘This is so cool! These kids aren’t all that different from me. They want to make friends and be accepted just like I do.’ Many of those students, including the fun and only occasionally irascible “Dezi,” remain good friends to this day. I enrolled in a variety of classes at that small liberal arts college. One of the best classes was called “African-American Literature.” Taught by a black professor, I thought it would be a good course to enroll in ‘cause I hadn’t been exposed to all that much African-American literature and…well, honestly, it fit in with my major. Out of thirteen students, I was one of three white kids. At first, I kept having flashbacks of Eddie Murphy singing “Kill the White People (But Buy My Record First)” on a Saturday Night Live skit. Much to my relief, no uncomfortable moments came about in the first few months of the class. Eventually, a day came which I will never forget…a day that changed my life and the way I viewed myself and other people.

The class had been discussing Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man, about a young, nameless black man as he moves through the hellish levels of American intolerance and cultural blindness. It’s also a book about the human race stumbling down the path to identity. One of the penultimate moments in the book is when the narrator realizes that a group of people he joins in the hopes of bringing equality to America doesn’t really exist because, in the end, they didn’t see him as a black man. They didn’t see color or ethnicity….only a man.

The class discussion was very lively. Right in the middle of the discussion, the professor quite suddenly and without warning asked the question that I had hoped would not be asked for the entire semester. I knew she was going to ask it at some point! I was just hoping that it would have happened during one of the days that I chose to be “sick” and not attend class. The professor, so well educated and respected, walked up to the blackboard, chalk in hand and eyeglasses perched at the bridge of her nose. She turned around and said:

“How many words can you all come up with that have described black people over the years in this country?”

In an instant, all the students’ hands shot up to answer the question…well, ‘cept those of me and the other Caucasoid-persuaded students in the class. This was another one of those time where the three of us kind’a looked at each other and went, “Ain’t no way, no how, am I’m touchin’ this subject.” As soon as the class had made a list on the chalkboard of all the names for black people over the years in America, the professor turned the tables again on her unsuspecting class.

She said, “How many words can you people can you people think of to describe white people over the years in this country?”

I was shocked: the class was silent. I had a word on the tip of my tongue, but I dared not say it, ‘lest I appeared racist. I waited for 20 seconds…30 seconds. I just couldn’t handle it any more. Why wasn’t anybody saying the one, most obvious word to anybody who grew up in the 70’s and 80’s? I raised my hand.

“Yes, Steve?”
I could barely get the word out. “Uhhhhh….’honky?’”

No sooner had I gotten the word out than a beautiful, black student sitting in front of me spun around, glared at me, and said with the most indignation that she could muster at the tender age of nineteen, “We do not say that!”

I looked at her straight in the eye and said, “Oh, really? Have you ever watched an old episode of The Jeffersons or Sanford and Son?”

Are you feeling a little skittish right now, gentle reader? Good! I hope I’ve also made you think, and maybe even offended you in some way. I make no apologies because that’s exactly what I wanted to do.

Next week, it’s gonn’a get worse before it gets better.