I watch a movie. I have watched Despicable Me four hundred times. Gru reads his girls a bedtime story; he comes home early from the moon to get to their dance recital; and when they’re kidnapped, he performs athletic feats that scare the poop out of him, to rescue them.
While anticipating this loveliness, which happens at the end of the movie, I see for the first time what happens at the beginning. Gru steals a shrink ray from evil scientists in an Eastern country. Cue the shrink ray scientists. They are racist caricatures of east Asians, straight out of the 1930s and 1940s. Round black glasses, buck teeth. Feels like I've been slapped in the face.
I’ve watched this movie four hundred times through the eyes of a white person—me. The world has trained me well. I’m crazy.
###
I realize my husband is white. (Okay, should have noticed this sooner.) We experience situations simultaneously, but differently. —We are followed through a store by an associate peeking through shelves at us. I assume Ben’s unaware of the weirdness because he’s having a good time hanging out with me. —A hostess at a cafe greets us with a sneer, a sarcastic remark, and a resentful shuffle to a booth. I assume Ben’s unaware of the bad vibes because he’s oblivious to the non-verbal communication of women. —Taking a walk, he strolls right up into our neighbor’s backyard, and I hyperventilate and flee, certain I’m going to get killed by the police the neighbor is probably calling. Ben’s unaware, because he looks at the world through his white-man eyes.
I set dinner on the table. “Honey, I just realized you’re white.”
“Can you hand me the salt?”
I pass the salt. “The book that's going around. The one that says all white people are racist. Do you think you’re racist?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Oh yeah.”
I snort laugh. I feel less crazy, like I’m not alone.
###
I tune in to my Zoom yoga. The yoga studio is my self-care home. Thanks to the women in charge, I'm fortunate to have a black teacher and a brown teacher. I feel seen. My buttons pop with pride about my studio. My studio gets it. They get me. And back when we were still meeting in person, I barely got through classes dry-eyed. My black and brown expert teachers led the students, and we students followed them, as though this scenario was ordinary. I felt all puffed up. But since these teachers came on board, there's been a steady downward trend in the sizes of their classes.
When I tune into my Zoom yoga on Black Dawn's Bad Day, I realize I'm the only person in each of their classes, and it's been this way for weeks. I’m alone. The other students at my studio do not attend the yoga classes taught by the black and brown teachers, so I have private lessons. Separate, but equal.
I feel erased.
I must be crazy. I’ve become the lunatic who sees racism everywhere.
###
I search for a lunacy cure. I should explore this ugly scabby pain, sink into it and come out the other side. I meditate. There is no other side today. I should ground myself. I do some yoga. I should inform myself. I listen to a podcast—a therapist who specializes in trauma, inclusion, and social justice. Her voice is soothing. She’s local. She can help me. She says she can be reached through a mindfulness group website. I land on the “About” page, which greets me with a full-spread photo of people meditating on a lawn. They’re peaceful. They’re all white.
I'm crazy.
I see racism everywhere.
Why don’t you?
While anticipating this loveliness, which happens at the end of the movie, I see for the first time what happens at the beginning. Gru steals a shrink ray from evil scientists in an Eastern country. Cue the shrink ray scientists. They are racist caricatures of east Asians, straight out of the 1930s and 1940s. Round black glasses, buck teeth. Feels like I've been slapped in the face.
I’ve watched this movie four hundred times through the eyes of a white person—me. The world has trained me well. I’m crazy.
###
I realize my husband is white. (Okay, should have noticed this sooner.) We experience situations simultaneously, but differently. —We are followed through a store by an associate peeking through shelves at us. I assume Ben’s unaware of the weirdness because he’s having a good time hanging out with me. —A hostess at a cafe greets us with a sneer, a sarcastic remark, and a resentful shuffle to a booth. I assume Ben’s unaware of the bad vibes because he’s oblivious to the non-verbal communication of women. —Taking a walk, he strolls right up into our neighbor’s backyard, and I hyperventilate and flee, certain I’m going to get killed by the police the neighbor is probably calling. Ben’s unaware, because he looks at the world through his white-man eyes.
I set dinner on the table. “Honey, I just realized you’re white.”
“Can you hand me the salt?”
I pass the salt. “The book that's going around. The one that says all white people are racist. Do you think you’re racist?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Oh yeah.”
I snort laugh. I feel less crazy, like I’m not alone.
###
I tune in to my Zoom yoga. The yoga studio is my self-care home. Thanks to the women in charge, I'm fortunate to have a black teacher and a brown teacher. I feel seen. My buttons pop with pride about my studio. My studio gets it. They get me. And back when we were still meeting in person, I barely got through classes dry-eyed. My black and brown expert teachers led the students, and we students followed them, as though this scenario was ordinary. I felt all puffed up. But since these teachers came on board, there's been a steady downward trend in the sizes of their classes.
When I tune into my Zoom yoga on Black Dawn's Bad Day, I realize I'm the only person in each of their classes, and it's been this way for weeks. I’m alone. The other students at my studio do not attend the yoga classes taught by the black and brown teachers, so I have private lessons. Separate, but equal.
I feel erased.
I must be crazy. I’ve become the lunatic who sees racism everywhere.
###
I search for a lunacy cure. I should explore this ugly scabby pain, sink into it and come out the other side. I meditate. There is no other side today. I should ground myself. I do some yoga. I should inform myself. I listen to a podcast—a therapist who specializes in trauma, inclusion, and social justice. Her voice is soothing. She’s local. She can help me. She says she can be reached through a mindfulness group website. I land on the “About” page, which greets me with a full-spread photo of people meditating on a lawn. They’re peaceful. They’re all white.
I'm crazy.
I see racism everywhere.
Why don’t you?
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