Just Around the Corner

This story originally appeared in In Parentheses Magazine, Summer 2020

I'm Racist, and I'd Like to Talk About It.

Are you a racist? 

Such an ugly, incendiary word, isn't it? I mean come on, unless you're a cross-burning, tattoo-misspelling, Clorox guzzling Proud Boy, who among us, whether liberal or conservative, wants to include RACIST in our personal rubric, nestled right there between Eagle Scout and Competent Toastmaster? And as a middle-aged white man, just hearing the word makes me want to pull out my imaginary wallet and proudly show you the small, laminated list of all the reasons why I'm not a racist:

a) I haven't voted Republican since 1988, and even then, I was really just voting for Dana Carvey's version of Bush.

b) I have black friends—I can name at least four off the top of my head, but I know I could come up with more if I really tried. Also, there's a black family on my street, whom I cheerfully greet whenever I see them on one of my COVID exercise walks. Like the Toyota commercial for zero percent financing says, "We're all in this together."

c) I voted for Obama. Oh, yeah, twice!

d) If there's still any doubt that I'm not a racist, check out my Facebook and Instagram posts from last Tuesday. See? Nothing but a black rectangle. Quite a statement in my opinion, when I obviously could've been posting cool and compelling pictures of myself.

Here's the definition of racism, according to Webster's Dictionary:

1: a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

2a: a doctrine or political program based on the assumption of racism and designed to execute its principles

2b: a political or social system founded on racism
3: racial prejudice or discrimination

What do you think? Do any of these apply to you? 

Definition Number 1 seems pretty hardcore; like, you'd have to have some really archaic misconceptions about human anatomy and genetics to really get behind it. Still, some do:

Seems like a strange time to brag about your pants, moron. 

To give the majority of us caucasians the benefit of the doubt (hey, why stop now?), let's allow ourselves a "no" for criterion 1 and a "not applicable" for 2a and 2b, which address institutions rather than individuals.

Now let's talk about the third characterization of racism as defined above: racial prejudice or discrimination.

Sorry, can't clear that hurdle; guilty as charged. I do possess conditioned prejudices based on race. I do see color. And so do you, and every other white person in America. We're all racist, and we need to freaking own up to it if things are going to improve. 

Still with me? Great, because I swear I could hear the mouse clicks of countless friends and acquaintances who chose a quick detour to the friendlier confines of TikTok and fuzzy puppy subreddits. Some uncomfortable shit, for sure, to be labeled a racist by some sanctimonious blogger.

Whatever. Find yourself another blog if you're offended by this assertion. The fact is, labeling myself a racist doesn't make me a bad person; quite the opposite, really. According to anti-racist educator Robin DiAngelo, author of the best selling White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, admitting to our own racial biases is the first step toward changing a system about which we claim to be outraged. 

The longer we defend the status quo through our silence and lack of dialogue, the more we deny the existence of racism in ourselves, the more we doom our society to an endless cycle of racial unrest. George Floyd, Philando Castile, Breanna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray and an endless stream of injustices will continue, for the rest of our lives and beyond.

Am I a racist? I suppose that's in the eye of the beholder, but I'm going forward believing that I am.

I'd like the racism hoagie please. Sure, let's do the twelve inch.

Snap back to reality.

I've always liked Safeway—the checkers are nice—some are funny, others almost jog to show you were the pickled pigs' feet stand(?). And since I've been doing the weekly shopping at the same store for two years now, I have become The Snakeman of Safeway.

Backtracking is for losers. If you realize you forgot organic free range low sodium turkey bacon, but not until you're cruising the canned, fat-free whipped creamish aisle, you in fact are a moob.

And no one likes moobs. You know what though? There's got to be some type of male boob website out there for the enthusiasts, somewhere out there in the peripheral prairies of pervdom.

Anyway, I'm avoiding the issue, because it's not funny and it flared up twice yesterday.

My wife and daughter stood at the Safeway deli counter, waiting to order a sandwich. They were second in line to a young African American guy, who was also waiting for a sandwich order.

"Oh, I'll be right back," he said, returning shortly with a shopping basket.

The woman in a hair net and black apron held his sandwiches. "You need to pay for these before you go shopping."

What? Those of you who know my wife can probably guess how she reacted to this racist assholery by the Safeway lady. That little, bushy-eyebrowed woman has handed us more unpaid-for stuff than Ike, the friendly grocer from Walton's Mountain.

While the guy purchased his sandwiches my wife approached him. "I'm really sorry that she is making you pay for those here. That is completely wrong."

"Yeah," he said. "It is completely wrong."

The deli woman, still only a couple of feet from the conversation, handed my wife her sandwich, turned and walked away. No payment necessary, apparently.

Pissed off as only a woman of Tuscan blood can be, my bride fought back her desire to rake the deli lady's head to and fro across the meat slicer—and slowly, silently burned.

She came home and told me about it. She regretted not having said something to the offensive employee.

"Why don't you just write to the management and tell them what happened?" I asked.

"It's just so much stronger to handle things face-to-face," she said. "But it's too late now, so emailing the store manager is better than nothing."

"Pshaw," I didn't say. "Why deal with things directly when you can comfortably blog about them?"

We have different styles.

Then, last night, a verdict was reached in the murder trial of Michael Dunn, a Florida man convicted of three counts of attempted second degree murder. The jury was deadlocked on the more serious charge of first degree murder.

Here's an excerpt from cnn.com of what allegedly happened:

It was November 23, 2012, when Michael Dunn pulled into a gas station in Jacksonville, parking next to a red Dodge Durango full of teenagers. The teens had pulled in for gum and cigarettes; Dunn, meanwhile, had just left his son's wedding with his fiancee, who'd gone inside the convenience store for wine and chips. 

Dunn didn't like the loud music—"rap crap," as he called it—coming from the teens' SUV. So he asked them to turn it down. 

What followed next depends on whom you believe. Dunn claimed Davis threatened him, and he decided to take matter into his own hands upon seeing what he thought was the barrel of a gun sticking out of the Durango. 

But prosecutors asserted that it was Dunn who lost control, firing three volleys of shots—10 bullets total—at the SUV over music he didn't like, one of which killed 17-year-old Jordan Davis.

Prosecutors challenged what he did next: He left the gas station and drove 40 miles away to a bed and breakfast in St. Augustine. There, Dunn walked his dog, ordered a pizza, then drank rum and cola—"stunned and horrified, (shocked how) things escalated the way they did over a common courtesy."

This guy will probably spend the rest of his life in prison because of a few pre-conceived notions and theclose proximity of a firearm. I'm not saying the guy should be denied the right to protect himself, but why not just go in, get your girlfriend out of the store, and leave?

So yeah, yesterday was one of those days—a few household chores, some Winter Olympics—and a big ugly slice of bigotry on sale at Safeway.

Santa Isn't Just White. I Have Proof.

“For all you kids watching at home, Santa just is white. Just because it makes you feel uncomfortable doesn’t mean it has to change, you know? I mean, Jesus was a white man too. He was a historical figure, that’s a verifiable fact, as is Santa—I just want the kids watching to know that.”

-Megyn Kelly, Fox News television host

Apparently, Ms. Kelly felt obligated to set the record straight. Her comment arose in response to a column for Slate last week by Aisha Harris, in which Harris wrote that she had always been confused as a child because the Santa in her home had brown skin like her, but the Santa in malls and on television was always white. 

If you've read my shtick before, you're probably expecting the same old formula, right? I post the ignorant quote, then spend the next three thousand characters lampooning it…

…which would be so very easy in this case, but no need to this time. A very special someone else has stepped up to ease the burden, and this someone packs some heavyweight caché.

I hung with Santa last night. I really did. That's not some euphemism to describe a random freeway rest stop encounter with a fat guy. I chatted with The Kris Kringle, legendary President and CEO of North Pole Air Freight. We always exchange a few pleasantries while my kids place their orders, something that has gone down every year since they were small enough to gum dust bunnies:

But last night was different. The moment my eyes met Saint Nick's, I could tell the chap was chapped. His cheeks weren't the usual cheery cherry, they were  more of a pissed off purple, much like the enduring facial tint of Tom Caughlin, New York Giants head coach.

Then I remembered—he was still feeling salty about Kelly's comment. The ignoramus had obviously gotten to him a little. Skipping the usual small talk, he reached into his fuzzy lapel, pulled out a note and thrust it in my direction. It smelled of mint and single malt. "I need you to share this with the world. I'm only going to say it once," he said. As my daughters propped themselves onto his lap, his mood changed instantly.

But I had a job to do, and by Dasher and Dancer, who can say no to the Godfather of Gastric Bypass? So here it is—Santa Claus' response to Megyn Kelly, word for word:

Dear Ms. Kelly:

Let me tell you, I don't watch your network, but since I assoicate with multitudes of pointy-eared goblins, many around me do. I think it was that dentist elf that brought your comments to my attention, and I felt the need to respond.

Usually I prefer to travel the high road. Do I take it personally when some kid thinks I'm Ted Bundy in tinsel?

Nah. Usually, they just want to get through the photo op fast so they can fill my ears with pleas for pink and purple plastic shit.

Here's what steams my humbow, Kelly—what gives you the right to label me as white? Does this look white to you?

Or this?

Remember, it's totally cool. Even my elves get a little separation anxiety while waiting on the roof.

I'm freaking Santa Claus. If I can manage to reverse burgle a billion houses in one night, why wouldn't I be able to change my ethnicity?  Let me tell you something, toots, nothing keeps a marriage fresh like turning into Spanish Santa after putting the reindeer to bed.

Oh, and as far as you're concerned, Fox News news fox, I could be Typhoid Leper Santa as long as you find your friends Dolcé and Gabanna under the tree in the morning. 

Why do you even care what color I am? What does it matter? Look at me now—Bam! Asian Santa:

And by the way, historical Jesus was about as white as a milk chocolate Toblerone.

Step off, Barbie. 

No other way to say it—this is bullshit.

I would like to make a prediction. This may happen in five years, maybe ten, maybe never.

Anyone who's ever queued up at a grocery store checkout line, whether for just a pack of chipotle e-smokes or lugging a cart filled with enough stuff to get the Ingalls' covered wagon from De Smet to Walnut Grove, has passed that densely stocked tabloid section. It's usually wedged somewhere between the Five Hour Energy and last chance Super Size Kit Kats.

Leading the pack is the bastion of bastardization, The National Enquirer, but always trailing in close pursuit are pubs like The Globe, Weekly World News and OK! Oh, but things are hardly okay in the tabloid universe. With the consistency of an A-Rod fib, these rags spell out doom and divine intervention in equal helpings. Here are a few headlines I wouldn't be surprised to see next time I hit Safeway:

Miley and Billy Ray secretly wed. In legal ceremony, happy couple proud to call Tennessee their home.

Woman finds hair clump in her calzone and discovers the face and beard of Jesus. Crowds flock from all corners of Tennessee.

On visit to Tennessee, Bill Clinton discovers second penis inside his nose. Can't stop blowing it.

Anyway, back to my prediction. I submit that, before too long, video screens will accompany the printed pages along checkout row. Sensational headlines will beckon us to their broadcasts and websites.

And anything goes. Saturday night, I got another whiff of the bitter stench of tabloid journalism. I don't know about you, but I find local news insufferable—the ridiculous banter between the flirty weather guy and the sexy anchor in her shellacked hair and one-piece Nancy Reagan clown dress, stepping all over each other's weak jokes, then chuckling anemically before snapping into "serious mode." Time to talk about some more car wrecks.

I try my best to avoid local news, but sometimes it's just a wrong-place-wrong-time type situation, and such was the case Saturday. As the concluding credits rolled up on a college football game, the pulsing headline titled, "Only on KIRO 7," filled the screen. The broadcast led with the horrific assault of a security guard in Seattle's Westlake park back in July. Instantly plastered in high def were the name and a Facebook image of a thirteen-year-old boy identified by the guard as one of the youths who beat him to unconsciousness as he attempted to prevent the group from stealing a backpack. Not until he'd recovered three months later was the guard able to label the boy as one of his assailants, someone he'd seen on numerous occasions hanging out in the park.

But it didn't end there. The story cut to a reporter standing on the front porch of the alleged perpetrator's mother's apartment. She quickly shut the door without comment, yet she wasn't swift enough to avoid her image being beamed across western Washington. Apparently, KIRO 7 takes no prisoners. If it bleeds, it leads.

I think we've all grown fairly callous regarding "infotainment," the new face of broadcast journalism. We're used to the rapes and murders and fires that dominate our headlines. 

This is different. While Seattle's online newspaper, The Post-Intelligencer, chose to run the same story with the same facts, they also opted against naming or picturing the accused boy. Of course, KIRO could have also done that, but that wasn't quite enough red meat for a ratings-starved station that consistently finishes last among Seattle's three predominate news channels. KIRO chose to put a face to the story, to erect a lightning rod to absorb our fear and prejudice. 

Look at this kid. He's thirteen, but he looks about nine. It sounds like he's going down the wrong path, and if he did what they say he did, he needs to be punished. 

But that's not the point. It's one thing for a television station to prematurely condemn an adult, but a child? Would KIRO do the same if a white kid were involved, or would they be wary of the legal ramifications brought forth by a family with more substantial resources? I think we all know the answer to that. 

To KIRO's credit, the headline projects a rare bit of insight:

"Only on KIRO 7."

Tea Party Racism Stirs the Republican Martini.

Really?

Last weekend at a Republican party convention at the Missoula, Montana Hilton, an outhouse labeled "Obama Presidential Library" was plunked down in the middle of the hotel parking lot.

Ha! Good one.

The exterior of the portable comfort station was riddled with fake bullet holes. Inside, a pretend birth certificate for Barack Hussein Obama was stamped "bullshit," and jotted on the wall was the message, "For a good time, call 800-Michelle (crossed out), Hillary (crossed out) and Pelosi (circled in red)."

Yep, nothing cracks me up like the magical recipe of toilet humor, racism and misogyny. Keeps things light.

I'm starting to smell the singe of my own eyebrows so I should probably drag my canvas camp chair a couple of feet back from America's political bonfire...again.

It's been growing for a while; new logs have been added before the old ones have died, a few stray Styrofoam cups here, a Twix wrapper there. But now, someone's showed up drunk with bad intentions and a five-gallon can of ninety-two octane unleaded.

Politics is a dirty game—always has been.

While campaigning for John Kennedy during the 1960 presidential race, Harry Truman quipped, "If you vote for Nixon, you ought to go to hell."

Wow, such harsh words from a former commander-in-chief. At least it's not an order, it's more of a friendly suggestion.

In 1800, Thomas Jefferson wrote that President Adams possessed "a hideous hermaphroditical character which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman."

Come on now, Tom. You said this while wearing a wig.

A Republican pamphlet, in 1828, referred to Democrat Andrew Jackson as "a gambler, a slave trader and the husband of a really fat wife."

Jackson never forgave his opponents for such slander, vehemently denying that he'd ever gambled or traded slaves.

So it should come as no surprise that current day political vitriol—the "Willie Hortoning" of Michael Dukakis or the "swift boating" of John Kerry—relies on the same negativity for success that it's leaned on for centuries.

But here's the dangerous difference between now and every other era: The deadly combination of multi-million-dollar advertising pitches, combined with America's three-pixel attention span, assures that our country's massive cross section of lazy voters will cast their ballot based on thirty-second sound snippets wedged between American Idol contestants.

To exacerbate the systemic dysfunction, these information McNuggets will be promoted by groups like American Crossroads, seemingly benign organizations controlled and funded anonymously by corporate special interests.

In other words, we'll eat the Big Mac, but we won't know who made it.

Ever since a 2010 United States Supreme Court ruling enabled unlimited donations by corporations to political action committees, adverts will saturate our airwaves and the Kool-Aid will flow in the streets like never before.

It's the perfect storm. The Tea Party has emerged as America's racist backlash against its first black president. Intolerance and ignorance have blossomed to a bloom not seen since a wholesome Saturday night in Mississippi meant a pickup, a German Shepherd and a baseball bat.

Outhouses in Montana. Faux reporters and congressmen interrupting the President's speeches and governors finger wagging in his face.

That's disrespect not previously displayed for any President in America's history...and it's racism, pure and simple.

Republicans, what's the endgame here? Are you going to stand by and watch your party, with its centuries-old traditions of moderation and compromise, be callously hijacked by these faux patriots, these zealots?

As we speak, your candidate, Mitt Romney, is bending over so far for these folks, I thought I caught a glimpse of his limited edition underwear. Are you prepared to sell your ideals to the Joe the Plumbers, Sarah Palins and Karl Roves?

I thought you were smarter than that.

Racism is alive and well in liberal Seattle

Racism.

It's such an ugly word, with so much baggage. Some use it for political gain; some dispute its very existence. Most of all, we ignore it.

Last week at a Washington State Supreme Court meeting, the "r word" poked its head out of the sand yet again, as justices Richard Sanders and James Johnson shocked some participants when they stated that African Americans are overrepresented in the state's prison population because they commit a disproportionate number of crimes. They also disputed the view that racial discrimination plays a key role in the disparity.

Before I get all emotional about how my state's most powerful jurists feel about crime and punishment, I'd like to break things down, using some logic:

If what they're saying is fact, that would imply that African Americans are committing more crimes because either they're inherently more evil  than other ethnicities, or because they've learned that crime is more lucrative than attempting to find "legitimate" work.

If you believe the former, go ahead and log out of this blog and turn on FOX News, because Glenn Beck's coming on in a few minutes. If you lean toward the latter view, you may be right, but doesn't this shine a harsh light on our society and its disenfranchisement of a huge chunk of America?

Now let's assume that the justices' stance is merely ignorant conjecture, and in reality, the criminal justice system is unfairly stacked against African Americans. This would acknowledge that "institutional racism" is alive and kicking, and these judges don't want to cop to it.

I'm not a sociologist. I'm just a middle-aged guy who lives in the upper left corner of the country, trying to make sense of my surroundings. My city, Seattle, prides itself on its liberal politics, its open mindedness. We love to think that we're some of the most inclusive, tolerant people in the nation.

But really, things are no different than they were fifty years ago. Black people still live predominately in the lower elevation areas of south to south-central Seattle. The white folks live everywhere else, plus any areas with views of water.

We hear people like Rush Limbaugh spouting off about racism having been rendered moot sine the election of our first African American president. And, granted, we no longer see cereal boxes like this:

or restaurants like this:

But here's an indisputable fact—every position I've ever attained has been the direct result of a relationship with a friend or an acquaintance putting in a good word, dating back to my first job as a dishwasher in 1979. And you can say all you want about bootstrap-pulling and earning everything you've gotten, but isn't that just an easy way out?

If we can rationalize that we're all given an equal opportunity to succeed, that we're all viewed by our economic and legal systems as colorless and classless, then we never have to acknowledge that there's a big problem with race in America.

Maybe we can all dig a little deeper.