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Educating the Ignorant
By James Lewis
Click here if you'd like to exchange critiques
Copyright James Lewis 2001
Michael sat down on the small bench outside the glass doors of the business
school, relieved to be finished with all his miscellaneous schoolwork. He
did not want to be in school on a Saturday afternoon, but he knew it was the
only way to be ready for the next semester starting on Monday. He took a
sip from his Pepsi and looked out into the parking lot, seeing only his
Honda Civic and a few other cars. The shaded area where he sat shielded him
from the blaring afternoon sun. He looked down at his watch and saw it was
1:00p.m.
"Shoot, it's time to go the beach. It's beautiful out here," he said to
himself, resting his back against the wall behind him. He'd been telling
himself to go the beach for months, but he'd always put it off.
As he took more sips from his soda, he could hear a group of guys conversing
about their schoolwork in the small courtyard behind the wall. He smiled
when he heard one of the guys talking about the Computer Networking class.
"Man, this is hard," he heard a man say. "You guys understand this crap
TCP/IP? I passed the final exam and still don't understand it."
Michael chuckled as the guys babbled about how hard their classes were.
As Michael started to gather his things, a Mustang convertible drove up in
front the school with thumping bass blasting from its speakers. The Mustang
stopped in front of the school and Michael could see an attractive blonde
kissing a bald headed black man. Michael thought nothing of the interracial
pair, considering the number of interracial couples there in San Diego. The
Mustang then sped off as she got out.
Michael stood up and threw the soda can in the aluminum trash can, smiling
back at the attractive woman as she walked into the school. Michael put on
his sunglasses and stared at the woman's swaying hips as she walked slowly
into the school.
"Man," he said, gawking, "I know I got to go to the beach now. Wanna see
more of that."
Michael didn't walk two feet before he stopped dead in his tracks, shocked
by what he thought he heard around the wall.
"I hate those people, man," the voice said. "How come they always get the
best looking white women?"
He sat back on the bench and listened in on the racist rhetoric, stunned by
what his ears confirmed to him. His eyes bulged and his jaws dropped at how
blatantly offensive the racist expletives were.
"Did I just hear the 'N' word?" he said to himself. The same voices he
heard talking about schoolwork were now spitting out ugly racist remarks.
"They're all good for nothing," the voice continued. Michael realized it was
one person talking. "What the hell are they good for anyway? They're all
stupid and lazy. Besides that, they're stealing our women! Damn, I hate
that!"
Michael had heard enough. He stood up, grabbed his book bag, and walked
through the entrance towards the shaded courtyard and saw the shocked looks
on the faces of three white males sitting on a wooden bench. Michael played
it cool, smiling as he walked up to the bench. There were two young men
sitting next to each other across from a third gentleman. The young men
were stunned to see the tall smiling black man with ringed glasses sit down
with them.
"How ya doing, fellas?" he said graciously. "I couldn't help overhearing
your little conversation and decided to join you guys. Now, who was the one
talking about 'they're all good for nothing?'"
No one said a word. Michael noticed the nervous gestures of the young men
as they eyed each other. "It was me," the man directly across from Michael
finally said, "what of it?"
"I just wanted to know why you felt that way. By the way, my name is
Michael." He extended his hand to the young man, but the man refused to
shake it.
"I'm Chris," he said dryly.
"Alrighty, you don't have to shake my hand," Michael replied, pulling his
hand back. "What about you guys?"
"Darren," the blond haired young man next to Chris said.
"I'm Carter," said the young man with the NIKE cap sitting next to Michael.
"How come you were spying on our conversation?"
"I wasn't spying," Michael replied, "but once I heard the 'N' word, I had to
see what was going on."
"Well, what do you want?" Chris said angrily, folding his arms. Michael
noticed the thickness of Chris's forearms and biceps as he tightly gripped a
cell phone in his hand. The humorous Big Johnson character on his shirt made
him grin slightly. He guessed Chris was about 27 years old.
"Just wanted to know why you feel the way you do," Michael replied. "Think
we can have an intellectual discussion on this matter without throwing
blows?"
Chris looked at his friends. Both of them were nodding their heads.
"Alright," Chris said, smiling, "I got time. So, you want to know why I
don't you like guys?"
Michael nodded his head. "Yup. You obviously didn't like that blond
kissing that black dude."
"I just believe white should be with white, black should be with black.
Matter of fact, I believe all races people should be separated, especially
for the sake of the white race. With all this racial mixing, the white race
won't even exist in the next 50 years or so."
Michael acted surprised. "Oh really? How should we separate?"
Chris's head flinched slightly. "Well," he replied, while clearing his
throat, "its simple. Since our white forefathers discovered this great
nation, all white people should stay here in America. Anyone of African
descent should go back to Africa and all the other races should go back to
where ever they originally came from. Simple as that."
"Why do whites get to stay? How come you guys can't take your butts back to
Europe?"
"Because America wouldn't be what it is today without white people!"
"Really? Seems to me if there were any group of people who had rights to
America it would be the American Indian."
"To hell with that! White people built this nation, so we stay here!"
"On the backs of slaves and Indians," Michael replied sternly. "How do you
determine 'white', anyway? How far back in a person's family genetic
history should we go? If you discovered a white man had a great-grandfather
who was Indian ---or maybe, Hispanic--- is that man still considered white?"
Chris paused before answering. His friends stared at him, eagerly waiting
for a quick comeback. "Well, yes!" Chris replied.
"Okay. What about a black great-great grandmother?"
Chris looked away from Michael while rapidly scratching his head, unsure how
to respond. "If he looks white and acts white, he's white!" he finally
said.
"Italian? Romanian? Albino? Are they part of the 'promised people', too?"
Michael quickly replied. His rapid responses caught Chris off guard.
"What about Russian descent? Croatian?"
Michael's sarcastic replies irritated Chris. Neither Darren nor Carter knew
how to answer Michael's questions, so they kept quiet. Michael could tell
Chris was getting irritated.
"Don't get mad, homey," Michael replied, jokingly, "just trying to figure
this out. So, what do we do about biracial people? What about people like
Keanu Reeves or Halle Berry? Halle Berry is mixed with white and black;
Keanu Reeves looks white but isn't. Are they included?"
"What the hell do you mean Keanu Reeves isn't white?" Carter exclaimed,
shocked. "He is so white!"
"EEEAAHHHH! Wrong answer!" Michael replied loudly, trying to sound like a
game show buzzer. "That man is tri-racial. He's part Chinese, Hawaiian ---
and white. If you don't believe me, look it up for yourself."
Michael could see the disgusted look on Chris's face. Chris shook his head,
also unaware the star from his favorite movie The Matrix was racially mixed.
"So what do you think should be done about these rainbow people?" Michael
continued. "Hell, what about those mixed with five different races or more
in one? I know what we can do to them. We can banish all people who are
'mixed up' to some remote island out in the Pacific Ocean somewhere. What
about that?"
The annoyed look on Chris's face delighted Michael. Chris did not know how
to rebut the question.
"I say again," Chris replied sternly, "whoever is white with Aryan blood
should be with white people in one place separated from everyone else.
Period."
Michael nodded his head, dissatisfied but amused by Chris's short, hesitant
responses. He was a little surprised at how easy it was to rattle him.
Chris's friends seemed to be enjoying the debate, but still chose to let
Chris do the talking.
"Alright, I'll leave it at that since you so eloquently explained your
position," Michael replied sarcastically. "Let's just say you have this
fantasy world of every race in America deciding to separate and 'go back' to
their supposed homeland. That would mean every minority group would have to
quit their professions ----doctors, lawyers, athletes, judges, police
officers, teachers, etc ---- somehow make arrangements to move to their new
lands; pray there's room in their new country to live; sell their houses or
break their leases; fly to where ever they supposedly originated from and
set up shop there, right? Oh yea, get a divorce or annulment if they're in
a interracial relationship with a white person."
Chris began tapping on the table with his fingers and kept his eyes down so
not to look Michael in the eye. Chris's uncomfortable gestures amused
Michael. "I bet this man is beginning to hear what I'm talking about,"
Michael thought to himself.
"Yup. Whatever you say," Chris replied, his voice trailing.
Michael nodded his head again, pretending to agree with him. "Alrighty,
then. Let's just look at what would happen to America in the meantime:
considering a large number of Americans are minorities, don't you think that
would kill the American economy? All the 'great' white people would have to
pick up the workload left by their 'unworthy' minority counterparts and work
three times as hard, right? With this great shifting of people from this
country to another, the economy would plummet because of the buying and
labor power us minorities have. Don't you think?"
"White people will survive. We always have."
"Maybe, but most businesses would suffer greatly because of the immediate
loss of labor and profit. Shoot, California alone would be in some serious
turmoil because just recently whites here became a minority."
Michael noticed each of their eyebrows rise on their foreheads. Chris tried
to look as stone-faced as he could, but Michael could tell he was
acknowledging the things he pointed out; things Chris probably did not think
hard about.
"And what about the military?" Michael continued, "San Diego is a military
city with five naval bases. Think what would happen if minorities had to
pack and leave. The entire military is short of people as it is. I have a
friend in the Navy and he works as an Electrician's Mate. His work center
is undermanned as it is, but most of the people he works with are minority.
My friend is white and it doesn't seem to bother him, though."
Darren nodded his head. "Yea, my brother's in the Navy and he has a chief
that's Filipino and a supervisor who's black." Chris made an evil face at
Darren as he spoke.
"Yep, I believe it," said Michael. "If things go down the way you want them
to, there wouldn't be a military or a healthy labor force in America. The
market would crash, there would be a recession, depression, and crime would
go up. But good ole' boy Chris here would be sipping on Jack Daniels and
dipping Redman with his dirty feet up on his bare kitchen table happy as
hell 'cause we got dem dere niggers and wetbacks outta here! Yee Haw!'"
Chris's friends chuckled at Michael's exaggerated southern accent.
"I don't care what you say," Chris replied, "blacks have made no major
contributions at all. Whites have historically been the main innovators of
every major achievement in America. I don't know of any black inventors,
except that black dude who invented hair grease and Jerri curl juice. Got
to be proud of that, huh?"
His friends laughed out loud. To their surprise, Michael laughed right along
with them. He clapped his hands loudly. .
"Jerri curl juice, huh?" he replied, chuckling. "Back in the day I used to
sport one of those. I bet you had your bad hair days, too. You probably
sported one of those 'Flock of Seagulls' haircuts, huh?"
Chris grinned. "Yea, well, hair is the only thing you guys are good at,
besides sports."
"Well, tell me, how do you really know blacks have never made any
contributions? Where do you get your information?"
Chris shrugged his shoulders. "Because," he replied, "it's a well known
fact. It ain't like blacks invented anything significant or made any
valuable contributions to this society."
Michael looked down at Chris's hand gripping the cell phone and noticed a
Band-Aid on his right thumb.
"Blacks never invented anything significant, huh?" he said with a grin.
"It's ironic for you to say that because some of the things you have on you
remind me of black innovation."
Chris frowned. "Yea, right?" he cried. "Like what?"
"I notice you have a Band-Aid on your thumb. How'd you cut yourself?"
"Cut myself working on my car. Why?"
"Well, the Band-Aid on your hand reminds me of a man named Charles Richard
Drew. Ever heard of him?"
"Nope."
"Of course you haven't. He was the first director of the American Red Cross
blood bank and a pioneer in blood preservation. The model he established
for blood banks used by Red Cross back then are still being used today."
"Is that right?" Chris said, acting unimpressed.
Michael continued. "He helped establish the concept of blood banks that
served American troops and its allies during World War II, saving thousands
of lives."
Chris frowned. "I bet you're going to tell me he's black, right?"
"Yes, sir."
Michael pointed towards Chris's cell phone. "You got a nice lookin' cell
phone there. Reminds of a man named Henry T. Sampson. Ever heard of him?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Of course you haven't. He was an engineer who's co-invention laid the
groundwork to the cellular phone. Another black man, I'm afraid."
Chris appeared agitated. His friends remained quiet, but showed interest.
"That is pure crap!" Chris exclaimed. "You can't pro…
"Prove it?" Michael interrupted. "Yes, I can, but why don't you prove it to
yourself, 'Mr. Whitey Almighty?' Look it up on the Internet or something.
You're into computers, right?"
"Yea, I am," Chris smirked. "I bet there weren't any black pioneers in
computer technology, were there?"
"Phillip Emeagwali," Michael said quickly, "he designed a program and
formula for the fastest computer in the world. He won the Gordon Bell award
in the late 80's, which is like the Pulitzer prize for computer technology.
In fact, he was one of 20 people to win Pioneer of the Internet award in
1999. Sounds like a pioneer to me."
Chris glared at Michael with evil eyes. Again, he was caught off guard.
"I like the shirt with the Ferrari and the Big Johnson character in it. I
especially like the way it shows him speeding past the streetlights and
stuff. The streetlights remind me of a man named Garret Morgan. Ever hear…
"NO!" Chris cried, irritated. "What, you're going to tell me he invented
the Ferrari?"
"No, I'm not saying that," Michael said calmly, "but if it wasn't for him,
there probably would be a lot more car crashes going on right about now."
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Well, my man Garret was the inventor of America's first patented street
signal. His invention was used through out America until the red, yellow,
and green traffic lights used today superceded his invention. Know what
else he invented?"
Chris shook his head "What?" Carter asked eagerly.
"The gas mask. In the early 1900's, he made big news when he rescued
several men who were trapped in an underground tunnel from an explosion
because he used his gas mask. His gas mask received a lot attention after
that, from the fire department and even the military; matter of fact, the
military refined his masks for use in World War I to defend against
poisonous gases, like mustard gas."
Chris could not believe what he was hearing, but he tried to remain calm.
He didn't want to look defeated, but he began to feel it.
"Alright, man. There may have been a few intelligent black people over…"
"A few?" Michael interrupted, "man, there were many more than a few. You
just said blacks never invented anything significant. I only mentioned four
individuals who helped save thousands of lives in World War I and II;
dramatically improved traffic safety; made major contributions to high speed
computer networking; and gave individuals the ability to make phone calls
when and where ever they choose. Don't get me started on Benjamin Banneker,
Lewis Latimer, Daniel H Williams, or George Washington Carver. One can only
imagine how many other great black men and women there would've been if it
weren't for racism and stupid Jim Crow laws. I can go on, though."
"I bet you can," Chris said dryly.
"And how can you say blacks haven't made any contributions to society?
Blacks have fought and died for this country in every American war, all the
while enduring the hatred and discrimination from their white counterparts.
It was like racists were saying 'yea, we need you to fight this war for us
and die for your country, but we're still going to treat you like crap in
the process.' The bravery of those American soldiers to fight for a country
that hated them boggles my mind. Blacks were called upon to fight for
freedoms they were not allowed to enjoy, and yet, they still fought. To
fight and die for your country under those conditions is the ultimate
contribution, don't you think?"
Chris did not answer and neither did his friends. Michael saw Chris's eyes
look downward as if he was ashamed for asking the question. He shifted
around uncomfortably in his seat, unable to respond. He did not want Michael
to know he agreed with him because that would mean conceding defeat. He
preferred to stick to his guns.
"Alright, man. Yea, there might have been some intelligent blacks over the
years and blacks did fight in wars, but I still think blacks are generally
not as smart as whites. You guys have consistently failed on standardized
tests, like the SAT and IQ tests. How come you people always get low IQ
scores?"
Michael smiled and shook his head. He knew that question was coming. "Man,
like clockwork. Racists can't get over that IQ thing, boy," he thought to
himself.
"You know, I was reading an article on IQ tests and why blacks score lower
on them; it stated blacks traditionally score about 15 points lower on tests
than European-Americans. It talked about how conservatives say this proves
genetic inferiority while liberals were saying the results were the results
of 300 years of slavery and another 130 years of segregation and
institutionalized racism."
"We're just smarter that's all," Chris said with a smirk.
"An interesting point was made in the article, one I was not aware of. It
stated that the Korean minority in Japan scored lower than the Japanese
majority. Japanese perceived them as stupid and violent. Same thing happened
with the Polish Jews in America in the late 1800's. They were also
perceived as stupid and violent. As a result of wide-spread discrimination
and the lack of equal opportunity for these two groups of people, their IQ
scores were lower."
Chris shook his head vigorously, annoyed by Michael's intellectual
rebuttals. "Where the hell do you get this crap? Discrimination had
nothing to do with it! Whites are just smarter!"
"Is that so?" Michael replied. "That same report also stated east Asians
generally score higher on IQ scores than whites, sir. Does that mean whites
are genetically inferior to Asians?"
Again, Chris did not answer. Carter smiled but looked away so his seething
friend wouldn't notice him. He could tell Chris was highly irritated by
Michael's responses. Carter secretly admired the way Michael was able to
rebut everything Chris dished out to him.
"There is plausible evidence to suggest economic conditions and learning
environments greatly affect standardized test scores, not genetics. But,
you know what? High IQ scores does not guarantee success just as low IQ
scores does not guarantee failure. I believe highlighting the IQ gaps
between whites and blacks reinforces the negative stereotypes blacks deal
with on a daily basis. Blacks who struggle to make better lives for
themselves just like everybody else in this country are constantly reminded
of inferiority beliefs. You reminded me of it today."
Darren spoke up. "Well, at least you guys are more athletic. Whites can
never compete with you guys."
Michael shook his head to their surprise. "I don't think blacks are more
athletic. I believe that's a myth blown up by the media."
"You don't think blacks are more athletic?" Carter said, aghast.
"Nope. Tell me something though: how do you define 'more athletic',
anyway?"
Carter shrugged his shoulders. Michael looked over at Darren and Chris, but
neither knew exactly how to answer.
"Is it how high you jump?" Michael asked. "How fast you run? How well you
drive a sports car? How far you kick a ball? How can you measure
athleticism when there are so many sports that encompasses different ways to
perform?"
"Well," Darren said, "you guys dominate all sports that have anything to do
with jumping high or running fast. Blacks dominate sports like football,
basketball, and track & field."
"Is that right? If you notice, you mentioned three sports that get a lot of
television coverage---reinforcing the myth that blacks are physically
advanced. Whites tend to dominate sports you hardly ever see on American
television like Greco-American wrestling, swimming, diving, or rugby. What
about tennis, hockey, golf, and extreme sports? Yes, you do see the
phenomenon of those sisters in tennis and Tiger in golf, but as a whole, you
guys still dominate those sports."
"Yea, but who cares about those sports?" said Darren. "When we think of true
athleticism, I think people picture a gifted athlete who can do crazy things
with his body. I mean, look at Michael Jordan! The man can basically fly!"
"Why, because he can jump high?"
"Yea."
"Cuz he can run fast?"
"Well, yea!"
"Cuz he got mad skills, as they say?"
"YES!"
"Then how do you explain the athletic feats of white gymnasts?"
"Well, uh…." Darren could not respond to that. Chris remained quiet, still
seemingly unwilling to talk. Carter pondered the question.
"In my opinion, gymnasts are the most gifted athletes in the world. What
about the stuff they can do with their bodies? I saw a guy do a double
layout back flip on the floor exercise one time. To do something like that,
you have to be very fast, pretty damn strong, and can jump to the ceiling
----and have mad skills. How come when people talk about the athletic feats
of blacks they fail to mention the athleticism of white gymnasts?"
"Probably because we hardly see those sports, like you said," said Carter.
"You only see them like every other Saturday or during the Olympics. You're
right, though, the stuff they can do is crazy."
"Yup. What do you think, Chris? You haven't said anything in awhile. Chris
just shrugged his shoulders.
"Why do you suppose blacks are so good at football and basketball, then?"
asked Darren.
"Well," Michael explained, "I think a lot of blacks feel we're supposed to
be good at those sports. Growing up, I was a little black kid who believed
that same stereotype--- that black people were more athletic and no white
boy should ever be able to run faster or jump higher than me. Coaches,
teachers, older blacks, and whites, who also believed that stereotype, had
me believing it, too. Unfortunately, a lot of inner city black males feel
the same way. They feel the only way to be successful in life is to strive
to go pro. They don't see any other way, except to dedicate hours on honing
their athletic skills. A lot of whites see sports as a hobby; a lot of
blacks see sports as a way of survival."
No one responded or commented on Michael's statements. Michael looked over
at each of their pensive faces. No one spoke up, so he decided to continue.
"You know, so many so-called scientific studies have been used to
distinguish the athletic abilities of blacks and whites. First, Hitler said
the Aryan race was supposedly far superior physically than any other race,
but Jesse Owens proved that wrong. Then, supposedly blacks didn't have the
lung capacity for long distance running; Kenyans destroyed that myth. Then
the stupidest myth of them all: blacks don't have the mental capacity to be
in a quick thinking position, such as the NFL quarterback. Do you know how
many starting black quarterbacks in the league now, Chris?"
"Nope." Chris replied, still acting uninterested.
"Seven, not to mention many talented reserve quarterbacks. Twenty-five
years ago that was unheard of. Now, ironically, black quarterbacks are
revolutionizing the role with their quickness and scrambling ability----and
they can throw, too. Know what else? The incredible thing is nobody's
making a big fuss about it. That myth is finally dead. Too bad that can't
be said for black coaches."
Slowly Chris came back to life. The last remark seemed to really irritate
him. "You know you guys always got something to complain about. If it
ain't the quarterbacks, it's coaches. Soon you'll be talking about the lack
of black general managers. Get over it! Be happy with what you got!"
"Hell, no, I won't be happy!" Michael snapped, "the same crap happening with
black coaches happens all around American companies. It's sad to see
there's still a good ole' boy network out there. It's messed up when you
got dozens of blacks qualified for head coaching positions, but they
continually get passed over. There have been only four black coaches in the
NFL and each one of them had success. Damn, how much do we have to prove?"
"I know one thing you guys prove time and time again," Chris replied, "you
guys prove you can't be productive members of society. What is in your
people to act violently in every situation? What's the statistic? Isn't
there one in three black men in jail? Pretty messed up statistics!"
"You're right," Michael replied, "those are messed up statistics. But guess
what? Two out of three black aren't in jail. I like those statistics
better."
"Whatever, man. Black men seem to have a need to create chaos. You guys
are always in trouble, whether it's rioting, killing each other, or raping
somebody. It's almost like it's in your DNA to be violent! Black males
created that stereotypical image all themselves because it's true!"
"Oh really?" Michael replied, acting surprised. "Well, is there anything in
the white male's DNA that makes them serial killers? Serial killers in
general are usually white males, ala Ted Bundy. And what about pedophiles?
I was reading an article regarding an FBI report on child porn trafficking,
and it stated the perpetuators are almost always white males --- between the
ages of 25 and 45. Do I need to mention school and post office shootings
and terrorist attacks on Federal buildings and abortion clinics?"
Chris grunted. He didn't expect Michael to respond so quickly as usual.
"What about the L.A. riots! There were blacks and Mexicans every where
acting like animals, looting and tearing the place up! You people riot
every time you get together! White people don't riot!"
Michael laughed, irritating Chris even more. His two friends knew Michael
would have a quick comeback to Chris's remark. They were right.
"Can you say 'soccer games?'" Chris replied, chuckling, "what about the
riots that often occur at soccer games? You hear about soccer game violence
all the time. Fans at soccer games fight just for the hell of it in Europe!
There was a stampede in the late 80's that killed 90-plus people at a
soccer game in England. So, you can talk about this bad image black men
supposedly have in this society, but it seems to me white males created a
bad image for themselves, too! I'm scared of you guys!"
Darren and Carter chuckled. Even Chris grinned a little, although he was
trying to hide by putting his head down. Darren and Carter no longer wanted
to debate with Michael because they couldn't help liking the guy. They
admired his wit and debating skills that continuously kept Chris frustrated.
Chris also had admiration for him and was actually thinking more about
what Michael was saying.
Chris took a deep breath and sighed. "Alright, man, you made your point,"
he said calmly, his defiance waning, "but you gotta admit, you guys seem to
complain about everything. That's one of reasons why a lot of white people
are so angry. Every time I turn on the television I hear about some
so-called black leader calling for the government to apologize for crap that
happened a hundred years ago. Or I hear about some black dude claiming
racism for being fired from his job. You guys give the impression racism is
the cause for all your problems."
Michael nodded his head, as did Carter and Darren. "I agree," Chris said
without hesitation. "Believe it or not, sometimes I wonder if some of my
black folks cry racism too much. I mean, when a black NBA player cries
racism for getting suspended after choking his coach, that's bull! Anyone
who cries racism when they know damn well they messed up is making excuses
for not taking responsibility for his actions. I hate hearing sorry excuses
from black folks as much as racist remarks from white folk."
Chris was wide-eyed with surprise. "I'm a little surprised you're admitting
to that," he said. "Know what I really hate? When some black people blame
all their problems on the white man."
Michael nodded. "I don't like lame excuses like that, either," he replied,
"but at the same time I understand why a lot of brothers have such a
negative outlook on life, especially inner city blacks. When you grow up in
an environment filled with crime, drugs, and murder, I can see how a person
can feel hopelessness. If you're poor and struggling to stay alive on a
daily basis, you gotta do what you gotta do. Unfortunately, a lot of
brothas can't see light at the end of the tunnel when there's nothing but
despair. Some inner city kids see more death than a lot of people see in a
lifetime. Can you even imagine being a kid knowing you may not live to see
21?"
"Pretty messed up, man," said Carter.
"Yeah. You see, there's a lot of crap you guys don't deal with purely
because of your skin color. A lot of stuff you'd expect to be automatic and
simple, like getting a taxi or driving on the highway in your car. That
stuff doesn't always comes so easily to blacks and other minorities, man.
One time in D.C, I came out of a nightclub at about two in the morning and
there were taxis every where. It still took me two hours to get a taxi! I
walked up to this one taxi and he actually locked the doors and drove off!
I was shocked!"
"So, that happened to you too, huh? I always hear that stuff but never
believed it," Chris said, surprisingly calm.
"It happens, man, whether you believe it or not. The stuff black people
been 'complaining' about, like police brutality and racial profiling, have
finally come to light. A lot of people are now seeing what we we've been
talking about all along. If you've forgotten, there was a black man shot 41
times, unarmed. The stereotype of us as criminals still exist, no matter
how educated or wealthy we may be. I got a job, go to school and never broke
the law, yet I'm still labeled as innately lazy, stupid, and criminal. It
gets frustrating, man."
The three young man sat still and quiet, deep in their thoughts. Michael
looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that two hours had passed
while he spoke with the three gentlemen.
"Oh, damn," he said, standing up, "I gotta go. Beach is calling."
None of them said a word. Chris still seemed to be consumed in his thoughts
while his two friends also gathered their things. Michael looked down at
Chris and noticed the reflective gaze in his face.
"Look, man," he said, "you can hate me and people who look like me all you
want, but that will only cause you stress and frustration because minorities
in general aren't going anywhere. I'm sorry to break the news to you.
People who believe in racial separation need to put the brakes on that pipe
dream and kick some reality in high gear. That crap just ain't gonna happen,
homie. Now we can argue about IQ tests and inferiority crap all night, but
what exactly will that prove? All white people aren't racist, just like all
blacks aren't criminals. We as American people need to work together and not
against each other because nine times out of ten, we'll be side by side with
someone of another race; whether it's on the job or on a team. What do you
say?"
Michael extended his hand to Chris. Chris slowly lifted his hand and shook
it with a firm grip, his eyes looking into Michael's with respect.
"By the way," Michael said, "my name is Michael Lawrence. I'll see you in
my class next week."
Chris looked stunned. "You're Michael Lawrence, the Networking Essentials
instructor?"
"Yup."
"How did you know I'm in your class?"
"Saw it on your semester schedule on your notebook. You just never know who
you're talking to, do you?"
