Eloquently Speaking About
~ Education The Ignorant ~
by James Lewis © copyright 2001
A man uses a unique approach to deal with
three men engaged in a racist conversation..
James W. Lewis
is a 31-year-old Navy enlisted man stationed in San Diego. He has been writing short stories for about 15 years now.
His website is at www.jameswlewis.com
~ Article Used With Author's Permission ~
Thanks James, Keep Writing, Stacey
Michael sat on the bench outside the glass doors of his business school, relieved to be finished with schoolwork. He didn’t want to be there on a Saturday afternoon, but he knew it was the only way to be ready for the next semester 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 sun. He looked at his watch and saw it was 1:00p.m.
"It's time to go the beach. It's beautiful out here," he said, resting his back against the wall behind him.
As he sipped his soda, he heard a group of guys conversing about schoolwork in the courtyard behind the wall. He smiled when one of them talked about the Computer Networking class.
"Man, this is hard," a man said. "You guys understand 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 he gathered his things, a Mustang convertible drove up thumping Hip-Hop music 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 pair, considering the high number of interracial couples in San Diego. She waved at the man as she stepped out the car. The Mustang then sped off.
Michael stood and threw the soda can in a recycle bin, smiling at the woman as she walked into the school.
He stole a glimpse of the young woman's hips and whispered, "I know I’m going to the beach now. Dang."
Michael hadn’t walked two feet before he stopped, shocked by what he thought he heard around the wall.
"I hate those people," 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 he was hearing. “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. He soon realized it was just one person talking.
"They're all good for nothing," the voice continued. “Besides that, they're all stupid, lazy and stealing our women!”
Michael had heard enough. He didn’t want to unleash his rage the way he used to do years before when he heard similar racist words directed at him, so he took a deep breath and then exhaled.
After waiting a few seconds, he stood, grabbed his bag, and walked through the entrance toward the courtyard, where he saw three white males sitting on a wooden bench.
Michael had somehow managed to turn his frown into a smile before walking up to the bench. There were two young men sitting next to each other across from a third gentleman. Their eyeballs swelled as the tall black man with ringed glasses walked toward them. Michael didn’t hesitate sitting next to the slim young man wearing a Padres baseball cap.
"How ya doing, fellas?" Michael said. "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 two of the men, but the one man sitting in front of them didn't flinch.
"It was me," the man in front of Michael said. "You have some nerve sitting down with us. No one invited you."
He glared at Michael with slit eyelids. Michael felt his heart skip, but he did not flinch, either. The man was massive, and Michael wondered if he was a Marine judging from his crewcut and muscular frame.
Damn, this guy’s neck looks like my thigh, Michael thought.
Michael now had a face to go with the voice that had spit out those ugly words, but his cordial smile stayed planted on his face.
"I just wanted to know why you felt that way," Michael said. "By the way, my name is Michael."
He extended his hand to the man in front of him, but the man refused to shake it.
"Chris," the man said.
Michael pulled his hand back. "All right. You don't have to shake my hand. What about you guys?"
"Darren," the blond-haired young man next to Chris said.
"I'm Carter," said the young man with the Padres cap sitting next to Michael. "Were you eavesdropping on us?”
"No," Michael replied, "but once I heard the 'N' word, I had to see what was going on."
"Well, what do you want?" Chris griped. His arms were folded, gripping a cell phone in his hand.
Michael noticed the thickness of Chris's forearms and biceps. The humorous Big Johnson character on his shirt made Michael grin. 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 shrugged and then nodded their heads.
Chris grinned. “All right. I got time. So, you want to know why I don't like you guys?"
Michael nodded. "Yup. You obviously didn't like that blonde kissing that black dude."
"I just believe white should be with white, black should be with black. Matter of fact, I believe all races 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 fifty years."
Michael acted surprised. "Oh really? How should we separate?"
Chris's head flinched a little, revealing a nervous gesture for the first time. "Well," he replied, clearing his throat, "it’s simple. Since our white forefathers discovered this 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.”
"Why do whites get to stay? How come whites can't go 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 snapped back. "How do you determine ‘white’, anyway? How far back in a family’s genetic history should we go? If you discovered a white man had a grandfather who was Indian, is that man still considered white?"
Chris paused before answering. Darren tilted his head toward Chris, as if trying to trigger a response from him. "Well, yes!" Chris finally cried.
Michael nodded. "Okay. What about a black great-grandmother?"
Chris scratched his cheek. "If he looks white and acts white, he's white!"
"Italian? Romanian? Albino?”
Michael shot back. “Are they part of the 'promised people', too? Russian or Croatian?"
Chris blinked several times, his eyebrows mashed together. Michael knew his sarcastic replies and quick responses caught him off guard. Darren and Carter remained quiet.
"You look mad, man,” Michael joked. "Don’t get mad; I’m 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 he isn't. Are they included?"
"What do you mean Keanu Reeves isn't white?" Carter exclaimed. "He is so white!"
"Wrong answer!" Michael cried. "That man is tri-racial. He's part Chinese, Hawaiian, and white. If you don't believe me, look it up yourself."
Michael heard Chris smack his tongue. He bet Chris didn’t know the star from The Matrix was racially mixed.
"So what should be done about those rainbow people?" Michael continued. "What about those mixed with five different races or more, all in one? How about we banish all people who are 'mixed up' to some remote island out in the Pacific Ocean somewhere?”
The annoyed look on Chris's face delighted Michael. He could tell Chris was having trouble finding the right comeback words.
"I say again," Chris replied, "whoever is white with Aryan blood should be with white people in one place separated from everyone else … period."
Michael nodded, dissatisfied but amused by Chris's short, hesitant responses. He was a little surprised at how easy it had been to rattle him. Chris's friends seemed to be enjoying the debate, but still chose to let Chris do the talking.
"All right, I'll leave it at that," Michael replied. "Let's just say you have this fantasy world in which every race in America decides to separate and 'go back' to their supposed homeland, shall we? That would mean every minority group would have to quit their professions--doctors, lawyers, judges, police officers, and teachers--and somehow make arrangements to move to their new lands and pray there's room in their new country to live. They’d have to sell their houses or break their leases, then fly to where ever they ‘originated’ from and then set up shop there, right? Oh, yeah, and get a divorce or annulment if they're in a interracial relationship with a white person."
Chris began tapping on the table and kept his eyes down. “Yup. Whatever you say."
Michael nodded, pretending to agree with him. "All right. 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 our economy? All the 'great' white people would have to pick up the workload left behind by their 'unworthy' minority counterparts and have to work three times as hard, right? With this great shifting of people from one country to another, our economy would plummet because of the buying and labor power 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. California alone would be in some serious turmoil because, just recently, whites here became a minority group."
Michael noticed the three men’s eyebrows raise. Chris tried to look as stone-faced as he could, but Michael could tell he was acknowledging the things he had just pointed out.
"And what about the military?" Michael continued. "San Diego is a military city. Think what would happen if minorities had to pack up and leave. I have a friend in the Navy and his work center is undermanned, but most of the people he works with are minorities.
My friend is white but it doesn't seem to bother him, though."
Darren nodded. "Yeah, my brother's in the Navy and he has two supervisors, who are Filipino and black," he said. Chris made an evil face at Darren after he spoke.
"Yep, I believe it," said Michael. He turned to Chris. "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 kitchen table happy as hell 'cause we got dem dere and wetbacks outta here! Yee Haw!'"
Chris's friends chuckled at Michael's exaggerated southern accent. Chris didn’t flinch.
"I don't care what you say," Chris replied with a glare. "Blacks have made no major contributions to our society at all. Whites have historically been the 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 spray. Got to be proud of that, huh?"
His friends bellowed out loud. To their surprise, Michael laughed right along with them, even clapping his hands.
"Jerri curl spray, huh?" Michael replied. "I used to sport one of those. I looked like I was in a singing group. I bet you had your bad hair days, too. You probably sported one of those 'Flock of Seagulls' haircuts, huh?"
Chris grinned. "Yeah, well, hair is the only thing you guys are good at, besides sports."
"Well, tell me, how do you really know blacks never made any contributions?"
Chris shrugged. "Because it's a well known fact. Blacks never invented anything."
Michael looked down at Chris's hand, which was still gripping the cell phone, and noticed a Band-Aid on his right thumb.
Michael grinned. "Blacks never invented anything, huh? It's ironic for you to say that, because some of the things you have on you right now remind me of black innovation."
Chris frowned. "Yeah, right! Like what?"
"I notice you have a Band-Aid on your thumb. How'd you cut yourself?"
"Working on my car. Why?"
"Well, the Band-Aid reminds me of 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.
"Yup. He helped establish the concept of blood banks that served American troops and their allies during World War II, saving thousands of lives."
"I bet you're going to tell me he was black, right?"
"Yup."
Michael pointed at Chris's cell phone. "You got a nice lookin' cell phone there. Reminds me of Henry T. Sampson. Ever heard of him?"
"Nope."
"Of course, you haven't. He was an engineer whose co-invention laid the groundwork for the cellular phone. Another black man, I'm afraid."
Chris appeared agitated. His friends remained quiet, but had their eyes glued on Michael.
"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? Look it up on the Internet or something. You're into computers, right?"
"Yeah, I am," Chris smirked. "I bet there weren't any black pioneers in computer technology, were there?"
"Phillip Emeagwali," Michael replied with a quick tongue. "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 for computer technology. In fact, he was one of 20 people to win ‘Pioneer of the Internet’ award in 1999. That sounds like a pioneer to me."
Chris’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a confused glare. Again, he had been caught off guard.
"I like your shirt with the Ferrari and the Big Johnson character on it. I especially like the way it shows him speeding past the streetlights and stuff. The streetlights remind me of Garret Morgan. Ever hear--”
"No!" Chris cried. "What, you're going to tell me he invented the Ferrari?"
Michael shook from Chris’s loud response, but remained calm. "No, but if it wasn't for him, there probably would be a lot more car crashes."
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Well, Garret was the inventor of America's first patented street signal. His invention was used throughout America until the red, yellow, and green traffic lights that are used today superceded his invention. Know what else he invented?"
Chris shook his head.
"What?" Carter asked.
"The gas mask. In the early 1900's, he helped rescue several men who were trapped in an underground tunnel because he wore his gas mask. His gas mask received a lot attention after that, from fire departments and even the military. Matter of fact, the military refined his mask for use in World War I to defend soldiers against poisonous gases."
Chris huffed. “All right, there may have been a few intelligent black people over--”
"A few?" Michael cut in. "You just said blacks never invented anything. I only mentioned four individuals who helped save lives in World Wars I and II; dramatically improved traffic safety; made major contributions to high-speed computer networking; and gave individuals the ability to call anyone anywhere. 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.
"And how can you say blacks haven't made any contributions to society? Blacks have fought and died in every American war, all the while enduring the hatred and discrimination from their white counterparts. It was like racists were saying 'yeah, 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 black 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?"
Again, Chris was not quick to answer and neither were his friends. He shifted around in his seat, but like a wild, wounded animal, he gazed at Michael and huffed, eyes intent on retaliation, unwilling to concede defeat.
Chris nodded and his smirk returned, his warrior face showing that of a man up for the challenge. "All right, man. There might have been some intelligent blacks over the years and blacks did fight in wars, but I still think blacks aren’t as smart as whites. You guys fail the SAT and IQ tests all the time. Why is that?"
Michael smiled. He knew that question was coming. Man, like clockwork. Racists can't get over that IQ thing, boy, he thought.
"You know,” Michael said, “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 state it was because of 300 years of slavery and another 130 years of segregation and institutionalized racism."
"We're just smarter, that's all."
"The article made an interesting point, 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. The 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."
Again, Chris’s smirk deflated. "Where the hell do you get this crap?” he exclaimed. “Discrimination had nothing to do with it! Whites are just smarter!"
"Is that so?" Michael replied. "The report also stated east Asians generally score higher on IQ scores than whites. Does that mean whites are genetically inferior to Asians?"
Chris’s lips moved, but no words came out. Carter smiled and looked away.
"There is plausible evidence to suggest economic conditions and learning environments greatly affect standardized test scores, not genetics,” Michael said. “But, you know what? High IQ scores do not guarantee success, just as low IQ scores do not guarantee failure. Highlighting the IQ gap between whites and blacks reinforces the negative stereotypes blacks have to deal with on a daily basis. Blacks who struggle to make better lives for themselves are constantly reminded of inferiority beliefs. You reminded me of it today."
Darren spoke up. "Well, at least you guys are more athletic.”
Michael shook his head. "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, eyes bulging.
"Nope,” Michael replied. “What’s 'more athletic', anyway?"
Carter shrugged. Michael looked over at Darren and Chris, but he knew neither could 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 encompass so many different ways to perform?"
"Well," Darren said, "you guys jump higher and run faster, so blacks dominate football, basketball, and track & field."
"Is that right? You just 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 Olympic wrestling, swimming, diving, or rugby. What about tennis, hockey, golf, and extreme sports? Yes, you do see the phenomenon of those Williams sisters in tennis and Tiger Woods in golf, but as a whole, you guys still dominate those sports."
"Yeah, but who cares about those sports?" said Darren. "When we think of true athleticism, I think people picture a athlete who can do crazy things with his body. Look at Michael Jordan! The man can flat-out fly!"
"Why, because he can jump high?"
"Yeah."
"‘Cause he can run fast?"
"Well, yeah!"
"‘Cause he got ‘mad skills’, as they say?"
"Yes!"
"Then how do you explain the athletic feats of white gymnasts?"
"Well … uh," Darren stuttered.
Chris remained quiet and stared at Michael. Carter also sat in silence.
"In my opinion, gymnasts are the most gifted athletes in the world,” Michael said. “What about the stuff they can do with their bodies? 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," replied 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 a while." Michael smiled when Chris shrugged.
"Why are blacks so good at football and basketball, then?" asked Darren.
"Well," Michael said, "I think a lot of blacks feel they’re supposed to be good at those sports. Growing up, I was a little kid who also believed blacks were naturally athletic. I believed no white boy should ever run faster or jump higher than me! That was like getting beat by a girl! Coaches, teachers, older blacks and whites believed that stereotype, too. Unfortunately, a lot of inner-city blacks feel the same way, so they strive to go pro by honing their athletic skills. While a lot of whites see sports as just a hobby, a lot of blacks see sports as a way of survival."
No one responded. Michael checked their pensive faces, and since no one spoke up, he decided to continue.
"So many people have used ‘scientific’ studies to distinguish the athletic abilities of blacks and whites. First, Hitler said the Aryan race was physically superior to any other race, but Jesse Owens proved that theory 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.
"As I speak today, there are seven, not to mention many talented reserve quarterbacks. Twenty-five years ago, that was unheard of. Now, ironically, black quarterbacks are revolutionizing the position, using quickness and scrambling
ability. 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."
Chris raised his hands then slammed them on his notebook. “You guys always complain! If it ain't the quarterbacks, it's coaches. Soon you'll be talking about the lack of black general managers. Just be happy with what you got!"
"Hell no!" Michael snapped. "The same crap happens all around corporate America! There have been only four black coaches in the NFL, and they all had success. How much do we have to prove?"
"I know you guys prove you can't be productive members of society,” Chris replied. “Why are blacks so violent? What's the statistic--one in three black men in jail?"
Michael nodded. “But two out of three aren't in jail."
"Whatever, man. Blacks riot, kill, rape—whatever! It's like it's in your DNA to be violent! Black males created that stereotypical image all by themselves because it's true!"
"Oh really?" Michael replied, feigning surprise. "Well, is there anything in the white male's DNA that makes them serial killers, ala Ted Bundy? And what about pedophiles? A magazine article stated pedophiles are almost always white males. Do I need to mention school and post office shootings or attacks on Federal buildings and abortion clinics?"
Chris grunted. Once again, Michael’s quick responses had caught him off guard.
“What about the L.A. riots!” Chris screamed in retort. “Blacks and Mexicans acted like animals, looting and tearing the place up! White people don't riot!"
Michael laughed, which seemed to irritate Chris even more. "Can you say 'soccer games’? What about the riots that often occur at soccer games? You hear about soccer game violence all the time. It seems like fans at soccer games fight just for the hell of it in places like England! Shoot, I’m not even going to get into the Northern Ireland civil war! You can talk about this bad image black men supposedly have in this society, but it appears to me white males have a bad image, too! I'm scared of you guys!"
Darren and Carter chuckled. Even Chris smiled a little, although he tried to hide it by putting his head down.
Chris took a deep breath. "All right, all right, you made your point," he said, his defiance waning. "But you gotta admit, you guys seem to complain about everything. That's one of the 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 getting fired."
Michael nodded. “I agree. Believe it or not, sometimes I wonder if some black folks cry racism too much. Anyone who cries racism when they know they’re at fault just makes excuses. I hate hearing sorry excuses from black folks as much as racist remarks from white folk."
Chris’s eyebrows raised up. "I'm a little surprised you're admitting to that. Know what I really hate? When some black people blame all their problems on the white man."
"I do, too,” Michael replied. “That’s just laziness talking. At the same time, though, I understand why a lot of brothers have such a negative outlook on life, especially inner city blacks. When you grow up in a crime-filled environment, I can see how a person can feel hopelessness. Imagine if you're poor and struggling to stay alive everyday; your mentality might be 'you gotta do what you gotta do’. Some black kids see more death in a month than a lot of people see in a lifetime. Can you even imagine being a kid knowing you may not live to see your 21st birthday?"
"Pretty messed up, man," said Carter.
"Sure is,” Michael said. “There's a lot of crap you guys don't deal with, simply because of your skin color. A lot of stuff you'd expect to be simple, like getting a taxi or driving on the highway at night. That stuff doesn't always comes so easily to blacks and other minorities, man. One time in New York, I came out of a nightclub and taxis were everywhere. Would you believe it still took me two hours to get a taxi? I walked up to one taxi and the driver locked the doors and drove off!"
"So, that happened to you too, huh?” Chris said, now calm. “I always hear that stuff but never believed it."
"It happens, man. The stuff black people have been 'complaining' about, like police brutality and racial profiling, has finally come to light. A lot of people are now seeing what we've been talking about all along. If you've forgotten, an unarmed black man was shot 41 times. The stereotype of black folks as criminals still exists, no matter how educated or wealthy we may be. I have a job, go to school, and have never broken the law, yet I'm still labeled as innately lazy, stupid, and criminal."
Darren, Chris, and Carter all sat with a quiet gaze. Michael looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that an hour had passed. "Damn," he said, standing up, "I gotta go. Beach is calling."
None of them spoke. Chris appeared consumed with his thoughts while his two friends also gathered their things.
Michael put the book bag strap around his shoulder and looked down at Chris. "Look,” 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 American minorities aren't going anywhere. People who believe in racial separation need to put the brakes on that pipe dream and kick some reality into high gear. Now, we can argue about IQ tests all day, but what 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’s eyes inched up and his hand raised with a slow lift. He shook Michael’s hand with a firm grip. Chris had a slight grin on his face, his eyes locked on Michael's warm smile.
"By the way," Michael said, "My name is Michael Lawrence. I'll see you in my class next week."
Chris’s jaw dropped. "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. Sometimes, you just never know who you're talking to, do you?"
The End
