“I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.” – James Baldwin
One of the privileges of being white in America is that I never had to look deeply at my own racial identity.
About 15 years ago in graduate School in a class called “Multiple Cultural Issues,” I came face to face with my own racism and the racism I inherited growing up in the South.
Attempting to make peace with the shame of living so blindly, and to become a better man, I penned this poem.
Where I Come From
By: Dr. Andrew J. Bauman
Put your fingers in your ears; you will still hear us, we are your ancestors.
Go ahead, run. Faster, now faster, you can’t outsprint your shame; you will never escape where you come from.
Pull the covers over your eyes; you will still see that they are white.
Our actions will speak louder than you can hide.
Yes, you know our secrets, for you are one of us.
We have marked you.
You have unknowingly carried our message your entire life.
“Don’t see color”
“Everyone is equal”
“This is the land of identical opportunity”
“Come on, I am not racist, I have that black friend.”
These messages echo into their own echo.
Yeah, that’s where I come from, a land that said without saying,
Black is dangerous.
Brown is poor.
Red is drunk.
Yellow is silly.
And I am better.
Climbing on the backs of the unseen people who got us here, so that I can stand taller?
Minimizing the experiences of minorities so that I could feel comfortable, in charge, and safe? So ‘they’ could remain ‘they’: cold, sweaty, and nameless.
Yes, that is where I come from.
The Carolinas whispered milky white lies that tickled my ears,
“Do not see, speak, hear or smell difference”, they told me, “Everyone is alike, in America’s grand melting pot.”
The white siren spoke so loudly, though I had not heard her until now.
I drank her poison by the gallons, and the hangover hasn’t gone away.
I am wondering if this detox will be as painful as their secrets.
I am questioning: will my anger result in action?
As I turn back towards home, I demand:
Carolina, take back your lies and make me new. Make me clean.
I will see difference.
I will develop the posture of listen.
I will acknowledge my privilege.
I will use my power to speak up against racism in all of its insidious forms.
Carolina, give me a new place I call home.
