Yes, it is about race

I know I'm a little late to respond to the issue of whether Joe Wilson's uncivil outburst was motivated by racism in addition to belligerence, stupidity, hatred, and frustration, but still, come on, a white man, slouching in his seat and glaring at a black man and yelling at him and calling him a liar? Even if I weren't a white woman from the deep south who knows that everything in the south is about race and that it colors every issue and interaction between men and women and animals and people of any race in the south, I would know racism was at least partly responsible for his behavior.

What's really disingenuous is the way people deny it. But that's part of the southern way too--"Oh whatever do you mean child? I wasn't being hateful." Fluttering eyelashes, the whole southern belle thing. And southern men never admit a thing. Never admit you're wrong. Never tell the truth to a woman, or a black man, or anyone else, because the people who deserve to know the truth--other white men of your class and standing in the community--already know it. It's a code. Everyone knows it's a code. Bless Jimmy Carter for blowing the code and telling the truth.

Southern culture is based on lies. Lies that some people are better than others, that the color of skin determines how human someone is and their value, and that it is not only okay to enslave and mistreat people but actually somehow ordained by God. These lies have not been rooted out; they've just been covered over, avoided, and denied.

I received an email from a relative today--a fine Christian woman, as they say, perpetuating the lie that what Joe Wilson did was not motivated by racism. The title was "How to Tell If You're a Racist." It was being sent around from one white person to another as a joke about how blacks and liberals think everything is racist. White people from the south who think it's funny to joke about being a racist, sending it around like a virus on the Internet. How sick!

Where is the Christian outrage at the lack of civility? Why didn't the people perpetuating this email spend their energy healing the wounds of racism instead of denying that they still exist?

What most amazed me is that this completely unprovoked and unjustified attack on Obama received so much press when the really great thing about that speech happened minutes before:
Obama standing tall and calm stated simply about one of the persistent stories spread about healthcare: "It's a lie." He looked right at those Republicans who had been spreading the lies and spoke civilly to their faces and said, "It's a lie." He spoke the truth, and that's a beautiful thing. The president of our country at last speaking the truth. No more lies.

For a beautiful book about the relationship between white Southern Christianity and racism in this country and about the pervasive effects of racism on our whole culture, read Wendell Berry's The Hidden Wound.

And to make my own contribution to healing the past, here's a story from my past: "Playing with Big Bertha's Daughter."

“You go out in that yard and play with her this minute, or I’ll give you a spanking!”

The maid’s daughter. The black maid’s daughter. Big Bertha’s daughter. With her hair in pigtails. Me play with her on the Main Street of Zachary, Louisiana? I was acutely embarrassed. All the cool kids would see me and think I was friends with her, that I was playing with her by choice. They would make fun of me. They would look down on me. They wouldn’t talk to me, or invite me over to play with them. They would call me a “nigger lover” behind my back, the worst thing you could be in that town, other than poor white trash, and my mom made me play with them too. I was the preacher’s daughter. People looked up to us. I had to set an example. Play with the poor white kids, the poor black kids. Jesus loved the sick and the lame. We were all God’s children. But didn’t she know this would scar me for life? I would never be popular now, or cool. Boys wouldn’t like me. I wouldn’t get to go on dates, or go dancing, or wear cool clothes. And everyone would think I was holier than thou, a goody two shoes. My life was over, and I was just 6 years old. I didn’t know that in the past other white kids had played with the maid’s daughters, or the slave’s daughters, that it was part of the heritage of the south. That world didn’t exist anymore, and all I knew was that I’d never seen any white girls play with any black girls ever, and I had enough problems fitting in without this too.

I don’t remember her much at all. Just a little black girl with pig tails wearing hand-me-down clothes and terrified to speak. A blank, dark face, looking at me like, “What now?” She was just as scared of me, just as embarrassed. She didn’t want to be there either, playing on Main Street with her mother’s boss’s daughter, a privileged white kid. It was like she was on display. She wasn’t a charity case. She hated it too. She must’ve fought with her mother as much as I had.

What had possessed them? Maybe Bertha had to bring her to work that day, and my mom being the cheerful, helpful preacher’s wife, said, “No problem. Bring her. Eberly will play with her.” Probably visions of Gone with the Wind and the glorious southern past dancing around in the back of her mind somewhere, and on top of that an opportunity to show how Christian and unprejudiced she was.

That was a very big deal, then, in the mid 60s. They hadn’t integrated the schools, yet, but there was talk of it, and it would happen soon, in a few years, and the whole thing was to show others that white and black kids could play together, to not give in to the rampant racism of the town.

Why couldn’t we just play in the house, I wanted to know. Because Bertha was cleaning in the house, and why, Eberly, you know you like to play outside and why would you want to play in the house? That sweet sickly smile and voice. I know she knows, and she knows I know what the problem is, but she’s pretending she doesn’t. “My child, whatever do you mean?” That old Southern Belle schtick, pretending there’s no problem and that I’m not justified in my complaints at all, when she knows good and well that she would’ve reacted the same way.

A little sympathy would’ve gone a long way to helping me rise to the occasion, but I didn’t get it,
and I didn’t rise. I fell.

I think I was mean to her. She never came back. I’m sure I was mean to her. I’m sure I felt very guilty. I must’ve said something cruel, like, “I don’t want to play with you. I’m only here because my mom is making me.” She was probably mean to me too. “What makes you think I’d want to play with you anyway, you stupid white girl? I don’t need you.”

I disappointed my parents. My mother was angry at me. She looked at me with disgust. She was ashamed of me.

For years, I felt this heavy weight of guilt and sadness in my stomach, until it became an unconscious, persistent feeling of embarrassment and guilt, vulnerability.

I wish I could make it up to her now.

Big Bertha’s daughter, wherever you are, I am sorry. I am sorry that I didn’t make you feel welcome, that I wasn’t warm and generous, and that I didn’t treat you like a friend. I’m sorry I made you feel bad. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I had acted just like my mother wanted me to act. I wish I had acted like myself, as if I were happy to play with you and get to know you and I didn’t care who in the world saw me. I wish I had been proud to be with you because you are just as important and valuable as me. I wish I had been curious. I wish we had played happily and un-self-consciously in my front yard, and I had showed you all my treasures. I wish we had become friends. I wish I had discovered something new. I wish I had been confident, humble, and kind. I am sorry.

How are you now? I hope you know that you were better than I treated you, and that you didn’t deserve to be unwelcomed. I hope you feel your own worth, and you didn’t let some little piss-ant, stubborn, egotistical white kid get the best of you. But if you did, I hope you forgave yourself, and you don’t let it eat at your soul anymore. I hope you feel confident and strong, and that you are proud of your mother and compassionate in your understanding of her.

I am sorry.