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It is very
being black in a white world
As we sit complacently in our
comfortable homes, fashionably clad
in designer jeans, with eyes glued to
the latest video on TV, all of the
things that we as a people have
worked so hard for may be slipping
away.
• Just beneath the surface of white
society, barely hidden by a veneer
of politeness, lies a deep-rooted hostility that time and civil-rights legislation cannot erase.
" It is very difficult being black in a
"white world. People constantly
make subtle assaults on your person. It's nothing major, like a slap in
the face, but it stings just as much,
if not more.
Being black means always having
your credibility and worth as a person questioned. No matter how
good you are at whatever you do,
it's never good enough. It's always,
"she's one of the best blacks we
have," never "she's one of the best
we have/'
Being black means getting called
"nigger" by drunken joy-riding
wxhite boys who "were just having
fun." Being a black woman often
means being subjected to lewd and
suggestive comments by white men,
because everyone knows how
"promiscuous" black women are.
'Being black means getting
snubbed by saleswomen in expensive stores because, after all "everyone knows blacks don't have the
money to buy nice things."
" It happens everywhere, North
and South.
I know. I grew up in Mobile, Ala.,
spe^a year in Atlanta and attended oPlege in Washington, D.C.
; And I spent last summer working
. at a Pittsburgh newspaper.
. One afternoon, I went to the bank
to cash a check.
Before coming to Pittsburgh, that
Lolita M. Rhodes is a 1984 graduate of Howard University.
had been a relatively simple task.
After standing patiently in line
while the teller chatted amicably
with a pleasant old woman, it was
my turn — or so I thought.
The teller turned her back on me
without so much as an "excuse me,
I'll be right with you," and started
talking to another employee. That
made me angry, (rudeness usually
does) but '
came
ex;
me furious.
There I
stood with my
driver's license
and my bank
book — I had
an account at a
branch of that
bank ■
and
Rhodes
waited to get
my paycheck
cashed. Not a personal check, or
even an out-of-state check, but a
payroll check that this bank had
issued.
The teller did not even look at my
identification. She saw my black
face and called the newspaper to see
if I really worked there.
Ironically, at that moment, my
editor walked in and confirmed that
I did indeed work for the paper and
that I hadn't robbed some hardworking reporter of her salary. She
cashed my check, but the damage
was done. I was bitter, hurt and
angry.
OK, I know what you're thinking.
"She was only doing her job." Bull,
and even if that were true, she
could have handled the situation
better.
What ever happened to courtesy
and politeness, or does my race
make me undeserving of such
things? If my skin were fair, if my
eyes were blue and if my hair were
golden and cascading down my
back, would this have happened? I
doubt it.
A year has passed since then.
Today, I have difficulty working
up that same kind of intense anger,
although occasionally it rises to the
surface.
I have not become complacent,
nor have I lost my identity. Instead
I have become more of a realist. I
don't expect as much from people,
and they seldom disappoint me.
Today, I again live in the South,
in Greensboro. This region, for
many (especially Northerners) conjures up images of lynchings and
racial unrest.
And until recently, I have been
treated like a person. Even on the
back roads of North Carolina, when
I have anticipated the worst. When
visions of being called "nigger" filled
my head, a wizened old white man
gave me directions and told me to
have a nice day.
Yet, I am not so blind as to delude myself into thinking that racism does not exist in the South.
It does.
I saw an apartment-for-rent sign
the other day and stopped to inquire.
An older white woman came to
the door and told me there was no
vacancy. She said the for-rent sign
had been there for years.
"No it hasn't. I live in this neighborhood," said a friend who was
with me. The woman denied all. I
looked on in disgust.
Twenty years after the marches,
the sit-ins, the prayers and the protests, racism still lingers. From
time to time it can erupt into violence, as in the Klan-Nazi shootout
in 1979.
Granted, we need not walk
around paranoid. Every white person is not an undercover Klansman,
closet bigot or potential enemy.
Many are genuinely good people,
but many more do wear masks to
hide their true feelings.
And we also wear masks, but for
slightly different reasons.
