Black and White

My high school’s student body was almost entirely white. Sure, there were some black students here and there; several Asians and Indians marked on class lists and attendance sheets. But no one ever said you had to know their names. Black kids all sat at the same table during lunch. Most of them were athletes, and those were the only ones you knew – track and basketball stars, wide receivers; individuals who were physically gifted but academically inept. They were an inadvertent amalgamation of stereotypes and hegemonic narratives; a eugenics theorist’s best wet dream. Asian students sat at a separate table, buried under mounds of textbooks and lab reports, TI-83 graphing calculators. Mr. Stine’s 9^th grade lecture on civil rights issues and Jim Crow laws seemed unnecessary – segregation was an everyday occurrence.

It was worse in the locker room. P.E. class would start, and hordes of students marched towards the double doors, down halls of white brick lit by white bulbs. Motivational poster hung in the office window. They featured male athletes in action poses, perspiration glistening on white skin. We’d all change clothes. Sometimes kids would joke about size – Asians are small, whites are average, blacks are large. After the black students grabbed the basketballs and took off towards the gym, Dylan would start telling jokes.

“Hey, Sanford, why is February the shortest month?”

“Seriously. Not today. I don’t want to . . .”

“Naw, c’mon, man. February. Why is February the shortest month?”

“Dylan, I don’t dislike you or anything, you seem like an alright guy half the time, but don’t finish that joke. Seriously.”

“No one here’s gonna get offended. No big deal, right? You gonna guess? Alright, here – February’s the shortest month because it’s nigger history month.”

“See, I knew you were gonna say somethin’ messed up. What’s your problem? Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

“Whatever, man. It’s just a word for Chrissakes. Ease up a little. Not like I’m the only one with jokes.”

I hated to admit it, but he was right. Dylan wasn’t the only one telling jokes; he wasn’t the only ignorant white kid with a crude sense of humor. But that’s how it was for some people in high school. That’s how it was in Saint Joseph. As far as I know, little has changed.

My hometown is a small city on Lake Michigan. We have a quaint downtown shopping district, a picturesque light house, a population composed almost entirely of middle to upper class white conservatives. Our school systems are white and conservative, our churches are white and conservative, our banks and our grocery stores and our local government are run by white conservatives. But it’s not as obvious as I make it sound – I’m picking out specific instances and details that the average passerby would rarely notice; I’m citing personal experiences and societal habits that I’ve acquired over an 18-year period of constant observation and immersion (though I had little choice in the matter). There’s an underlying racism in our city, an “awareness” that infects, almost imperceptibly.

When white people in Saint Joseph are alone with one another, this “awareness” plays out in a more literal sense. They speak in lowered voices about migrant workers, drugs, street gangs, shootings – people they’ve never met, things they’ve never seen firsthand. Sometimes, these things are associated with skin color. When white bigots are surrounded by other whites, regardless of the personal feelings or racial inclinations of those other whites, they feel comfortable in their bigotry – it’s natural, it’s not a big deal, “No one here’s gonna get offended.” Granted, this is only a small portion of the white population, but more often than not, it seems that they’re the people in charge.

When a lone minority walks through a wealthy, upper-class neighborhood in Saint Joseph, he or she is met with telling stares and awkward silences. Why are they here; are they lost? Why are his pants so low? Is she looking at me? Is he looking at my house – at my family? All types of people – white and black – tend to assume the worst about “strangers” in their community. I suppose Saint Joe is no different, but it’s taken to the extreme. Why? What makes racial tensions an issue in our area?

Well, to be honest, I don’t have a clear-cut answer; this is a very complicated issue (as one might assume). The most obvious cause involves the Saint Joseph River and our neighboring city, Benton Harbor. Benton Harbor is defined by three things: (1) the river on its southern border that marks the divide between itself and St. Joseph (a physical landmark that keeps things “separate but equal”), (2) the economic divide that splits rich and poor (Saint Joseph’s prestige from the destitution of BH), and (3) the color divide that people oftentimes associate with the aforementioned physical and economic divides.

White people in St. Joseph think Benton Harbor is black, and they think that Benton Harbor is poor because Benton Harbor is black. Consequently, white people move, they run away. It’s white flight – it’s what happens when wealthy people get scared of things they don’t understand. If a lone white person walks through a poor, lower-class neighborhood in Benton Harbor, he or she is met with telling stares and awkward silences (sound familiar?). Why are they here; are they lost? Why are his pants so tight? Is she looking at me? Is he looking at my house – at my family? In this context, whites are the minority; a taste of their own medicine, perhaps.

These divides, as illegitimate as the social constructions and stereotypes bound to notions of race, are a perpetual fixture that defines both cities. There’ve been race riots, public lectures, visits from Jimmy Carter and Jesse Jackson – have things improved? Honestly, I can’t say for sure. I was born while race relations were at an impasse, after white flight, after poverty struck. I haven’t experienced the before and after, I’ve only experienced the now. And in my opinion, the now just isn’t good enough. Saint Joseph has to change.