by Aaron W. Wissner

I was a racist, too

Growing up in Bear Lake was a unique experience. We were so isolated. Way up North, far from the cities. The first non-white, or should I say, “black” person I saw was on TV, “fat Albert”… funny, obese, “hey-hey-hey!”

My mom, who conceived me during the summer of 69′, who had returned to university to complete her degree, after leaving me with her mother-in-law at first, and then me not recognizing her after a two-week absence, took me with her to college. There, for the first time, at 3 or 4 years old, I saw a real life “black” person… I ran into the apartment, huffing and puffing, “Mommy, Mommy, I saw a little Chocolate Girl!”

It was a Saturday morning. Cartoons were on.

At school, we didn’t have “blacks” in Bear Lake. There were none to be found in the community. There were, however, “Mexicans.” Yes, and they’d be in my class, from the first day of school, until they vanished into thin air sometime in October, only to reappear in the spring

Such odd creatures, “Mexicans… where did they go? Why did they come back? I sort of knew they were the ones that just did the work that no “white” person would stoop to doing… picking asparagus, and apples, and cherries, and what not… they were sort of just part of the food system, something that was a part of the cost of eating; and due to that, to be tolerated.

Did I play with them? No, of course not. I played with my white friends… all my friends were white

Except for that one boy, and his older sister, who lived up the road from me… he wasn’t black, really, but he wasn’t “us” either… he was “Indian” or something… and he was smaller than me, and his sister looked interesting, different from “white” girls

But he played with me, and I had a friend, and we could ride bikes, and I was a bit jealous of his self-made cruising bike with the double-long fork, holding the front tire out like some sort of a motor-cycle — Cool!

So, I asked for a new bike for me, something red and flashy, and new, to compete with his.

I remember the day, he was over at my house, and later my dad noticed something missing. His little wooden magic box, that had some valuable coins inside. I must have showed it to my friend, the “Indian,” and he, being without any cash at all, and perhaps hungry for food… he always looked thin to me, and he was growing so slowly, I was taller even though he was a year older… was instantly accused, and as it turned out, had taken the box to get to the money inside

“He can’t come over here any more”… was that the refrain? Or not in the house? I’m sure the coins were demanded back… weren’t they?

I remember bits and pieces of chatter, on the playground, wondering what was different about the “blacks.” What made them black? Were they evil in some way? From Africa? Why were they funny, like Bill Cosby? Why were then strong like NFL players? Why were they tall like the NBA?

I recall, someone explained it once. “Blacks have an extra muscle in their leg, and that gives them extra speed and the ability to jump higher, it is because they had to run faster in Africa. They aren’t really us, not really, sort of a different species.”

When I was about 15, the first “black” student, in all of my years, began attending the school. She was a year or two younger, and rode the same bus. She was sexy, in a way that adolescents boys notice. Full breasts, wide hips, full lips. I don’t know what I said to her, but she seemed to be put off by it.

She lived way out of town. In fact, the bus had to go a mile past the north end of the route just to get to her house. I didn’t know the school district even extended that far. In the middle of nowhere really. A run down house. She moved not long after… I didn’t understand why she didn’t like me

The stories like this, big and small, filled my youth, and it was quite a shock to me, arriving at University in the fall of 1988, that I had been having racist thoughts. Apparently, the university had had some issues with this. The white people from Michigan didn’t know about race. Or about gender. Or history… And on the first day of orientation, we sat in circles, with student leaders, and discussed things like racism, and the holocaust and sex.

I was a bit in shock. I’d never heard people talk about sex. I was still a virgin (though not happy about that). I was a rule follower, never having smoked or drank, attending parties only to be the savior to those who were too drunk to make it home. I was holding my “perfection” up to them as the “right” way to be, to conform to the rules, whatever they might be

Except for copying movies illegally… or growing some weed… apparently, that was okay… although I didn’t know why

Fast forward again, to teaching in an inner city school, and having my first real interactions with “black” teens, and not knowing how their lives were different, but having to walk home once, through a “black” neighborhood, and feeling “brave” because I walked down past their homes, even though I might be attacked.

The time in the parking lot a year later, outside of a movie theater, when we were about to drive home, in my brand new red Mustang, and a “black” man came to the window and asked for help with his car, or some money perhaps, and I auto-wound up my window most of the way, and he said “do you think that will protect you?” and lifted his arm as if to show how the window could be smashed.

And to this day, I do not have, on my Facebook feed, more than a single “black” friend. And the school district where I live, there are only a handful of “black” students, at most, either adopted or the children of a “mixed-race” family.

Eighty percent Bush voters where I live now; and I suspect, 80% for Trump as well.

The one time, years earlier, when I was studying to become a school principal, and had a class with a “black” teacher, and invited her to my house for a party, and she was terrified of coming here, out into the country of “white America”… she was truly afraid, not of me, but of us.

And the one house up the road from me, that I think where, at one time, a “black” family lived… A tall fence and auto gate all the way around.

I don’t want to be racist. I didn’t want to grow up this way. I reject the attitudes. I love MLK Jr for all that he demonstrated, about how love is the answer to social injustice, and by using force, but not violence was the way to win the hearts and minds of others. And when he won “victory” against legalized segregation, and recognized that oppression was not just on “blacks” but on all the poor… all the workers… and announced “The Poor People’s Campaign for Economic Justice.”

And Dr. King invited and welcomed in the whites, the rural whites, the poor and the farmers, the ones who didn’t go to diverse universities, or “mixed raced” schools, and all. And that was too much, because a victory in that would have meant the end of the way it is; with America the Great Nation, this Shining Star on the Hill becoming nothing more than the “communist” nation of true love and equality. And, so, of course, he was killed, like other leaders had been killed, any time and any where that the power and authority of the owners is challenged.

This struggle is not one between the Red and the Blue, between the Left and the Right… but between the rich, and the poor… and you, dear reader, are the poor

The owners, the power, the millionaires and billionaires are backing groups like “Free Michigan,” and “The Mackinac Center” and the “Heritage Foundation” and “the Hoover Institution” and the biggest racist of them all, one who cares for no one at all, the very one on the seat of power, who spews hate with every inaction and action alike.

This fear and this hatred threatens to rip us apart. Poor against Poor, while the owners, who live off the products of our work, and are now missing their trips to Disney and Europe, and sex with as many of our sisters as they can pay, are now ready for us to get back to work as well. “Back to work, now slaves, or no food for you!” is what it really means, “Yes, you may get sick and die, but that will just have to be an acceptable consequence for our way of life” (not YOUR way of life, OUR way of life).

And so, safe in their gated communities, and mansions and bunkers, the owners will watch, some of them chuckling and eating popcorn as they watch the riots play out in real time on Fox News — since it never interrupts for touchy-feely pieces — like CNN and the rest

And, there are corporations, which could prevent all racists, including the biggest one of them all, from being able to Tweet hate, abusing us all in a continuous way, and talking about him continuously day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, spreading his hate of indifference throughout the country and the world.

Playing golf, while we tear ourselves to shreds. What does he (Trump) care, as long as he gets his steak for dinner?

THIS recession that we are in is not something that can be addressed by any one person in “power.” Recessions are not like that, they are a feature of this culture of ours to have cycles, like waves in the storm. There is no way to stay on the ocean, and not expect the waves to eventually swell; or the storm to eventually come; the tempest. HE has no answers from the golf course, not even something simple such as tweeting that everyone (everyone) have their monthly bills frozen until everything is healed, and that everyone had enough food and essentials, and everyone be invited to do good works like The Green New Deal, which is a plan already written out in excruciating detail.

I turn my back on him. I turn my back on hate. I turn my back on this system of violence. I turn my back on this system of control. I turn my back on “entertainment.” I turn my back on money. I turn my back upon this entire corrupted system of control. I turn my back on this culture of fire.

I turn toward love. I turn toward giving. I turn toward compassion. I turn toward gardening and nature. I turn toward supporting my friends and neighbors. I turn toward solidarity with all in the world — although not the owners — not until they renounce their control.

I want the future to be brighter, for my sons… and for all. I do not want them to grow up in this culture of fire… I want them to be one with the community of life.

You are invited to join us.

P.S. You are welcome and invited to share the piece on your own page; to post to any or all of the groups and/or pages you are connected with; and your friends who are well connected and vocal; and share in whatever way you see fit.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Aaron Wissner is a former computer and math teacher at Wayland Middle School. He lives in Middleville with his wife and children.