black history month

You know, when I was in lower skool, Black History Month was a thing. There were bulletin boards, there were projects, there were movies shown and weighty topics discussed. For example, I remember in fifth grade, my really incredible teacher Mrs. Zagone -- and now I have to pause to explain that Mrs. Zagone was awesome in part because she took us, her students, seriously. As human beings. When we had a question, she answered it. One answer stuck with me like a sunburn: someone asked, What does an orgasm feel like? And Mrs. Zagone said, It's like when you really really really want to sneeze, and then you do.

God bless that woman. But we were talking about race. Mrs. Zagone led us ten year olds in exercises that February imagining we were enslaved. She made us put ourselves in that position and then write essays about how we felt. Would we try to stick it out? Would we try to escape? When I pointed out that there was no way we could know, that of course we'd like to think we'd be braver than brave, but we didn't grow up in that world, beaten down from day one, she made me read my essay to the class.

The popular kids, by the way, never gave me shit for being "smart." I was never made fun of, not once, and believe me, loquaciousness aside, if you saw pictures of my crazy hair, my sweaters and leggings, you'd know they had just cause. Mrs. Zagone also fostered an atmosphere where being smart was good, where people wanted to be smart.

But we were talking about race! My point, initially, was there aren't bulletin boards anymore. February, I'm allowed to forget it's Black History Month, and so are you, unless you're still in lower school (in which case, what the hell are you doing reading this? And, if you have questions about orgasms, feel free to email.) I've read Angry Black Bitch on occasion and found her direct and intelligent. But I haven't put her on the blogroll til now. Why?

She's not going on the blogroll because of Black History Month, except to the degree that Black History Month finally and incidentally kicked my ass into gear. (And SHE isn't really the point here, anyway, which I trust you understand.) I'm tired of feeling scared of black people. It's exhausting. At college, I took a class from a brilliant black powerhouse of a professor. I attended, I did the reading, I wrote the papers, I talked with her outside of class, I got a good grade, I liked her and she liked me, and I was still scared to death of her!

I assistant-directed a production of For Colored Girls Who Have Committed Suicide .... I was the only white girl involved and my method of blending in consisted, largely, of being as small and unobtrusive presence as possible. The cast gradually did forget I was there, or that I was an outsider, or something: more and more, they talked freely, at a couple points making of people I knew, even making fun of Jews. I said nothing. At the time it felt like an important growth sort of thing, and it was, but in the long run, it didn't really help.

I've learned enough history and media history to know this is a deep-rooted societal problem. But how do you frikkin fix it? Even my leftiest lefty friends (all caucasian) don't have close black friends, or if they do, those friends are queer. I don't know a single black-white interracial couple. Is it progress enough for both groups to simply respect each other, interact sometimes and generally leave each other alone? What if that's just a mask for the deep-rooted fear we don't want to deal with?

Clearly, I don't have any answers. I just thought, for the sake of Black History Month, I should bring it up. Face up to it, and say, you know, that I am afraid that an average black person would dislike or resent me, and that makes me defensive as well as more afraid. And it's not good for anyone.