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Racism in the Face-ism

The ginormous Elephant in the room, or on any cable news channel these days is no longer overlooked. It looms so large you can’t avoid stepping in it—a mammoth pile of elephant dung. It fouls almost every conversation and story aired on almost every channel. The elephant’s name? Racism.

My immediate family is diverse. We have the token blacks and browns, the evocative LGBTQ representation, the cursory Pacific Islander and the perfunctory Chinese. And… I guess I should mention, though I’ll probably be criticized for it… we also have boring ole’ Caucasians in our midst.

I watched a person interviewed on TV tonight state that he is colorblind. He said he looks at people like, well, people. When he was badly ridiculed for his obvious lies, I flinched. Because I too am guilty. I don’t dare to say I’m colorblind. I see color and dead people. Okay, maybe not dead people, because ghosts are colorless, unless of course they’re black, brown, yellow or flaming.

The only people who really don’t differentiate are the blind. I have a good friend, Jackie who is totally blind—truly colorblind, unlike people like me who actually see color. The thing is, I love color. It’s so... colorful! And color makes me happy—happier than I have a right to be, seeing as I’m white.

The whole topic has got me stepping lightly. Like a Cautious Caucasian. I’m even hesitant to sort my laundry. This load is for darks and that load is for whites. Ohmygosh. I must be a racist!

It seems to me that the people who shout racism the loudest are usually the most racist. I’m just saying. But that’s racist, right? If I were anything other than a big laundry pile of white I could probably get away with mentioning it.

I’ve heard you should eat an elephant one bite at a time. So, I can eat elephant, which is racism but not crow, which is racist? I’m so confused. This racism in my face-ism is really constricting my space-ism. Why can’t I love my colorful family and friends the way they are without having to tippy-toe around elephant poop? In other words, I just want to stomp around my world without being judged for judging. Call it Grace-ism.