The Don Imus brouhaha reminded me of something that happened years ago, but still incenses me. I don't think of it often, but when I do, I honestly still feel disgust toward some people I know I'll never see again. I meant to write about it in a more timely fashion, but then the Virginia Tech shootings occurred. Everything else going on in the world paled in significance. I was upset for days and struggled to find the lesson in the story. Teachers at my school were debating whether or not we should discuss it. If yes, then how? Should we teach our students about compassion for outsiders? Should we preach non-violence and gun control?
We ended up going the compassionate route. I'm not sure it worked. Kids started calling other kids "Question Mark" to be rude. They laughed and joked that the shooter was mentally ill, not understanding that's it's not an insult. It's a diagnosis, a disease, a life sentence in which some of their own family members are trapped. Fifth graders can be really mean and petty, but they're mostly just ignorant.
Ignorance is what fuels most prejudice, but I don't think Don Imus is ignorant. I think he's made a lot of money being tacky, so he made an inappropriate comment. He knew he would push buttons and be called outrageous. It seems only some people can get away with racist commentary, though, and a white guy might not ever be one of them. (People constantly get away with sexist comments, so I won't even go into that element of the story).
My experience being Imused doesn't involve intentional or unintentional racism, and that's why the memory still smarts. It is about being labeled a racist in a group of people that abhor all the -isms, or at least know they're supposed to.
I was an RA at one of the largest universities in the country. Though in a red state not generally considered diverse, the student body has a range of races, cultures, and ethnicities. An entire day of RA training - and even freshman orientation - consisted of diversity training. There, we were supposed to learn to be cognizant of and sensitive to all those elements of identity we'd been told throughout the rest of our schooling were insignificant and merely skin-deep.
I'm much more comfortable around Hispanics than Northeastern white people, and I mean the really white Northeastern people. I grew up in a community where I was a slight minority, and it never bothered me. It just was. Despite how some of my writing has been construed, I'm not racist. That doesn't mean that I don't understand that many stereotypes are based on fact, and that I don't see certain trends in society that are horribly wrong, but perpetuated.
My first summer as an RA, I had to work on the Faculty Fellows program with a co-worker named Mani. He was benign enough when I first met him, but I soon learned that he didn't really do his share in coordinating events with the Faculty Fellow, a wonderful engineering professor named Dr. Beer. On top of that, Mani liked to insert snide, sexist comments in daily interactions. He did this more with other girls, as I didn't do the flirtatious routine with him. It still bothered me, though. A few weeks into the summmer, I was tired of working with his arrogant, lazy ass.
I also worked with this guy who is the colloquial definition of "tool". His name is Mario. He loved stirring up drama between staff members and then feigning ignorance. He did this throughout the summer with two girls who went from friends to complete enemies: "She thinks you're desperate. Psst, psst. She told me not to say anything. Don't tell her I told you." Mario thought it was funny to tell Mani that I had a crush on him, that it was so obvious, that that's why I acted like I hated him.
I can appreciate the Shakespearean flavor of the whole thing, but I don't wish this kind of deception on anyone. Mani started acting really weird around me, and saying things to me that were sexist. He also apparently debated whether or not I was worth liking back...to co-workers who later told me. (That's what makes this whole incident so stupid - that it was so much "he said, she said" with little mature communication). I ignored Mani, and set the record straight with everyone else but him - I couldn't stand him, he was repulsive in every way, and how deluded he was to think that I would ever like him. I know, I know. I should've just confronted him and shut my mouth.
Dr. Beer and I had lunch one day and he asked what I thought of Mani. I said he was chauvinistic and loved to take credit for my work on the program. Dr. Beer said something about the sexism being a remnant of Mani's culture, and then that train of thought petered out. I never said it, and I never gave it much credence. But it must have come up when I was talking to a co-worker, for Mani was a big topic, which I now know was a mistake.
A few days later, the comment was stretched into a racist embellishment and attributed to me. I have no idea who told him this, or if anyone actually told him this. Mani told everyone who would listen that I had said I hated him, because of his culture. At campus-wide RA meetings, I could feel eyes on me, seeing my color, seeing hate they wanted to associate with my color. I became what not to do and I hadn't done anything. I've never been a social butterfly, but now I was an utter pariah.
The final blow was when Mani confronted me in front of the entrance to our dorm. He said, "I heard you don't like me, Amanda." I replied, "Yeah. I don't like you." I'm not sure he thought I'd be honest about it. "Well, I heard you don't like me, because I'm Iranian! That offends me!" I remained calm. "Mani, I don't like you, because you're conceited and sexist. You're an asshole. I don't care about where you're from. I would dislike you if you were white, black, Hispanic, whatever... I dislike you for things completely outside your skin color or origins!" I was shocked to find I was screaming.
Hearing the lies bubbling from Mani's mouth was the straw that broke the camel's back, no ethnic reference intended. I was oblivious to the residents who witnessed the encounter and shameless in my rage, which is just not like me. All I remember is Mani quickly walking away from the scene and my never feeling vindicated. People stopped talking about the whole thing over time, especially when I proved myself as the RA who always put together the contraceptive education program. I hate unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases, not Middle Easterners. (Can someone please make me a button with that on it?)
I went on to be an RA in the same dorm for two more years. So did Mani. I never trusted anyone I worked with that first summer again. Not fully. I still think Mani's a jerk in a completely equal-opportunity way.
Labels: Liberal Arts - Holla.
If life in the South moves slow as molasses, then the pace in Boston can be likened to a bottle of ketchup. It can take a strenuous amount of shaking, pounding, tapping, and swirling to extract any amount of excitement from the unofficial capital of New England. Blame it on the Puritan origins. 
