White Like Me

We stopped at a Denny’s near Janzen Beach, where I was relegated to the back of the van. Pastor opened the car door with his coffee colored palm saying, “I need you to move so my friend, James, can sit here.” Probably because I am a woman, I thought, annoyed that I only get this kind of treatment from Christians. Plus, at 6’2”, I hate riding in the back seat. It makes me break out in curses.

Softening his tone, Pastor politely added that James leads a congregation in Vancouver, Washington. I wondered if James was another black man, but I just waved my hand at Pastor while speaking tersely into my phone to anyone who would listen: “Do you know someone who could go with me on this trip? Someone not White?”

We were all on our way up to Seattle to participate in a racial reconciliation intensive in the form of a bus tour through the Pacific Northwest. Whites were required to partner with non-whites. Together, each team would walk through historical sites and hear from people who had survived oppression. Individually, and as a group, we would try to talk about a subject with so little middle ground.

My own partner inconveniently disappeared just before our drive North. If I could not thresh out another non-white participant on short notice, I would be stuck over 100 miles from home, dragging my luggage to the nearest cardboard box.

James appeared from around the back bumper of the SUV and pumped Pastor’s fist in his own. Reluctantly, I watched him assume my former position in the cab. James and I traded a few pleasantries, while I carefully gleaned that he considers himself Hawaiian -American. Strangely, I felt surprised to hear that James was another “ethnic” member of our trip, because his skin was light like my own. I felt a little jealous that he could “play for both teams” while I might be forced to the sidelines. Annoyed, I concentrated on pounding out the next contact on my cell.

While the men talked softly in the front seats, I thought about my partner’s sudden absence. Pastor and I had sat at our meeting point for over an hour, waiting for her to show. Growing impatient, I had turned to Pastor and told him I did not want to wait any longer. Without comment, he then started the engine and set his navigation system. In good conscience, I dialed one last time to leave a message with a friend to check up on her while I traveled across state alone. “Who knows, maybe God has something else up His big sleeve,” I had joked between my teeth.

After bullying my friends to cough up a “colored” acquaintance for another hour into our trip, I slapped the phone shut and repented for not turning to God first in prayer. The conversations over the phone had been grueling. Trying to find the most politically correct words that the majority of my family, friends, and acquaintances would understand for an experience so foreign to them was a major obstacle. And with two non-White men in the car, it was embarrassing. Over the phone I labored with people I had known for years, referring to my immediate need to replace my non-White partner. They constantly asked me to clarify, and I found myself referring to words I hoped they knew, like black, ethnic, Afro, Spanish, Latino, Mexican, Asian, Pacific Islander, Samoan, Middle Eastern-American, or immigrant, and still had to explain what I really meant. They were all literate, just not used to hearing all those words in the same sentence as “partner.” I had been learning about racial reconciliation for years, yet to them, I was just this weird White gal who lived in a “bad neighborhood.” At least God would understand. So, I prayed. “Hi God. You are big, I am not. Duh. Sorry. Amen.”

The men up front diligently watched the road until I apologized. Pastor and James both looked a bit uncertain as to why I was addressing either of them. Pastor took this opportunity to engage me in some chit chat, asking me if I got along with my parents, how many siblings I have, and whether or not I still talk to them.

“Sure I do, and one of my brothers even believes in God” I baited back.

James threw a movie glance at Pastor, hoping to convey a silent message. However, he did not know that Pastor and I had been down this path before. I suspected, based on past experience, that his questions were more directed towards testing James, his young protégé, than it was to learn more about my particular story. Out of the corner of my eye, James became unusually still.

I told them that my brother (who believes the King James Bible is more godly because it sounds more like how God would talk) wants me to get married. In fact, the whole family is keenly interested in getting me married off as soon as possible. They want me to be happy after the loss of my last relationship.

(During this conversation, James very politely found a way to tell me about his beautiful wife. Again.)

My family did not like this last guy, I told the men in the car. Over several phone calls, my family had decided that I needed help picking out men. Their list of requirements included someone caring, smart, hard working, and who could fix a car.

I described to Pastor and James how I had asked my brother what kind of guy he could see me with. A mechanic, an alarm installer, and a marijuana farmer all came enthusiastically recommended. My brother was relieved that I finally wanted to listen to reason.

I had asked what cultural heritage these men were from. He said one fellow was from the boonies, “like when we lived in Estacada,” and that the pot fellow was from Gresham, but he was “real mellow” and was a lot like me, very caring about people in tough situations. Mom even thought so. The alarm guy was from Vancouver, and, other than drinking alone in the evenings, liked family. My brother went on to say that this particular fellow saw his daughter every weekend. But she didn’t live with him, he had assured me, so I wouldn’t have to worry “about a crazy ex using the kid against him, you know?”

I clarified for Pastor and James that I did not mean what area these guys were from, but explained that when I rephrased the question, my brother remained confused.
More to the point, I had asked my brother if these men were White.

“Yeah, they’re White, just like normal guys. So?”

I took a deep breath, and told Pastor and James that I had asked if my brother thought I could find a normal guy for myself - maybe from church, or the bookstore, or a lecture, or the drag races, or through mutual friends? Maybe on this trip I am taking? That maybe, when I found the aforementioned man, I could reassure my family by inviting them all to dinner for a look over? My brother had frowned. Unconvinced, he had reminded me that they only had my best interests at heart; then indicated with his hand gesture that the rest world did not. This had left the steering wheel of his truck briefly unmanned, and I watched him deftly steer with his knees while simultaneously holding a large flame to the cigarette in his mouth.

I glanced at Pastor and James. They stared out the window and said nothing, but I could feel the barometric pressure drop in the cab. I continued, relaying how I had told my brother that I was glad the family cared so much. But I had wanted my brother to know that I had a church that cared about me, too, and that I might meet someone from there - how would he feel about that?

Pastor nodded his head affirmatively.

“Like who?” my brother had asked. I listed off a few names, after taking the customary precaution to remind Pastor and James that these people were not available. I had told my brother that I was looking for people like those named, smart, fun, caring, witty. Some of the names contained unusual syllables and consonants. This had elicited a concerned look from my brother.

I cheerfully added that my brother had listened to me propose marrying a person who’s all these things, plus what the family had wanted, regardless of this man’s White or non-whiteness. But my brother had turned away sharply, taking a drag and shooting his lit cigarette out the window. “Oh,” he said, “you don’t want to do that. It’s against what’s in the Bible.” Then I tisked upon hearing, “And they are not as smart as us anyway. It’s scientifically proven.”

Shocked, I watched Pastor shoot out his clenched hand for a second. James winced. But the men still said nothing.

Unsure how to proceed, I told them that I had spent the next hour patiently explaining to my brother that this notion was not from the Bible, but a misguided attempt by Francis Galton, the cousin of Charles Darwin, to link race to separate species of humans through the study of eugenics. However, the modern study of hereditary genetics, as outlined in the The Genographic Project, revealed that, compared to other species of animals, humans are the most genetically similar beings on Earth. They are so similar, in fact, as to indicate a single source of origin for all people.

“Holy Adam and Eve! Maybe we do all come from the same two people,” I had exclaimed, hoping a little cheese might lighten the mood. Then I excitedly proceeded to tell my brother that there were only a few tiny differences in the DNA chain which barely determine our skin color and physical appearances. But my brother had interrupted me by flipping on the radio. He didn’t have any interest in knowing how small the differences were.

Driving past the Bremerton exit, Pastor broke his silence and angrily bit off a scripture from the Bible often used to erroneously justify the eugenics conversation. I can’t remember it, and don’t want to, but he rattled it off like the combination to his gym locker. Frustrated, Pastor and James waited for my reaction. Unexpectedly self-conscious, I tried to make myself smaller.

Remembering how the classic rock had filled the empty space between my brother’s cigarette smoke and the truck cab, and how I had looked at my brother staring into traffic, I thought how most of us do not consider our beliefs about race in so many words. Perhaps like him, to be White is to think we know more than we do. It is to assume that what is normal and common sense must also be true.

We were almost to our first stop in Tacoma, Washington.