Does my labeler believe all blacks condone irresponsibly? Or that a Latina couldn't squeeze family vignettes between gang shootings? Or maybe that all Asian women are so subservient as to be unable to blog on the feminine powers of persuasion? In attempting to define me so narrowly, by pushing me into his WASP box, by inferring the dark hues of ethnocentrism on a portrait of me, he has splattered that very paint on himself.
And yet, can I blame him for his anger? No one likes to be defined, except perhaps by words such as handsome or beautiful, generous or powerful, but I defined him, with nothing more to inform me than two short paragraphs. By disagreeing with my position on socialized medicine, he cannot help but assume I consider him an illogical spoiled child. If he were to saunter along this dusty path again, he would find I essentially added "racist" to his list of attributes.
Not fair. Really, it's not. I don't even know the guy. Not were he's been, not what he's seen, and I will never truly know what he thinks or why.
A year or so back, Imus insulted a black basketball player. I remember reading an editorial soon after the event. It was well written, but disturbed me. Not because the woman complained about what he said, but because she allowed his comments to define her. She actually felt less beautiful because she lacked European features. I recall glancing up at the lady's picture in the corner, as I read, and seeing an unarguably attractive woman whose writing demonstrated her intelligence. I thought, how can you let an incredibly ugly, loud-mouthed old man be your mirror? His comment defined him, no one else.
Who am I? I am an African American. Although my father was an American citizen, both my parents were born on the African continent and immigrated to America in their twenties. My mother had to apply for citizenship. Must I be black to love Africa? I hope not. It is an incredible continent full of astounding beauty and heart-wrenching struggles. I am a Native American. Born in California, my pulse beats in time to the waves of the ocean, my mood elevates with the warming sun, my mind wanders with the wind. Must I be red to love this soil? I hope not. It is an amazing country where unlimited potential tangos with innumerable problems. I am caucasian. Does that mean I must love where ever it is my genetic ancestors came from? I hope not. I wouldn't know where to go. I would be lost.
Do not let me fool you. I've allowed others to define me all my life.
But this is Earth. It is one planet. We all are human. We all belong here.
Let me be me. You be you. Let's grow from each other's unique perspective and avoid the illusion of categorization.
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