On race

Monte broached the subject with me carefully. "I read your blog post," he said to me the other day.

"Yeah? What did you think of it?"

"It was...very interesting."

I tensed slightly.

"I was kind of wondering what you meant by it," he went on.

"What do you mean, what I meant by it?"

"Well, don't you think it could be interpreted as a little divisive?"

We turned to face one another on the couch. "Which part?" I asked.

"It's just, well, it kind of sounded like you were minimizing the feelings of black people."

"I wasn't trying to minimize anybody's feelings," I said.

"Well, you made such a point about the fact that Barack Obama is not a black man, he's a biracial man, and you kind of made it sound like he's more your president than anybody else's."

I exhaled slowly. I don't enjoy having my writing criticized and I absolutely hate to think that I may have offended anybody with something that I wrote. But I had to concede that he had a valid point. I wished he'd read it in the way that I wrote it, but the fact is, everybody has their own interpretation. And he was likely not the only person who saw it that way.

"It was a more a piece about self-definition than anything else," I said. "I was basically awakening to the fact that I'd never really seen myself as having my own race, and so I was unexpectedly shocked when the realization hit that the president is just like me."

"But that's just it," Monte said. "You're saying that the president is more like you than he's like the rest of black Americans. Don't you think that sort of downplays their victory?"

"No," I said. "I'm saying that everybody wants to see a bit of themselves in their leaders. We all want to identify. This is what I see when I look at the man. I'm not trying to take away from what anybody else sees."

Monte shook his head, thinking. "The stuff you wrote about how his ancestors weren't even slaves here..."

"They weren't!" I met his gaze levelly. "His dad was from Kenya."

"Yes, but that makes it sound like he's not even part of the black experience. You talk as though he's not an African-American."

"Oh, he's African-American. His dad was from Africa."

"Yes, but that's just semantics."

"Exactly."

We eyed each other for a moment. Despite my discomfort I couldn't help marveling at the stance that he took, a white man arguing for the black experience. And there I was, a biracial woman, seemingly arguing against it.

"It's more accurate to say that he is an African-American than it is to say that my father is an African-American," I tried to explain. "Because we haven't been able to trace our family's history back that far. We assume we're from Africa. But Barack Obama is only one generation removed, so yes, he's more of an African-American than my dad."

"So you're saying he's more black than your father?" Monte asked, eyebrows raised.

"Nooo," I said. "I can't speak to that. But don't you find it interesting how the public perceives him? Do you think we'd be calling him our first black president if his wife and children were white?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Well, I think it's got a lot to do with it. You don't often hear him talk about his own racial identity. But what do you think it must have been like, growing up with his white mother and grandparents, only to discover as he got older that the world was going to view him differently? I mean, he barely even knew his father - how much do you think he identified with him?

"In that documentary - " I pointed to the TV - "In that documentary we were just watching, one of his oldest friends says basically the same thing: He figured out as he grew up that the world sees him as a black man. But that's how the world sees him; it's not necessarily how he sees himself."

"And you think he sees himself like you see yourself?" Monte asked.

"I don't know. All I know is that I see some of myself in him. And that's powerful to me."

There was a long pause. Monte fiddled with the corner of a couch cushion. "Well, it's good that we can have these discussions on race," he said politely.

"Yes indeed," I responded politely. Then we shook hands and retreated to our separate sleeping quarters.

* * *

Yesterday I spoke to my mother on the phone. We talked about the inauguration and filled each other in on how we'd spent the day.

Then Mom said to me, "Sometimes it bugs me a little, how his other side gets ignored."

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I knew what she meant.

"Well, his mother was white, wasn't she? And nobody talks about that."

I laughed a little bit. "You should read my blog," I said. "Then let's talk."

It's easy to offend when you talk about matters of race. And although it galls me to think that I may have hurt somebody's feelings, I think it's important that we can voice our thoughts on this sensitive topic. A difference of opinion is okay. But it's the discussion that's going to lead to a greater understanding, and ultimately, a strengthening of the ties that bind us.

Even if you have to sit in frosty silence for awhile afterward.