The Whitest of White

The Whitest of White

A few years ago, for Father’s Day my wife bought me a DNA kit from 23AndMe.  I did the swab test, sent it in and waited about a month for the results.  When the results came back, they confirmed what I suspected all along – I was white.  Not only was I white, I was 99.9% European.  Like… very white.  The bulk of my ancestry is British & Irish, with a scattering of French/German and some Scandinavian to boot.  Here’s the statistical breakdown of Rob –

I’ve been interested in “where I’m from” for quite some time. But it took me until my 40s to stop being lazy and delve into my distant past.  I had some help.  A “history of” book about my family name was written in the 1960s. It covered present day (at that time) all the way back to the Middle Ages in England.  So, I grew up with this book.  It even said we originally were called Staunton and that we owned a castle in Northern England. But once the information age rolled around, some of this “history” quickly became outdated.  And by outdated, I mean false.  We didn’t own a castle.  In 2010, I visited this castle.  It’s beautiful. Everyone there was nice to us. They gave us the grand tour and we felt like VIPs the entire afternoon. But my ancestors never owned this castle.  They did, however, have a tower in the castle named after them. That being said, I had no authority to usurp ownership of said castle from the present-day occupants, The Duke of Rutland and his family. I took the named tower as a consolation prize though.

The family history book, though well researched, was a product of the time.  The writer, a distant cousin, did the research the old-fashioned way – visiting places, writing letters and making phone calls.  My father and sister were much more interested in our family history about 20 years ago, back when I was a college student and only cared about chasing girls all over campus. Dad and my sis, on the other hand, took a quick jaunt around North Carolina, visiting the graves of my grandfather, great-grandfather, and my great-great-great grandfather, Captain Frederick.  There’s a small family graveyard in Anson County, NC where quite a few of my ancestors, including Captain Frederick, are buried.  I finally took this same trip with my wife and children a few years go as well, visiting each grave and taking some pictures.  The land surrounding the cemetery in Anson County was owned by my ancestors, but fell out of the name many years ago. It was even up for sale and I was trying to think of a way to buy it so I could preserve the family heritage. I even have a VERY cool set of pictures – one of my Dad 20 years ago, and then me in the same spot a couple years ago.

Recent events however have given me a different perspective on heritage. Living in China and watching from afar as Covid-19 began to cripple the United States was horrible, but for me, it paled in comparison to what has been happening in the last few weeks. Race has suddenly become the most important hot button issue of the year – and for good reason. If you’re reading this, pretty much anywhere in the world right now, you know what I’m talking about – racial injustice. As I watched the news, the protests, and spoke to friends and family, I started to wonder where I, the whitest of white guys, fit in during all this. What role should I play? What role could I play?  I couldn’t protest.  I’m in China.  There are no protests here to attend.  Instead I supported my friends who were protesting – mostly privately though social media messages letting them know I loved them and supported them. That’s all I’ve really done though during this whole thing – support people privately.  I didn’t black out my FB profile picture on that day like many people did. I haven’t plastered my social media accounts with open anger towards injustice or unconditional love for those that are suffering right now. And I am ashamed of myself. I have basically done nothing except sit back and watch. And during this monumental moment in time, sitting back and doing nothing is the wrong thing to do. This shame propelled me to do some soul searching. It led me to re-evaluate many of my life choices – some that were good, but many that were bad.

Let me explain. When I thought about race and race relations this week, here are some of the memories that spilled over into my consciousness –

When I was in 5^th grade at Wolf Meadow Elementary School, I saw a 3^rd grader on the playground. His name was Kevin. Kevin was black. I saw Kevin kick a red rubber ball further than I thought anyone could ever kick a red rubber ball. Kevin, to this day is one of best athletes I’ve had the privilege of knowing. I went over to his house as a kid.  I ate apples from a tree in his back yard. I didn’t see anything different about him, other than his vastly superior athletic ability. But after those few times at his house, I never went back. The only times I saw him were at school or on the ball field. I made no effort to get to know him on a more personal level. I did nothing. Thankfully I still call him a friend today, even though I didn’t put much effort into it.

A few years later, my father brought home a young black boy to our house to spend the night, just so he could be comfortable and play with my toys.  That was what kind of man my Dad was.  He would do spontaneous acts of kindness for people.  The kid came from a poor family. They lived in an area I believe was called Silver Hill.  Though many white people referred to it as N**** Town. I don’t think I used the term, but knew what it meant, and never corrected anyone else when they said it. Here my Dad was, being nice to whoever/whenever, for no other reason than because he knew that’s what a Christian should do, and there I was, doing nothing when it mattered most.

In my Freshman year of high school, I played football for the JV Team. No, I wasn’t very good.  I also lacked motivation.  And was scared to get hit. Every day at practice, the defensive backs would participate in a tackling drill.  Basically, you had to get past one defender and then tackle the ball carrier.  I rarely made it to the ball carrier, because I could never get past Corey.  Corey was a Sophomore.  Corey was bigger than me and way more athletic. Corey was also black.  Even though Corey could dominate me anytime he wanted, he always encouraged me, even when he was knocking the crap out of me.  When I wanted to quit those drills, he forced me to continue.  He forced me to get better.  I liked Corey from the moment I met him. Corey started dating a white girl that year.  It was a huge scandal. Yes, even in 1990, decades after the Civil Rights Movement, a black dude dating a white girl was still a big deal. Many of my classmates didn’t like that Corey was dating a white girl.  They called him names behind his back. They said it wasn’t right. Many of them cited the Bible as a reference for why it wasn’t right. I didn’t see the big deal.  I liked Corey. I liked the girl he was dating.  They seemed happy. But, when people said those things about the couple, I said nothing. I had no vocal opinion of my own. I did nothing.

College upended my way of thinking in many ways.  For the first time in my life, I met an openly gay guy.  He was a great dude. We even became roommates. His name was Rick. Many of my fondest memories of college involve Rick in some capacity. Yet, when I went home from college for the weekend during my freshman year, and someone asked me if I had a gay roommate, I said no.  I lied. I didn’t want them to think I was gay, right? Rick was white.  But Kris was not. Kris came to college a year after I did. Kris was black. Kris was gay. Kris was one of the most talented performers I had every been on a stage with. Kris had more talent in his pinky than I in my entire body. Both Kris and Rick helped me understand how to love someone who didn’t love exactly like I did. But when assholes called and left hurtful, ignorant messages on our answering machine, I just erased them and moved on. I tried to hide the bad things from my gay friends, in hopes that they would have it easier. I didn’t protest with them. I didn’t speak out on their behalf when they were wronged. I did nothing.

My Senior year of college I was a Residential Assistant.  I was placed on a Freshman hall, with mostly black football players.  I got along with all of them and we mutually respected each other.  One night I heard screaming in the hallway.  I rushed out of my door to see a black kid running down the hallway with a chair in his hand, getting ready to bash it over the head of a white kid.  I intervened, put my body in between them, stopping someone from crushing someone’s skull in with a metal chair. The white kid had called the black kid a n*****.  While I was able to de-escalate the situation, I did nothing else.  I didn’t speak up for the black guy, nor did I confront the white kid and use it as a teachable moment.  I just went back to my room and hid away once it was all over.  I. Did. Nothing.

I did nothing for so many years.  I’m still doing nothing. I worked with a group of amazing young folks for two years.  I was their boss for most of those two years.  Some of them were white, some of them were black.  Some of them were Latino.  Some were gay, some were straight. All of them were amazing. These young kids, still wet behind the ears in many ways, were the first people to march, the first people protest on Social media, and they haven’t stopped. They are relentless. These kids deserve a much better life.  They – Jasmine, Taylor, Burns, Travis, Alyssa,Carter,CJ, Amanda, Aaron, Courtney, and the others I am forgetting to mention – they are warriors.  Social justice warriors. They are heroes. They are the fighters. They are the ones who are going to make this world a better place.  Watching them these last few weeks has made me want to do…. something.  I still don’t even know exactly what the something is, but damned if I’m not going to try to figure it out.

This is the first part of my plan – opening up about who I’ve been and who I want to be.

I started this blog post talking about my ancestors.  About my great-great-great Grandfather Captain Frederick.  I even showed you a picture of his grave.  That huge headstone/memorial honoring his memory.  What I didn’t show you though, was this –

See those smaller headstones? Those small, seemingly insignificant gravestones… are slave graves.  My ancestor was a slave owner. The man whose land I wanted to buy to preserve my heritage, owned… people.  Because of the color of their skin. I always knew slavery was wrong.  I also was ashamed of America’s past, yet I still wanted to pay tribute to someone in my family who OWNED PEOPLE. It doesn’t matter if he was nice to them. It doesn’t matter if he let them be buried on the same plot of land that he was buried on. That doesn’t change what he did, or who he was.  That’s not who I am though. That’s not who my father was, thankfully. I was raised to love people, no matter who they are. That doesn’t change my ancestor’s past, but it forces me to forge a better future. I won’t be honoring my ancestors. The people who were forced into slavery should be honored, not their horrible white master.

If the first part of my plan was opening up, the second part has to be stepping up.  I’m starting with baby steps, please forgive me.  I’m talking to my black friends.  I’m reading articles about racism.  I am reading books by black authors. I am supporting black businesses. I am denouncing the systematic injustice black people deal with every single day. I am voting for change this November. I am donating to causes that directly support Black Lives Matter.  Do All Lives Matter?  Hell yes.  But right now, Black Lives are the ones that matter most to me. Black Lives are the ones who are being targeted. Black Lives are the ones who are being wiped away simply because of their color.

Black Lives Matter.

I’m the whitest of white.  I’m Whitey McWhiterson. Most of my friends are white. Some of my friends might read this and disagree.  If you disagree with me, know that I love you, but this post is probably more for you than anyone else. I am no longer hiding behind my white privilege.  I am no longer hiding in a foreign country until everyone else makes things better. I am here.  I stand beside the oppressed.  I stand in front of them, as a shield, from anyone who would seek to oppress them. Black Lives do Matter.  Black Lives should Matter. And it’s time I did my part to make sure they do.