Sin Color

Oliver Marchildon

2/11/16

 

Race  /rās/ :

 

1. Move or progress swiftly at full speed.
2. A group of people identified as distinct from other groups because of supposed physical or genetic traits shared by the group.

 

Bang.

 

The gun fires and they’re off. Running as fast as they can toward the finish line. Bleachers full of cheering fans support them as they round the first bend, the soles of their shoes pounding against the track. Breathing steadily, the runners approach the final stretch. The pace increases, summoning the last ounces of strength in their bodies, which will hopefully propel them to victory. Limbs flailing as the ribbon is broken. The race is over. We have a winner.

 

Bang.

 

Bang. Bang.

 

The gun fires and he hits the asphalt. A lifetime of running, hiding, playing along, stops. Just like that. A crowd drawn toward the sound like a magnet gathers in horror. A mixture of meaningless cries and silent disbelief. That soul that inked the pages of this ever changing book stopped mid-sentence. His chapter is over. His mother is expecting him home for dinner, his brother is sitting in their bedroom, staring out the window, hating a piece of himself that he cannot change. The race isn’t over. There is still a winner.

 

Bang.  

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

I was blessed with the upper hand. My ancestors hailed from Europe, and my bloodline lacks pigmentation. We were the explorers and the conquerors, risking our lives to spread the word of the one true God, vanquishing the savages who attempted to stop us. I should be thankful. Thankful that they paved the way for my success. I should be proud of these martyrs. But I’m not.

Growing up, I was fortunate enough to not have to constantly think about the color of my skin. I have always had the luxury of being seen as a person, not as Asian, African-American, or Latino. Everyone is compartmentalized, but I happen to benefit from the boxes that society puts me into. Or, well, I benefit from other people’s impressions of me. I can walk down the street at any time of night without the risk of being assaulted or questioned by police. A girl doesn’t need to be into a specific kind of guy to like me. But the more I learn, the less I am able to hide behind my privilege. Some may think it’s easy to be blind to it if you’re white, and in many respects, this is true. It’s easier to be blind to it than to fight against it, no matter what race you happen to be. Buying into mainstream media means being brainwashed with a barrage of racist and sexist subject matter that is meant make people turn a blind eye to these blaring issues. Humor and objectification are popular means for this brainwashing to take place, and, these norms that are generally accepted in society are full of microaggressions. Putting any of these under a microscope would reveal how toxic they truly are. But that takes a lot of work. The media makes it very easy to just accept, consume, and move on, forcing women and minorities into smaller and smaller cages. Turning them into spectacles for entertainment, targets for blame and hatred, and examples for why white success is inevitable.

 

People who say that ‘all lives matter’ instead of ‘black lives matter’ are living a surreal existence. In a perfect world, a world where no one saw race, gender, or any other defining characteristics, all lives matter. But this is not the world we live in. ‘All lives matter’ is redundant, because white lives already matter, but other lives don’t. Not only is it redundant, but it is also a scapegoat for white people to dodge these issues that we need to address. For the same reason that we don’t need a ‘white history month’, because that is every month. Celebrating and admiring white culture and achievement is as simple as watching the morning news. There shouldn’t need to be a month that celebrates the very people who built this country, but, since black lives aren’t valued as heavily as others, somehow, giving them a month does the constant oppression necessary justice.

 

Bang.

 

If it’s a race, the black man is shot with the very gun that signals the start, but is still encouraged to make it to the finish. A false sense of hope fills the air, constantly being reminded of the American dream but the view from your window resembles a war zone. We’ve been running on a treadmill, looking at the mythical perfect world in front of us. In order for this race to end, there needs to be progress. I’m approaching the finish line, but I hesitate and look back, he hasn’t figured out how to leave the start.