As I said previously, I did have a topic percolating around inside of me. I've been of two minds whether to write about this, because the whole topic strikes me as extrordinarily stupid and self-congratulatory. Well, here goes.
Last week, I was reading the Journal-Sentinel, and came across a column by Eugene Kane. His spoke about how white people would write in to him and reference the opinions of their black friends, a premise that he stated "never fails to spark my skepticism . . . I haven't seen that many true friendships across the color line . . . . Friendships? I don't think so."
He went on to say that "Some of you have managed to make it happen; if you're willing to share the experience, I'm sure the rest of us could probably learn something from the experience."
Well, slap my face and call me a nut. I never knew I was a pioneer. But wait, there were qualifications. The friendship can't be a romantic one. No problem there, though I guess that does disqualify my sister-in-law, Sally. It can't be one popular black person in a predominately white circle. Workplace relationships require close scrutiny for "real friendship" status. And the person must be aware that you are friends.
I'm not really the type to call my friends and take a poll on how they feel on a particular issue. I've never done so based on racial catagories. But, extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. I hit the phones.
First I called Grace. You may remember her from my first entry, where we had that discussion with her father about Atlantis. We've been together since seventh grade, when we bonded over out relative dorkiness. I called San Fransisco where she is living now, to check with her.
"Hi Grace. Are you my black friend?"
She was puzzled by this. First, she wanted to know if this was the new cool thing now, like having a gay friend after "My Best Friends Wedding." No, I said, and explained the column to her.
"Boy, this guy must be really sheltered," was her response.
We talked about it for a while, and she felt that she could be my half-Jamaican friend. She's not really comfortable with labels as such, so I'm not sure if this relationship really qualifies.
Next, I called John, whose house we were at for the gourmet club party I talked about in a previous blog entry.
"Hi, John. Will you be my black friend?"
John seemed to be torn between amusement and incredulity. And, after I explained the column to him, he said that yes, he hasn't secretly hated me for all these years, and I am really and truly his friend. His opinion of the column?
"You can say that I, John Montgomary, think that this man is an idiot."
Then I got to thinking. Hm, John does have a white wife, who is also a friend of mine (Pam and I were in law school together.) And we do socialize in a circle of friends, four couples primarily, but he is not the only black person there. Better call Laura and Pepi, who were next on my list anyway. Both of them were also in law school with me, and are also part of our gourmet club. In fact, they started it.
Damn. They're in Florida. Now, Pep's mother was Hispanic, I believe, so maybe he doesn't count either. Laura is Native American, which is a whole 'nother thing altogether. And, not having checked for sure, maybe they really don't like me either.
I checked with some more friends. Maria was rather hurt that she didn't count as an interracial friendship. "But I'm a minority!" she wailed. Sorry, I said. Hispanic/Filipino doesn't count in this context. "I guess I just don't have enough melanin," she concluded glumly.
Lynne was intrigued. I said that she are her friend Helen should write in. You could be famous!" I urged. She said she would read the column and think about it.
After I was all done calling, I thought about how irritated this made all of us. What's the point?
Yes, race matters. It matters in a hundred different contexts. It matters in housing. It matters in the job market. It matters when the police pull you over. And it matters on a personal level, like when one frind had a swastika drawn in front of their house. Or when one friend lost a job when they walked into their new, previously unseen supervisor's office and were soon informed that, sorry, that new promotion would be withdrawn. Or when someone is referred to a marrying "that nigger."
But the one place where race doesn't matter is in the context of a friendship. I really dislike the thought that this is some sort of competition, some idiotic bingo game where you get points for having a full card. "Ooh, look! I've got three black people, a Hispanic, a Native American, an Asian, two gays, and some whites. With a Jew and a Muslim, I'll win Diversity Bingo!"
These are my friends. I like them. I think that they like me. I've been extraordinarily blessed to meet so many really wonderful people. And maybe, because of my years of geekdom, I treasure these friendships all the more. Having them doesn't make me a better or worse person, except that I think all my friendships help me to improve myself. I'm not special because of it. Just lucky to know them.
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