A lesson about hate - loving Black people - Column

My mother and I were talking about something on television recently, during which time I made one of my usual statements about how Blacks are being robbed of their culture, or somehow taken advantage of, or in some way bilked by the system. She responded with this shocking statement: "Marty, it seems as if you hate White people." My head shot backward, as if Mike Tyson had thrown the punch of his career.

"Why do you think I hate White people?" I asked after regaining my composure. She explained that I'm always talking about the White man, how he's oppressing Blacks, how he's denying Blacks an education, how he's forcing Blacks to live in poverty, robbing them of a decent way of life or in some way just being an old meanie.

After she finished, I paused and thought to myself about how I'm always talking about the conditions Blacks are in, shouting and screaming about how many Blacks are living in poor conditions through no fault of their own, yelling about how many are discriminated against or are somehow being ripped off by the American system. But I remembered that very seldom do I use the phrase "the White man." To me, evil has no color, no shape, no form or substance. It has no personality, no one way of doing things. I wouldn't recognize it in a room of crowded people.

What I do, however, is talk about what has been done to our people by some White people. And that stuff I am not making up. Some White people killed my great-great relatives, slaughtered many of my Black brothers and sisters and tried to destroy my uncles, grandfathers and other Black men who have come before me. I didn't make that up. I've read about it. I've heard other people talk about it. I've seen the pictures.

So after I thought about it, I turned to my mother and told her, "Mom, I don't hate White people. You're confused. I love Black people. I love us so much that I cringe when any one of us is in pain. I hurt when I talk to a friend who tells me he's having a tough time on the job, and he thinks it's racism. I despise many of the conditions we're forced to live in."

She seemed to understand, but went on to tell me that my grandfather thinks I hate White people, too. And I became even more disturbed. These are people who are very close to me, people who should know me better. So, more disturbed than ever, I asked my best friend if he thinks I hate White people. He said yes.

He based his decision on the fact that whenever we go out, I frequently say that I want to go to an all-Black club, that I don't want to be around White people. And he's right. I do prefer to be around Blacks in a social setting, but why does that make me a White-people hater?

When many White people go out, they prefer to go to all-White clubs. Does that mean they hate Blacks?

I remembered that my mother thinks I hate Whites because I'm frequently speaking out on the concerns of Black people. It's true. I love Black people, and I'm proud to be Black. Does that make me a racist?

Jews, Italians, Poles and every other ethnic group in this country are proud of their culture and, when possible, talk about the good things about that culture. Does that make them racists or haters of other cultures?

When my friends and family are watching the news about how some "hoodlum" shot a group of teenagers over a pair of sneakers, I'm reading about ancient African kings and queens, the creators of math and science and geography. When they're reading newspaper stories about how Black people are trapped on welfare or are just lazy and Stupid, I'm reading about our triumphant journey through slavery. I'm remembering our achievements, thinking of great men like the Black scholar W.E.B. Du Bois or reading the works of Richard Wright, a great Black author. And that is my food, my energy.

So if loving myself and my people says to others that I hate other people, so be it. Sure, it's unfair, but as we grow and learn, God willing, our perceptions will change - about ourselves and about one another.

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