White Like Me: Reflections on Race From a Privileged Son (35 page)
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Authors: Tim Wise
Tags: #History, #Politics, #Sociology, #Memoir, #Race
BOOK: White Like Me: Reflections on Race From a Privileged Son
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In any event, after a long and tedious trip, involving multiple bathroom breaks for my weak-bladdered dog, we were home. Well, at least I was. Bijoux had no idea what was going on, having always lived in New Orleans, and he likely didn’t think too highly of Nashville at first, seeing as how the very next day my grandmother made me take him to the vet for boarding. He would stay there for four days while I looked for a place to live and until I went to stay with my dad’s mom, who didn’t mind the dog being there, for the final week or so before finding an apartment.
In early September I moved into a house in the Hillsboro Village area of Nashville, exactly where I had wanted to be. It was in the middle of pretty much everything in the city, and since I didn’t have a car, that was a major plus. My roommates were two women, my age, who had been looking for someone to rent the third bedroom in their place. As one of the women would explain to me on the day I was offered the room, I had gotten it mostly because, out of all the potential roommates they had interviewed, I was the one that seemed least likely to be a serial killer. Quite an endorsement, that.
Bijoux and I moved into the house on 19th Avenue and more or less kept to ourselves for the first month. I was on the road for speeches, and for that first several weeks, didn’t do much interacting with Liz, Shelly, or their social circle. But eventually, though I determined Shelly was a bit of a flake—and her Army boyfriend Mike a bit of an asshole—Liz and I became friends.
In November, having decided that I was a pretty good guy, Liz resolved that I should meet one of her co-workers. I had never been much for blind dates, but in this case it wasn’t really a date, but rather just a meet up with a bunch of people at a bar in our neighborhood. It sounded good to me, having just returned from a particularly horrendous trip to Washington State, in which most of my events had been canceled due to snow and ice, and during which I’d been trapped for fourteen hours in the Yakima airport—a nightmare from which I still had not fully recovered. So I went to the bar with Liz, looking to make friends if nothing else. In the process, I met the beautiful, funny, intelligent, and incredible woman who would two years later become my wife.
Kristy Cason was everything I had never found in any woman with whom I’d been in a relationship. She wasn’t an activist—wasn’t even particularly political—but she shared my values, supported my work, and yet made it clear from the beginning that she was not a fan. She was no groupie. She had her own life, every bit as interesting as mine, and I’d best be as in to her as she was in to me, or we’d not last long. Turns out, our parents had known each other for more than twenty-five-years. At one point, in fact, I had been in her home and we’d played together at the age of perhaps three, my parents unable to find a babysitter on a night when her folks had been throwing a party. Some things, it seemed, really were fated, and like I said before, I’ve never much believed in coincidences.
HAVING LEFT NEW ORLEANS
, I had all kinds of folks giving me advice on where I should go next: New England, some would say, while others insisted that I simply had to move to the Bay Area, or the Pacific Northwest. Fact is though, I was a born and bred southerner, and as much as I liked those places, was having a hard time seeing myself in any of them.
, I had all kinds of folks giving me advice on where I should go next: New England, some would say, while others insisted that I simply had to move to the Bay Area, or the Pacific Northwest. Fact is though, I was a born and bred southerner, and as much as I liked those places, was having a hard time seeing myself in any of them.
Having grown up in the South, I had long been familiar with the ways in which my people, regionally speaking, had long wished to bury the issue of racism, to remove it from the public consciousness, the history books, and certainly from our understanding of the land we loved. But I hadn’t been prepared for the same kind of denial and hostility elsewhere, in those parts of the country that so prided themselves on their racial ecumenism, if only by comparison to the part of the nation from which I hailed.
At least southerners know the language; at least we know that race is an issue, however incredibly deformed our understanding of that issue may be. The problem is, white folks in the Northeast or the West Coast—oh God,
especially
the West Coast—find it hard to imagine that racism is an issue there too. And when you tell them it is, prepare for the backlash because it’s surely coming.
especially
the West Coast—find it hard to imagine that racism is an issue there too. And when you tell them it is, prepare for the backlash because it’s surely coming.
Over the next several years I would learn this with a vengeance. In April 1997, I received a call at home from the organizers of an upcoming event at Cal State–San Marcos, informing me that there had been what they perceived as a legitimate bomb threat made against me and a professor at the college. The threat, sent electronically by someone identifying himself as a member of White Aryan Resistance (WAR) came from the campus, and indicated that if the event went ahead as planned, we would both be killed. After giving me the news, they asked, very plainly, if I was still willing to come. Having had my life threatened plenty of times over the past decade, it wasn’t especially frightening to have it happen again, so I said of course. They promised they would have security, I said that was great, and within a few days I headed off to California.
Nothing ended up happening in San Marcos, but frankly, had anyone really wanted to hurt me it wouldn’t have been difficult. The campus had contacted law enforcement about the threat, which prompted them to secure an FBI agent as my bodyguard for the day; the problem being, he
looked
like an FBI agent. In fact, he was so directly out of central casting that had anyone wanted to hide out on the hill overlooking the campus and splatter my brains all over the stage as I spoke at the big outside rally that day, they could have pulled it off. Just shoot the big guy with the dark suit, flattop, sunglasses, and fucking
earpiece
first. While they took bomb-sniffing dogs through every room into which I would enter, and while the FBI guy shadowed me everywhere I went, including to the bathroom or when I went to call Kristy, the outdoor rally was completely unsecured, which scared the hell out of me. Had a car backfired in the parking lot, I probably would have had a heart attack.
looked
like an FBI agent. In fact, he was so directly out of central casting that had anyone wanted to hide out on the hill overlooking the campus and splatter my brains all over the stage as I spoke at the big outside rally that day, they could have pulled it off. Just shoot the big guy with the dark suit, flattop, sunglasses, and fucking
earpiece
first. While they took bomb-sniffing dogs through every room into which I would enter, and while the FBI guy shadowed me everywhere I went, including to the bathroom or when I went to call Kristy, the outdoor rally was completely unsecured, which scared the hell out of me. Had a car backfired in the parking lot, I probably would have had a heart attack.
A year later I would once again learn the limits of the much presumed liberality of white folks in the Golden State, when speaking in Lafayette, California—which is part of Alameda county, along with Oakland, but likes to think of itself as part of Marin, the much wealthier and more prestigious county next door. I had been invited to speak at Acalanes High School, a well-resourced public school that was as different from the schools of East Oakland as day was to night. But naturally, there were parents who didn’t like their children being reminded that they had privilege, despite how glaringly obvious it was by merely looking around, and so they picketed my speech. Not in Tennessee. Not in Alabama. Not in Mississippi. In California, and more to the point, in northern California.
When asked about their protest by the press they explained that I was “viciously anti-white and anti-American.” Really? To criticize racism in the United States means that I hate white people and my country? Under what rational definition could either of these things be true? If this was the kind of logic to which these mostly white children were being subjected in their homes, I thought to myself, there was very little that even the best formal education could do for them. When I noted during the assembly that parents in East Oakland loved their children just as much as those students parents loved them (a point I was making so as to get them to think about why, other than parental values, they might have such better resources than the kids in East Oakland), I was accused by one student of saying that white parents didn’t love their children. So much for the value of honors classes.
Sometimes, however, the protests would prove funny. In October of 1998, I would be met at Central Washington University, in Ellensburg, by two neo-Nazis, David Stennett and Justin something-or-other, who reminded me of nothing so much as George and Lennie from Steinbeck’s
Of Mice and Men
, or even better, Lenny and Squiggy from Gary Marshall’s
Laverne and Shirley.
David was the smarter of the two, and Justin the clear sidekick. If Hitler had needed a wingman, Justin would have been his guy. They were among the founders of something called the Euro-American Student Union, and dressed in jaunty black berets and T-shirts. Stylish fascism is important, after all.
Of Mice and Men
, or even better, Lenny and Squiggy from Gary Marshall’s
Laverne and Shirley.
David was the smarter of the two, and Justin the clear sidekick. If Hitler had needed a wingman, Justin would have been his guy. They were among the founders of something called the Euro-American Student Union, and dressed in jaunty black berets and T-shirts. Stylish fascism is important, after all.
Upon arriving to campus, I was handed a flier they had been passing around, in which David proceeded to “out” me as a Jew—a trick which would be tantamount to “outing” Perez Hilton as gay, or revealing for all the world to hear that that Captain guy from the 1970s supergroup, The Captain and Tennille, had never
actually
piloted a boat. Being a Jew, he explained on the flier, I was unfit to discuss white privilege. Rather, he suggested, I should discuss my role as an agent of Jewish subversion, seeking to destroy the white race. I would have been happy to do that, I said at the outset of my talk, but unfortunately, I had left my “Agent of Jewish Subversion” speech notes sitting on my table at home. Maybe next time, I promised.
actually
piloted a boat. Being a Jew, he explained on the flier, I was unfit to discuss white privilege. Rather, he suggested, I should discuss my role as an agent of Jewish subversion, seeking to destroy the white race. I would have been happy to do that, I said at the outset of my talk, but unfortunately, I had left my “Agent of Jewish Subversion” speech notes sitting on my table at home. Maybe next time, I promised.
Undaunted, the Skipper and Gilligan stuck around for the Q&A, at which point, the little buddy said something about how awful the Yugo was as an automobile, and how, given its reputation, he would never buy one. Though I found his consumer advice fascinating, I had to inquire as to his point. Simple, he said: just as the reputation of the Yugo meant he would never want to buy that car, so too, the reputation of blacks as criminals meant he would never want blacks as neighbors. If one prejudice was rational, so was the other.
Actually, I pointed out, if there’s a lesson to be learned from the automotive inadequacy of the Yugo, it wasn’t that you don’t want blacks as neighbors, but rather, that you don’t ever want to buy cars made by white people from Central Europe—in other words, from
his kind
of people. Better to stick with the Japanese or the multiracial teams of assembly line workers in Detroit, because those fucking Slavs are a pathetic lot of craftsmen.
his kind
of people. Better to stick with the Japanese or the multiracial teams of assembly line workers in Detroit, because those fucking Slavs are a pathetic lot of craftsmen.
After the event, the school threw a reception for me, to which Justin and David came. Amid lemon squares and punch we proceeded to talk for about an hour. I have no idea why I indulged them, but I found them fascinating, much like the Ooompa-Loompas in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,
if only they had been racists. In any event, I was glad I did. Fact is, nothing is more amusing than to have a Nazi look you in the eye, mouth full of lemon square, and insist that whereas jazz music is really just a discordant fad,
polka
is a permanent art form that will never die, tied as it is to the inherently European diatonic scale, which scale serves as mathematical confirmation of the unity of the white soul. Uh huh, and good luck selling that last part in Mississippi.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,
if only they had been racists. In any event, I was glad I did. Fact is, nothing is more amusing than to have a Nazi look you in the eye, mouth full of lemon square, and insist that whereas jazz music is really just a discordant fad,
polka
is a permanent art form that will never die, tied as it is to the inherently European diatonic scale, which scale serves as mathematical confirmation of the unity of the white soul. Uh huh, and good luck selling that last part in Mississippi.
A month or so after I left, I noticed that David had posted a personal ad on Stormfront—the leading white nationalist and neo-Nazi web board in the world—hoping to connect with a modern-day Eva Braun, or, short of that, some skinhead gal. Therein, he noted that he was looking for a “true lady” who could also “get down and dirty,” preferably while whistling the
Horst-Wessel-Lied
, hopping on one foot, while the other foot, firmly inserted in a Doc Marten boot with red laces was happily curbing some kid fresh from his Bar Mitzvah. That last part is a joke, but the “down and dirty” part was hilariously real. I told the students of color at CWU that they should immediately blow up the personal ad on twenty-four by thirty-six paper and wheatpaste it all over campus, with a big bold headline reading, “Find This Nazi a Date: Even Assholes Need Love.” I’m not sure if they did it, but David dropped out of Central shortly thereafter, bringing to three the number of colleges from which he had failed to graduate. So much for the master race.
Horst-Wessel-Lied
, hopping on one foot, while the other foot, firmly inserted in a Doc Marten boot with red laces was happily curbing some kid fresh from his Bar Mitzvah. That last part is a joke, but the “down and dirty” part was hilariously real. I told the students of color at CWU that they should immediately blow up the personal ad on twenty-four by thirty-six paper and wheatpaste it all over campus, with a big bold headline reading, “Find This Nazi a Date: Even Assholes Need Love.” I’m not sure if they did it, but David dropped out of Central shortly thereafter, bringing to three the number of colleges from which he had failed to graduate. So much for the master race.
OF COURSE, IT
would be so much easier if all the racists were Nazis. Nazis, after all, are hard to miss. They tend to give themselves away, going all giggly before a finely-woven lederhosen, or adorning their chat room identities with bad-ass avatars (like pics of Edward Norton’s skinhead character, Derek Vinyard, in
American History X
), intended to suggest a toughness that they typically lack, living in their parents’ basements and all.
would be so much easier if all the racists were Nazis. Nazis, after all, are hard to miss. They tend to give themselves away, going all giggly before a finely-woven lederhosen, or adorning their chat room identities with bad-ass avatars (like pics of Edward Norton’s skinhead character, Derek Vinyard, in
American History X
), intended to suggest a toughness that they typically lack, living in their parents’ basements and all.
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