Blinded by the White
By Michael Avila
"People of color did not exist in my cloistered existence."
When we moved to Merrilville, Indiana, I was close to 13 years old, just about to enter the eighth grade. Upon enrolling, I joined the wrestling team and, within a couple of weeks, we were already competing with other schools in the area.
As the coach announced upcoming matches, I began feeling nervous. There was a school he identified where "white" people were not in the majority. Growing up, I lived in the suburbs of the Midwest. People of color did not exist in my cloistered existence, so I felt some distress over these events. Naturally, I spoke with my family about it. They empathized with my distress, and shared my concerns. As I prepared for the event, they gave me the scoop on people of color. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that "Blacks had slimy, scale-like skin that could possibly come off in my hands." They spoke about my opponent as if he were some sort of alien creature.
The day of the match, when the referee introduced the wrestlers, my worst fears were realized. I had been matched up with a black wrestler. As the match began, I looked closely for the slimy, scaling skin I had been told to expect. I was afraid it would indeed rub off on me. Yet, when we began to wrestle, it was clear the only difference between him and me was the color of our skin. It did not matter the match ended in a draw; it did not matter that I had been lied to by people on whom I had relied for truth.
My opponent was just another teenager competing in a wrestling match. Taking my family's words to heart, I was shocked, after first coming in direct contact with him, to discover that there was no slime on his skin and no scales to break off. He was not the creature described by my family, but a human being like me created in the very image of God. It seemed as though by my openness to my family's instruction, I was being asked to join them in passing judgment not only on one person, but on an entire race of people, based simply on the color of thier skin.
Arriving home after the event, I reported on my experience. I felt angry about the deception perpetrated at my expense. "Yes," I shot at my family, "my opponent had darker skin, but his skin was not slimy or scaly." I expressed my upset and confusion as to why they lied to me. I felt upset over being led to believe something that stimulated feelings of intense fear and overwhelming distress.
Sadly, before I could barely finish my story, my family began to laugh. It was a kind of hysterical laughter that in retrospect, had an eerie, almost maniacal quality I will never forget. Years afterward, the story would be told to anyone who would listen. It was sure to bring a laugh to those who heard it. Such laughter, whenever and wherever it occurs, carries with it the insidious disease of prejudice and racism, not only robbing us of our unalienable rights, but also taking away the honor and dignity which has the potential to bring out the best in each of us.