14 years ago, I had my first encounter with blatant racism. At sixteen-years-old, standing in line in the high school auditorium, waiting to be inducted into the National Honor Society, one of my white classmates (Mike) took a look around him, elbowed the guy standing beside him and whispered, "There's three too many niggers in the national honor society this year." I don't think he knew that I could hear him, loud and clear, from my spot three people behind him.
My heart clenched. My eyes filled with tears. I went to the program advisor Ms. Riley and told her what had happened. She apologized and gave me a hug.
Thirty minutes later, in a purely democratic fashion, Mike was elected president of the National Honor Society. I protested to Ms. Riley, but there was nothing she was willing to do about it.
Since I was a kindergardner, I had been schooled by a disciplined, hopeful group of inner city public school teachers and my mother and father about my worth. I can remember standing up with my elementary school classmates, holding hands and singing, "I am a promise. I am a possibility with a capital P" while our parents looked on proudly. It never dawned on me that the tears on my mother's face were not just because her little girl was standing up in her best dress and pigtails, but also because she knew that my possibility was severely limited.
I'd heard about racism. I had sensed it in some subtle ways. I had watched videos and seen image of the Civil Rights Movement. My parents and grandparents told me about their own experiences. But I had never felt it so blatantly until that day. I had never felt so powerless until that day.
I did confront Mike, but his response is not worth mentioning. There was no enlightment or unification. I sat back and watched as this man who hated me and everyone like me because of skin color go on to graduate high in our class, receive admission to prestigious West Point Academy and prepare for a future military career and plan for a future in politics (he's only 30, he has yet to make his mark).
That day in 1994 brought home to me the realization that despite everything that my parents and my teachers could say to me, despite everything that I could do for myself, I would always be black...and because of that, I would always be perceived to be less than the majority of the people around me.
Yesterday, as I watched an African-American man be elected to the highest office in the land, I came to a new realization. I will always be black and I will always be equal to every other person I meet and every other person around me. I am 30 years old and I can finally say that my perceptions line up with my reality.
It's been a long time coming.
When people said that this election was not about race, they were wrong. Despite the fact that I would have voted for a Barack Obama of any race, this election is about race. It's not about the black race. It's not about the white race. It's not about the rainbow of races in between. It's about the human race.
My mother died on July 14, 2008. She didn't get to live in this reality. I am planning to live fully in this reality for both of us...and while I am living in it, I will continue to work hard to help all types of people who have felt the way that I did, to achieve their own new reality. The only difference is, I will no longer be working defeated. Won't you join me?