The White Guy

My first ‘real’ job after graduating from college was at Guilford Technical Institute in Greensboro, NC. It didn’t pay very well, but it more than made up for that in experience, because it was my first real experience at being a minority. I was hired to work with a team which was working largely in ‘project housing’ in Greensboro. It was funded for only six months. Our aim was to go door-to-door and try to encourage residents to take advantage of nearly zero-cost literacy/numeracy programmes, as well as classes to work towards a high school diploma equivalent. And, yes, I was the only white person on a team which worked primarily in African American neighbourhoods.

One of my fellow team members often went with me to 100% African American areas, frankly to shepherd me. As he put it, “They’ll think you’re a narc.” With Ron’s help I learned the street lingo and salutations to help people get over the shock of this bearded, shaggy-haired white guy at their door. I also learned some intricate handshakes. When Ron was with me, we were usually invited inside to explain what we were offering. As a lone white guy, I usually had to speak through a partially-opened or screen door. In such cases I left my name and phone number and hoped for the best. However, whenever potential clients called our office, they rarely remembered my name. Instead they told the secretary “It was some white guy” who had told them about our courses. With that, the secretary would gleefully call out to me: “Hey, white guy! Phone call for you on line one.” Others in the open plan office would chuckle.

Although it was fifty years ago, I think I can honestly remember that the first time or two of being called “white guy”–and not by my name–brought me up short. I wasn’t particularly offended; rather I was jolted awake. I thought of the middle-class neighbourhood in which I grew up and all of the nameless African American maids who arrived by bus in the mornings as I was leaving for school. For what it’s worth, ours was the only house that didn’t have a maid–mainly because my mother was a house-proud homemaker. When visiting our neighbours, they usually referred to this human person with dark skin as “the maid.” Of course, there were times when she was referred to by her first name–but never, ever given the diginity of “Mrs. ___.” However, for me the moniker “white guy” would always be temporary. Still, it opened my eyes…and my mind.

After some weeks, not only had I become very fond of all the team members, but I played up to the appellation “white guy” by reversing things. As soon as someone called for me, I would jump out of my seat and begin walking in Stepin Fetchit style, saying “Yassuh Boss, here I comes.” They would howl with laughter at a white guy mimicking a stereotyped black actor from earlier decades. How crazy was that? One day, when we were all eating lunch in the office, someone suggested that we write down all of the racial epithets we had heard for each other’s race. The first thing I noticed was that I was still writing when the others had finished. We then shared the results. It hit me between the eyes that most of the black slang for whites was descriptive, but mainly harmless: honky, cracker, Mr. Charlie, etc. However, the list I had compiled was vile by comparison, and no, I will not share it. I remember all of us reflecting on that difference for some moments.

Over the months we worked together, whenever the topic of race came up, we would usually finish by laughing–largely because of how stupid it is to treat people differently simply because of skin tone. When the programme came to its end, I went to each person to give my love and best wishes and to thank them for all they had helped me learn. The oldest member of the team surprised me when she wanted to thank me. When I asked her why, she said that I was the first and only white person around whom she could simply be herself. I was stunned and I was deeply moved; and to this day that remains one of the highest compliments anyone has ever paid me. Would that we could all give that gift to one another: the gift of allowing people simply to be who they are.