“Ask the brown guy.” 

My kindergarten-age son wanted a grape soda and there were none to be found in the soda cooler of the little store.  My wife had told the child that they were probably out of grape soda.  Undeterred, the boy wanted his mother to ask the store clerk if there were any more.

At my son’s words, my wife froze in panic.  What would the clerk—who was of African descent—say?  Would he be offended?  Would he be angry? 

After a tense moment, the man busted out in a hearty laugh.  “He called me ‘the brown guy’!”  He laughed so hard, it brought tears to his eyes.  “He called me ‘the brown guy’!”  He beamed and said, “What can I get for you, child?” 

My family and I were on an extended TDY (“Temporary Duty Yonder,” for those of you who are military-acronym-challenged) in Florida.  At the time, our home was in Mead, WA (a little unincorporated town on the outskirts of Spokane), and the extent of my son’s experiences with people who looked different from him, was the innocent playtime of children in the neighborhood.  It wasn’t that he was oblivious to the skin color of his playmates.  On the contrary, he envied the fact that some of his playmates could spend more time playing in the sun without having to mess with sunscreen or worry about sunburn.  On more than one occasion, he would wistfully remark, “I wish I was brown like Jesse and Jerome.” 

In our home, we made an effort to never refer to people as “black” or “white” or “Asian” or “Hispanic” or “Mexican” or whatever.  People were just people.   When describing a person, the color of their skin or the native country of their ancestors is something I rarely mention, because I believe it to be as irrelevant as the color of their eyes or hair.  To be honest, if I’m trying to point someone out in a crowd, I might say a person is “blonde” or “darker-skinned”, if that might help identify him or her, just as I might say, “the lady in the purple blouse,” or “the really tall guy.”  Physical characteristics are just that: what’s on the outside.  They should have nothing to do with who a person is. 

So, when my wife related to me the story of “the brown guy”, I was pleased.  I was pleased because the incident demonstrated that, on some level, we had succeeded in teaching my son that skin-color and ethnicity are irrelevant.  And do you know how that was accomplished?  Not by preaching against racism, but simply by ignoring such factors.  My little boy had no concept of what racism was.

Equally telling, however, was my wife’s reaction.  She was worried that the clerk would be offended.  I suppose he could have been.  If a significant part of his identity was that he classified himself as “black”, he might have felt insulted that my son did not identify him the same way.  I am grateful that he was pleased that my son didn’t think of him as somehow different.  My son was simply describing the man.  And perhaps the man found it refreshing. 

Am I a racist?  Not by any definition in the dictionary (reference: http://dictionary.reference.com): 

rac·ist   [rey-sist]

noun

1. a person who believes in racism, the doctrine that a certain human race is superior to any or all others.

adjective

2. of or like racists or racism: racist policies; racist attitudes. 

And just to be clear, racism is defined as follows:

rac·ism  [rey-siz-uhm]

noun

1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.

2. a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.

3. hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.

I do not consider any race to be superior or inferior to any other, nor do I hate anyone nor am I intolerant of anyone because of their race.  So, by the above definition, I am not a racist.  (Sidebar, your honor?  Nowhere in the above definitions does it say anything about disagreeing with the politics or policies of our current president or preferring Celtic music to rap.  Apparently, such sentiments do not constitute racism.)  The fact that I take pride in being an American of Scottish ancestry does not mean that I consider Canadians or Guatemalans or the Dutch or Zulus or Pakistanis or Russians or Koreans to be inferior in anyway.  The fact that I consider the U.S. Constitution to be an inspired document and the American system of government (even with all its flaws) to be the best earthly system of government does not make me a bigot.  I respect the right of all people to choose their own form of government.  The fact that I consider the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to be the true church and the only one authorized to administer the ordinances of the gospel does not make me a bigot.  I respect the right of others to believe and worship “how, where and what they may,” as Joseph Smith stated.  Having a different opinion than someone else does not make one bigoted. 

On the other hand, am I prejudicial?  Absofraggin’lutely.  The very incident that I related at the beginning of this post illustrates that fact.  Because the clerk had darker skin than mine, had I been there instead of my wife, I too would have worried that the clerk might have reacted differently than he did.  That doesn’t mean in any way that I think he is somehow inferior to me.  That means simply that I cared about his feelings. 

We all prejudge other people based on different factors.  It might be skin color or hair color or their accent or the fact that they drive a Ford instead of a Dodge.  The fact that someone willingly purchases cauliflower at the grocery store immediately leads me to inescapable and logical conclusion that such a person is mentally deficient, has no sense of smell or taste, or is masochistic or otherwise emotionally disturbed.  (Another distinct and plausible explanation for the purchase of cauliflower might be alien mind-control.) 

And if you think that Jean-Luc Picard can hold a candle to James T. Kirk, you are an idiot. 

The list of my prejudices, it seems, is endless. 

But let’s take one of those examples and run with it, shall we?  I can have a very civil discussion with someone who thinks that Captain Jean-Luc Picard is the superior starship captain and we can still remain friends (even though the other person is still an idiot).  If there is a survey taken to determine which starship captain was the best, I will vote according to my absolute conviction.  (To do otherwise, simply to spare the idiot’s feelings , would be wrong and would make me a liar.)  If I demand that the idiot in question acknowledges the superiority of Captain Kirk, that makes me worse than an idiot (or a Denebian slime worm, if you prefer).  And therein lays the difference.  The fact that I hold a certain set of opinions doesn’t necessarily translate into actions that would in any way infringe upon the right of the other person to believe in their delusions.   (Captain Kirk is, after all, the best.) 

You see, my opinions can grow and mature and even change completely over time as I learn and grow and gain experience.  If my opinions never change, I am not learning.  (I am, after all, seriously flirting with the idea that Captain Jonathan Archer may have surpassed James T. Kirk.  It’s a radical idea, I know, but I’m still churning it around in my brain.  I’ll get back to you when I make up my mind about that.)  However, it is my actions that define me, not my opinions.  I must act according to what I believe to be right.  If I do not act according to my conscience, I am a coward.  My opinions can drive my actions, but I can also choose to let my opinions remain just that: mine.  There is never a valid excuse to attempt to force others to accept or validate my beliefs.  Even if I am right, I cannot force someone else to be good or right (as I define it). 

Conversely, anyone who demands that I validate their choices will not get very far with me.  Even if they try to force their beliefs or lifestyle on me via the law, the courts, or the gun, such victories will never change my heart. 

Such victories cannot change right or wrong. 

Calling an apple an “orange” will not change the nature of the fruit.  2 + 2 will never equal 5, even if the law says it is so.

If you are convinced that you are right and I am wrong, then attempt to persuade me with your words and your ideas and your facts and with verifiable history.  I’ll listen.  I’ll discuss.  I may even argue.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll convince you.  But if, at the end of the day, I don’t agree with you, don’t try to blow me up or sue me or get me thrown into jail for “hate speech” because I don’t validate your sincere opinions.  So long as you do no harm to me or others because of your beliefs, I’m perfectly content to let you believe whatever you want. 

I’m not trying to enforce my opinions on you, and I will not allow you to force yours upon me. 

I remember the schoolyard arguments from my childhood concerning who would win in a fight: Batman or Superman?  We had some very inventive and rousing discussions on that vital question.  And we could disagree and still remain friends (even if the Superman supporters were complete idiots—I mean, Frank Miller has settled the question for all time in “The Dark Knight Returns”, after all).  However, every once in a while, someone of either persuasion would attempt to enforce his opinion with his fists or by going to the teacher and telling her (my teachers in elementary school were all women) that the other guys were being jerks.  Neither method changed the conviction of the others. 

All it did was to show us who the bullies were.