As a white American, I grew up not so black.

I watch television on occasion and am generally baffled at the smorgasbord of images depicting countless black male and female rap or R&B stars, their fancy cars – oh, and their sparkling, gargantuan “bling-bling” – as thugs and villains, sometimes rapists and oftentimes drug users. But do P-Diddy or Snoop Dogg represent or characterize blacks, and why are so many blacks, seemingly, trying to be every rap star their MTV-cursed televisions blare into their living rooms?
I know, it’s a touchy subject and it’s a tough question.

I’ve been stuck on various forms of public transportation many, many times. Sometimes I’ve had the pleasure of sitting through grueling bus rides where the only sound to battle the drone of crappy engines are the high-pitched squeals and Ebonics-ridden conversations of young, black women. Sometimes they’re just amusing to listen to, what with their necks guiding their heads in powder-eight formations as their excessively finger-nailed hands seem to slap the air amid the looks of mild annoyance from my fellow bus riders. But this is who they are, right? And we should accept a person for who they are.

Other times, generally speaking, I’ve seen young, black men walking their “Hey, I can sway like a stiff palm tree” walk – which, coincidentally, looks like they’ve recently been graced with an enema – with their pants hanging past their asses in some futile attempt at emulating – sans individuality – 50-Cent.

See, I don’t even know that much about blacks today besides what I see on television or hear from disgruntled big-city dwellers. Sometimes I’m scared of them, the idea of being stuck alone with a black stranger or walking through a crowd of blacks on a dark city street terrifies me to no end. But this fear isn’t inherently instilled because of anything blacks I’ve had the pleasure of knowing have done. Quite the contrary. I’ve had black friends who were themselves, not molds of publicized egos, and who they were, are, was great, original and unfettered by glamorized egoists. My fear, a hesitancy shared by many people – I’ve found – is caused by a combination of media’s portrayal of blacks, and some black people’s willingness to be the stereotype.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m just an observer. I’ve seen the same funny, ironic and sometimes sad displays of aesthetics and oddity across the spectrum, with all races and groups. Sometimes gays can be really…gay. Oftentimes white men, especially older white men, can seem really, really harsh and stiff – you wonder, “Do they even enjoy life?” I wonder if all Japanese people know Kung Fu. Hmm.
Now, as February is upon us, I wonder if Rosa Parks and other influential blacks would be pleased to see what the fruits of their labors have yielded. I wonder if most blacks from my generation would be able to stand in front of their hypothetically resurrected ancestors and say with fervor and honesty, “I have taken the freedoms you helped birth and have used them to fulfill my potential, my individuality.” Sometimes, though, it is too easy to lose oneself and all-too-easy to be what isn’t real – especially if the plastic and petty is all you have to identify with, is all you have to base an ambiguous, almost dwindling culture on.
First, Black History Month is more than simply speaking Martin Luther King Jr.’s name in one forced sentence once a month because guilt calls for such mediocrities. It is more than acknowledging in silence the possibility that some black people did some stuff that changed some stuff. It is more than any white person or even some black people – today, in our fairly apathetic and “blame game” society – can fully comprehend.

King had a dream – but that dream is dying. It was contingent upon the cooperation of all peoples, and now, as American big-money slowly sweeps black recognition under the rug and as blacks spiral down a tube of cultural confusion, I wonder where that dream is failing.

When King was assassinated, riots broke out all over the country. His dream for non-violence was shattered almost instantly by an uncontrollable rage that had been boiling for some time, had been waiting for a vent. After years of segregation, unfair treatment, discrimination and countless particulars, blacks rose up and let it all out. But why, now, does it seem their frustrations are still just as solid and unmovable as they might have been?

Isn’t it possible the world has changed, that the United States has grown? Isn’t it feasible that the only thing holding blacks back anymore is themselves? And isn’t it possible that, if this animosity isn’t stricken from the record soon, only more of the same will prevail?

I am white. But, as a white man who never had anything to do with slavery or the segregation of yesteryear, and as a white man who has to suffer the distastes of countless groups and races because of what a bunch of old Caucasian Christians did before I could tell them I wanted no part of this, before I could stand up and say, “This is not right.” I wonder why an older black man recently said to me, without provocation, “You white people are all the same.” I wonder why a gang of black kids thought it necessary to beat the living shit out of me when I was in second grade. I wonder.

So, here, let me lay it out for everyone. Slavery has been abolished. Blacks can vote, can marry whites, and have almost every opportunity – save those still restricted illegally and unethically by closed-minded idgets whose god or ego decrees separation and bigotry – as white people. But there is still a striking divide, an undeniable animosity that still exists between some blacks and some whites.

As February unfolds, take some time – both whites and blacks – and see if you’re holding on to views not of your making. Honor the struggles of all peoples of all races from all countries. Take time and study about one influential black person, and ask yourself if they could look on you with pride – look on you with contentment