The Embarrassment of Racism
By Terry Fitzgibbons ‘04
Gathering with extended family or old friends often seems to churn up different versions of the same story.
From the vantage point of the distant northern suburbs, our conversation dips down into Philadelphia: who lives there now, where someone else used to live, how this neighborhood has changed, how that neighborhood has changed back. “We grew up near Olney,” we say, “but we don’t think of driving through there today.”
It’s never a sustained or deliberate treatise about American cities—just casual conversation—and later, someone happens to share an anecdote from Baltimore: “Camden Yards is beautiful, but after the game, we tried to get out of that city as soon as possible.”
Or the scope shifts north to Newark, New Jersey, where my wife and I live. Newark’s reputation earns an “Ohhhhh, Newark…wow, how’s that?” Or, even an, “Ewww, Newark.” I too easily succumb to the expectations of the conversation: “Well, we live in this great part…it’s the old Portuguese neighborhood.”
This story carries with it the same implied yet unstated subjects: black people. In post-Freddie Gray Baltimore, we mean recently angry black people. In Newark, we mean historically angry black people. And when I qualify our particular neighborhood, I mean to say, “Don’t worry, fewer angry black people.” This conversation recycles, sometimes with different cities or neighborhoods. On the tip of my tongue sit my ready rebuttals: history; segregation; white flight; redlining; deindustrialization; economy… racism. I rarely contribute or rebut, however, and instead just wish for the discussion to pass.
This conversation has swirled for a long time. Recently, though, it has grated on me in a particular way, and I now realize it is because those comments—with their laden assumptions, vantage point of privilege, and ultimate indifference—are me. I am part of this legacy of separation, distance, and ignorance-at-best. I am prejudiced, I am racist, and it is embarrassing.
Abraham Joshua Heschel, the great rabbi and social critic of the 20th century, writes, "The cure of the soul begins with a sense of embarrassment—embarrassment at our pettiness, prejudices, envy, and conceit…I am afraid of people who are never embarrassed.”
Having been raised in the distant suburbs and having graduated from a homogenous Catholic prep school and then from Notre Dame, I didn’t know many black people growing up. Thus, for the most part, most of the black people I encountered were on television: athletes; entertainers; or more insidiously, night after night, black faces as criminal suspects on the local news. I also encountered black people—a disproportionate number of them—asking for help outside the train stations or the stadiums when we attempted to skirt back to our suburban refuge after a game or a concert in the city.
As much as I have attempted to repress it over the years, this combination of distance and prejudice flows in my blood. It is not only in South Carolina. It is in me. And, it is embarrassing.
Even as a teacher at a racially integrated school, I all too often congratulate myself for having moved beyond the suburban sanctuaries of my youth, only to find that those sanitized walls were not only built around me but within me. The consequence: the students I struggle with teaching the most are young black men. How can I learn to teach them better?
Heschel encourages us, “Embarrassment not only precedes religious commitment; it is the touchstone of religious existence.”
Since moving to Newark, I have been attending the meetings of a community organizing and civil rights group, whose members happen to be primarily black. One evening, a Newark mother shared the story of her son, unarmed, being gunned down by police the previous year. Her story moved me. I was a tangential witness to her grief that evening. It was the closest that I had ever been to that type of Marian-mother heartbreak before, and, privileged, I still got to observe it from a safe vantage point.
On the way home from that meeting, I stopped to pick up a late dinner in our neighborhood. As I walked back to the car, a young black man crossed my path. My heart jumped and, out of my ingrained prejudice, I worried for a split-second that he was a danger to me. The man walked quietly by. I hoped he had not seen my heart jump.
In an instant, my fear reared its head, and it was embarrassing. The moment was particularly embarrassing juxtaposed to the meeting I had come from, let alone any embarrassment the young man might have felt and any embarrassment he has surely undergone in his life.
We are to “die daily” as Paul professed (1 Cor 15:31). Fear, however, does not die easily. Nor does prejudice. Nor does privilege. Yet, if we bring them out of the shadows and wrestle with them in the light—in prayer, in meditation, in honest conversation—the dying will bear much fruit, or at least, better fruit than before.
Terry now teaches in Bayonne, NJ; he served as rector of Duncan Hall from 2011-2014. For more resources on the legacy of racism, see these documents from the Church in America: "Brothers and Sisters to Us;" "Dwell in My Love;" and "Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself."