One of the most annoying phrases I have ever heard from folks who have never lived with a “Permatan” is “I don’t see color.” Beyond the fact that it’s one of the most ignorant statements anyone can make unless, of course, they are clinically color blind it’s just downright insulting. I haven’t ever had a choice to “not see color.” The photo of me that appears here, on my Twitter account and on my Facebook account was taken when I was 5 years old. It was shortly after my family had returned to California after over 2 years in Massachusetts. Not only was I a brown kid, I talked funny too. Since my parents had relocated to a house literally 10 blocks from where my mom was born I was immersed in the “Mexican American” experience. While I was but one brown kid in a sea of hundreds I may have been the only one within a several mile radius who’d ever actually had a fluffa nutta sandwich (fluffeR nutteR for the rest of you) and also properly pronounce words like pecan, apricot, pajamas and aunt (and place names Worcester and Peabody). While I have always continued to properly pronounce those and other words I was not always one brown kid among hundreds. In what seemed like days after my 13th birthday we were living in the very pale community of Riverside. It was an eye opening experience (despite being the city that gave birth to LSOB).
It was in Riverside that I first experienced discrimination based on my skin, hair and eye color. It was in Riverside that I fully realized how I was “different” from what was then the largest single racial group in the United States - Caucasians. I had never thought of my father, despite his complete inability to tan, as “white” and, to this day, I do not think of him that way. He certainly was a Caucasian but what I learned in Riverside and from my dad is that there was quite a bit more to being “white” than just being Caucasian. When I graduated from high school one of my local friends, who happened to be a half-breed like me, and I decided to drive to Colorado to visit with his mom’s family there. He and I did all the driving with his mom and one of his siblings as passengers. Along the way we made a few stops but one of the things that made the trip so memorable (and not in a good way) were the stops we made in other White American communities. In Utah my friend and I walked into a café and despite the fact he didn’t have quite the “tan” that I do we were the two darkest humans in the place and EVERY eye was on us. I can’t tell you what we bought at the café but I will never forget that experience.
Denver was a bit more surprising. Since we were staying with my friend’s family (his mom was Mexican like mine) it was pretty comfortable - at first. At one point we decided to visit a local shopping center. One of the stops was at a place that sold jewelry. In we walked and I approached the counter as something had caught my eye. There were a few folks ahead of us but, once they’d been served, I expected we’d be next - I was wrong. A couple of groups of white people had come in after us and even though I’d known she’d seen us the person behind the counter, who was white, started helping them first. Once I realized what she was doing I did what any future attorney would do - I objected (LOUDLY). When the employee finally scuttled over to us I was beyond angry. In the end I bought nothing but only because of what I’d experienced.
The hits kept coming as I went off to college, got married (to a white woman, we divorced quite early on) and was called for jury duty. Over time I wound up on 3 different juries. On the first two juries I was either the only or one of very few “people of color” on the panel. The second panel was the one that introduced me to the old “some of my best friends” defense to racism. After the delivery of jury instructions we went into the jury room and selected a foreman (a white man). I was one of two people of color on the panel. When the foreman decided to ignore one of the very explicit instructions we’d received I inquired as to his reasons for not liking it. Apparently, noticing my complete lack of a “Mexican accent” and my last name, the foreman started talking about “Them.” In this case “them” included the plaintiff, a woman who’d migrated from Central America and spoke only Spanish. I let him go on before finally asking if by “them” he was referring to “Hispanic” people (I don’t like that term but I knew he would understand it). When he said yes I replied “you mean people like my MOM then.” The jury found for the plaintiff.
Over the past few years I’ve watched this country fail to deal effectively with racism and discrimination. Few things however anger me more than people who tell me they “don’t see color.” I, like any sighted brown person, see color every time I look in a mirror. If you literally try to ignore my color I’m not sure what it makes you but one thing it doesn’t make you is an ally. Being an ally to people of color does NOT mean failing to see that we are different from you physically and often culturally. It simply means that we want you to take our word for it when we tell you the game is stacked against us. Let me give you yet another example. The day AFTER my father was elected as a Councilman in the city of Montclair California I was walking to my apartment from a nearby liquor store. While walking through a small parking lot a black and white cut in front of me and stopped me. With hands on their guns the two uniformed officers (yes, they were White) started to question me and asked where I was coming from. Naturally I thought it was important they knew who I was even though they didn’t ask me for my ID so I showed them. Upon realizing who I was they realized their mistake but it was too late. My father, upon learning of the incident, was far less than happy.
What all of the foregoing taught me over the course of my life is that “white” is very much a mindset and not a race at all. My father was Caucasian but he was, as his father had been, “down for the brown.” They did NOT know what it was to be brown but understood that in the United States, it’s an obstacle to be overcome. My father was proud of his “Mexican” wife and his half-Mexican son and would tell you so if he were still alive. Despite the fact I’m the 3rd person who was alive when Walter Hackett, Sr. and Walter Hackett, Jr were also alive he literally suggested I hyphenate my name and add my mom’s maiden name so folks who had never seen me would know what I was. I never took him up on that recommendation and, with two more of his descendants carrying his name today, I’m glad I didn’t. My father did what really mattered though, he stood up for brown people against “Whites” and it helped me understand that color DOES matter and denying its existence is folly, at best.