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To be a racist
By Hope Chigudu
We have all been shaped and sometimes warped by race; and yet
none of us is born racist. Based on where we come from, who our
parents were, where we lived, what kind of jobs we did, what kind of
friends we had, all these things end up being in our value system
which influences our racial attitude.
Racism remains a major issue. It is a complex borne of anger, brewed
over the generations and spiced with insinuations or outright
injunctions of a nonexistent superiority. It cuts across black,
white, olive, red, and yellow complexions. Even within those
colours, racism can find further avenues of intolerance to vent its
latent anger; it can find shades in between. Sometimes the shades
assume a gender shape.
In this short paper, I summarise my experience of living in a racist
household and community. I am white, and live in a country where the
majority of citizens are blacks. I attended an only boys school, that
is where my proverbial baptism of fire started.
When I was growing up, I was so much trapped by my own
‘dominant’ culture that it never occurred to me that
there were other cultures. I was a victim of racism, I
led a hate-filled life. The hatred ate at my psyche yet, I
never regarded myself as a racist, in fact if any one
had called me a racist a few years ago, I would have
referred them to a mental hospital. I thought that I
was doing the right thing, after all this was the way I
was socialised.
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