Playground Invasion

One of the things I like best about our new neighborhood is the opportunity it affords me and my son to interact with lots of people who don’t look like us or share all parts of our racial and cultural background. Most evenings we visit our lovely playground the Snapper is either the only Caucasian kid or in a distinct minority. Every night it’s a little different; sometimes he is playing with A.A. kids, sometimes with Hispanic kids, sometimes with immigrant kids, sometimes with kids from family structures unlike his own. I remarked to a friend recently that part of my residual racism is how surprised I was that a neighborhood this nice (which I defined without examination as tree-lined, quiet-ish, well-kept and safe) was largely minority. Egads–of course a neighborhood could be all those thing AND multi-racial/cultural. I understand there is some overlap between the poverty rates among minorities and the persistence of sub-ideal living conditions in poorer communities, but that does NOT translate to minority neighborhood = bad neighborhood. I am ashamed at this particular feature of my until-now buried-to-me stereotyping, but there it is (and hopefully WAS). I just can’t keep it here–it doesn’t hold water. There are as many kinds of black families as there are black families in this neighborhood, as well as Hispanics, foreign-born, etc…

I have had nothing but positive encounters on the playground (in general there are a few people on our walks that I have stopped trying to say hi to, because they are so surly, but this is rare). I find this side of the minor highway that runs alongside downtown far more easygoing than the university side, which doesn’t surprise me (and this is true in other college towns in which I’ve lived that were majority white). I have really enjoyed my evenings here with the Snapper. I’ve met so many nice people who are kind to my son and eager to chat while our children play.

I feel comfortable asking relatively socially acceptable fact-finding questions, such as “so do you live on this block?” or “how old is your daughter?” or, if the conversation moves forward, “do you go to school or work here in IC?”

But I never, ever ask questions like, “Where are you from?” (unless the person says, “we just moved here,” in which case I might ask where they’ve moved from, which is a different question), or “what is your son?” or “are your children adopted?” or the hideous, “what are you?” or any P.C. version of the above. For awhile I’ve just felt uncomfortable asking these questions. As time progresses I find that my burning curiosity has turned into mild interest, but I no longer feel this sense of entitlement to know what exactly is UP with every family I run into. Because seriously? A family’s specific racial/cultural makeup and sexual activities is none of my damned business. Sometimes it comes up naturally in the conversation, in which case there is usually a comfortable opening for gentle inquiries that the person in question seems open to address. But mostly when these encounters are casual and polite–as they are especially at this stage of our newness in the neighborhood–ages of kids, location of domicile, and place of employment or university department is all one can really push for, and even then it’s a matter of polite interest and not probing. As I contemplated my feelings about these conversations, I realized that I have abdicated a very important White Middle Class entitlement, which is the right to go anywhere and everywhere. Like this article that Kohana linked to recently from Racialicious, “going anywhere” can also mean, “knowing anything,” which from my studies smacks of old-fashioned colonialism: that it is your assumed, unexamined right to satiate your curiosity no matter how offensive or invasive it is.

Now I suppose one could argue that one’s racial or cultural background is not an intimate matter. After all we very often look different from one another and it is not wrong to wonder where someone was born or who their parents were. But what makes it presumptuous to ask is that there is such a wide variety in ways of being, and people should have the right to define that for themselves as in as nuanced a way as they please. “What are you?” asks for a single-dimensional answer. More importantly, racial and cultural background are intimate details, especially if a minority person (or a non-minority, for that matter) has experienced a complex and painful journey surrounding those details. It may be hard to say what one “is” or where one is “from” when speaking with a relative strangers. Those details can slowly unfold as people get to know one another.

The other day the Snapper and I met the sweetest family. They shared their ball with him and spoke kindly to us both. I could tell by their appearance and accent that they were probably South* East Asian, maybe Indian. But maybe they were Pakistani? I didn’t ask. The history of Indian/Pakistani relations is long, complex, and fraught with strife (as well as lots of positive interactions and exchanges, I’m sure). It would have been incredibly rude to ask. Besides, what is it to me? I will not pretend that they aren’t brown or that they speak perfect standard English. That is interesting. But it is not my right to know anything else about them. I hope over time that we will get to know them better, and them us. I secretly hope every time we go that they’ll be there again. No use pushing anything. The difference between the me of now and the me of ten years ago is that what would disappoint me is not getting to know them better as people rather than “finding out” what their “deal” is.

I’ve wondered about the family make-up of groups of people there, I’ve wondered about racial background and even of disability. But I’ve just wondered.

I hope this is growth.

*Believe it or not, this is what I intended to say–just left out the ’south.’  Thanks, anon.