National Post (National Edition)
Racism’s ‘slow drip’
SYSTEMIC RACISM IS NOT ALWAYS OVERT. ALMOST EVERYWHERE, THERE IS A SLOW DRIP OF ACCEPTANCE AND PERPETUATION OF ANTI-BLACK STEREOTYPES
Systemic racism is like a sustained old-fashioned kick in the teeth delivered from the toe of a well-worn boot. It’s rooted in most institutions. It’s deep-seated and familiar. And it has stalked me my entire life.
Psychologically, many Black people prepare for it every day, donning armour in an attempt to defend against it. It becomes second nature and automatic, almost like breathing — until you can’t. Many just become too exhausted to fight on. They give up and succumb as the force of being pushed down overwhelms the instinct to survive.
The earliest anti-Black racist experience I recall was when I was called a “golliwog,” or “wog.” This is a uniquely British pejorative term that means non-white. A golliwog, in fact, is a rag doll, a racially mistreated doll characterized by black skin, eyes rimmed in white, red lips and frizzy hair. I often heard the slur being hurled at very young Black children and dark-skinned babies on Britain’s housing estates, where I grew up. I was four years old when I was first called a “wog.” Despite my early age, I had the awareness to demand that my hair be cut. I knew I couldn’t change my skin colour, but was relieved that I could cut my hair.
One of the challenges with systemic racism is that it is not always overt. Almost everywhere, there is a slow drip of acceptance and perpetuation of anti-Black stereotypes. This slow drip underpins the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” delusion. If you aren’t seeing it slap someone in the face, it must not, and cannot, exist. We should not speak of it because we are just breathing life into it. Well, I, for one, am sick of being slapped in the face with it and my words falling on deaf ears.
As an undergraduate student, I played on a top-tier Canadian university rugby team. The initiation for the team was as close to a slave auction as I have ever seen — only missing the lashings. Along with the other rookies on the team, we had to strip naked and be paraded throughout a tavern in what was billed as “the elephant walk.” I was told that since I was the Black player on the team, I needed to lead the parade. The Song of the Roustabouts filled my head. I’ve never let my kids watch the original version of Dumbo, which, without a doubt, has to do with the shame and embarrassment I have for participating in that walk.
You do blame yourself. I was an enabler of the slow drip on that day because I was back to the four-year-old version of me who wanted to blend in. The challenge is that we all need to find a voice. Those who ask why protesters are in the streets, here is your answer: the slow drip of systemic racism. It is not an aberration or a oneoff moment — it is a perpetually reoccurring nightmare. And it needs to be stopped. Yesterday.
I’ve talked about my first experience, and my experience as a young man, but I will leave you with one of my more recent experiences with racism (though it was certainly not my last one). While walking to the local subway station in our well-heeled Toronto neighbourhood, I discovered the contents of a woman’s wallet on the sidewalk: a driver’s licence, bank card and transit card. Upon closer inspection, the ID belonged to a young white woman and the address was close. Immediately, I thought I could return the lost items, but hesitated because, as a Black man, I knew the situation could quickly shift to me being accused of stealing the wallet.
I decided to drop the items at the local police detachment on my way home. Later that night, I met my wife and our close friends for dinner. I told them I had found the contents of a wallet and would just run it into the police station on our way home after dinner. My wife took charge, found the woman on social media (she was a local clothing designer) and asked her if she wanted us to drop off the items on our way home.
Within minutes, they were like old friends catching up via text, but were otherwise complete strangers.
The woman made a comment about how thoughtful we were to reach out, and how thankful she was that we offered to return her ID. My wife agreed with the woman that we would meet at the same busy intersection where I found her belongings. When we were nearing the meeting spot, my wife telephoned the woman to say we would be arriving in an Uber. I could see the woman waiting. As our vehicle approached, I wound down my window, waving to her to let her know we had arrived. As the vehicle came to a stop, I reached out to hand the woman her ID and, with the window fully down, she took a sustained and pained look at me in disbelief and began screaming in horror, her arms flailing, and ran away in terror.
The Uber driver nervously laughed, as if to say, “that’s the most screwed up thing I have ever seen.” I turned to my wife and said, “She’s a racist.” My wife, who was in total disbelief, thought that the girl must be on drugs and that I was overacting. I was angry, as I blamed myself for allowing this to happen. Upon arriving home, my wife immediately called the woman. I won’t ever forget her words over speakerphone: “Well I saw you on Facebook, you are a white woman, why would your husband be a Black man, you seemed so nice. I am sorry, perhaps I have been watching too much TV, I thought you must have been abducted. I am sorry I just panicked. I need to reflect on why I had that reaction.”
My wife’s only reply was, “I pray every single night that my children are not met and judged by people of your character. Because you, my dear, are a racist.”
This was in Toronto. In one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in the city. And it is not unique. In the most liberal of cities, I have lived systemic racism, whether in New York or London, by being denied a ride from both yellow cabs and black cabs that refused to pick up a Black man at night. So a screaming, terrified white woman running from a Black man, though rare, is nothing new to me.
Lloyd Wilks is chief executive officer of CounselQuest Inc., a leader in litigation support and corporate investigations,
an active member of the Canadian Association of Black Lawyers, and co-founder of Malachy’s Soiree, an annual fundraiser dedicated to transforming the neonatal intensive-care unit at St. Michael’s
Hospital in Toronto.