The Black and The White

As we all (hopefully) know by now, unless we’ve been living under a rock and/or have just been teleported back to civilization from Amish Land, the world is fighting a peaceful war against racism and everything it stands for, enraged and fed up, protesting against police brutality and hoping for a better future and racial justice for it’s black children.

“Black lives matter” has been the general theme of the protests – generated by the inhumane treatment of George Floyd, a 46 year-old black man killed by police on May 25th on a street in Minneapolis, during his arrest.

 

 

I joined the beautifully mixed crowd out of profound solidarity, feeling like the tiniest piece of a puzzle that would never be complete as long as there is division and inequity based on colour, but joyfully bathing in our common cause, breathing in our energy and hoping that we would not only be heard, but truly listened to and understood.

You see, I never actually knew racism was such a painful reality until I came to London. I was born and raised in a country where our biggest problem were the gypsies, a minority commonly known for their antisocial behaviours such as pick-pocketing, stabbing, robbing, becoming violent when stood up to, being part of dangerous gangs, etc. But I never saw them as being that different from me. I was never afraid of them, never have they caused me any problems, never have they given me any reason to despise or see them as lesser people. But at the same time I never educated myself in their direction, never asked myself what exactly has been driving them to act based on primal instincts and inflict pain onto others – mostly the weak, never have I been curious to find out their side of the story.

 

But London’s taught me in three years what Bucharest hasn’t in twenty-eight: how to adapt to and understand the needs of those around me, no matter how different from me they seemed at a first glance. London continuously made me stare diversity in the eyes and form a personal opinion about it. And I did. “Diversity is absolutely beautiful in all it’s shapes, forms and sizes”, I concluded. All those people, the whole world in a single tube carriage, sitting in front of me, standing next to me, being, breathing, reading the paper, listening to music, thinking about a loved one, coming back home after a long day at work, perhaps having had a little too much to drink or not at all, halal, kosher food or pork eaters, fashion models and homeless men, the whole world was always there, represented in one way or another. And I was a part of it all. Nothing could make me happier than to look at the differences of colours and textures and unique traits and realize we were not that different from each other after all.

In London was where I first became fascinated with faces. When I came here, I couldn’t believe how many facets beauty could have. But the city has subtly taught me. Again and again. Not New York, not Dubrovnik, not Paris, not Vienna, not Barcelona, not Boston, not even New Orleans, but London. And black people are an integral part of that beauty. I couldn’t imagine the world without them in it. I couldn’t imagine my world without them in it. Couldn’t imagine music, poetry or dance without them, just like I couldn’t imagine a birdless sky. So why do we keep marginalizing them, how could anyone believe they are worth less than the rest of us, how dare we treat them differently based on their skin colour? How could skin colour be a fault when we’ve all been casually feeding off their cultural heritage for so long?

I might have become a “negrophiliac” in the process, definitely appalled by skin colour based arguments against them, fascinated and amazed by everything about them I have yet to understand, but still not educated enough to become vocal in becoming a true defender of their cause.

 

But then something very real happened to me at the Sunday protest, which turned some of my beliefs upside down and made me ask myself “Hey, wait a minute, am I actually racist?”: my phone got stolen from my pocket as we were kneeling in George Floyd’s memory. I had it two minutes before the kneeling part and then, five minutes after, it was gone from my pocket. I know, because I wanted to take some more pictures. Now, the main issue here is not me mourning the loss of a precious possession. I was kinda shocked and in denial at first, because it was the first time in my life such a thing happened – I don’t even remember the last time I actually closed my bag or took any special measures to protect my belongings from curious eyes and long arms; I guess I never thought something like this would ever happen to me – my bad, I know. The main issue and saddest part here is that my first thought was “Everyone around me is black besides my friend and I, therefore a black person must have stolen it”.

And that, my friends, has brought a new set of problems to my attention: deep down, am I actually  prejudiced against black people or was my remark absolutely legit given the context? at the first sign of a problem, do I suddenly start to see colour, forget about my non-race based policies and start throwing around accusations against the other side? and since when am I talking about sides, when I never have before? am I a hypocrite? am I a horrible person for having had such thoughts right after my phone got stolen?

No. The answer is much simpler than I thought: I have just not educated myself enough in this matter and I think this is what’s been happening with most white people. We are simply not educated enough to truly understand most of the subtleties and different aspects of racism, therefore unable to come up with our definition of and take a stand against it. It’s up to each and everyone of us to make the best out of this world and everyone living in it. It’s up to each and everyone of us to open up our ears and hearts and be fair and compassionate on a daily basis. It’s up to each and everyone of us to treat everyone like brothers and sisters, regardless of their skin colour. It’s up to each and everyone of us to educate ourselves more and finger point less.

Just like this sign says “I understand that I will never understand. However, I stand with you.”

And THAT’s what it’s all about in the end.

Green Eyed Kisses,