The David Mamet play “Race” strikes people as racial discussions always do: Some people want more, and some want less. I always want more.
I don’t understand racism. I understand engaging in open conversations in black and white, talking with friends and strangers about taboo issues. I’ve never sought friends of other races, but I’ve had them. I’m white.
My closest black friend is Arlene. During Barack Obama’s presidential inauguration, my husband and I were the only white people at a party Arlene threw at her home in North Philadelphia. Twenty-five of us squeezed close on sofas, spilling over onto folding chairs and the carpet. We cheered, cried and hugged, ecstatic to celebrate this new beginning together.
Fifteen years separate Arlene and me, we don’t share religious values, only one of us is married and only the other has a master’s degree. Immaterial. We understand and appreciate each other.
Both of us thrive on change. We willingly take intellectual, if not physical, risks. We view our work seriously and strive to do well. We share recommendations for books and movies and wish the world contained fewer jerks. Our shared history is uncomplicated – except for one event that still makes us shake our heads.
Once Arlene and I planned to eat dinner together with her sister and my white friend, Jackie. We chose a Manayunk restaurant at 6:30. Jackie and I arrived first and requested a table for four, asking a hostess to watch for two other women.
We drank a glass of wine. We considered a second glass. We dissected the menu. Twice I asked a hostess if she had seated two women who were waiting for two, and she said no.
At 7:30, alternating between annoyance and concern for our missing friends, Jackie and I ordered dinner. We ate. We paid. We left.
When I called Arlene in the morning, she exploded: “Where were you?” She and her sister had waited, too. She, too, had requested a table for four, asking that a hostess look for us. Neither team specified the race of our putative tablemates – nor their height, hair color or astrological sign. And by the way, the restaurant was not full.
We fumed. We couldn’t imagine any explanation other than blatant racism. How dare those hostesses assume that whites and blacks don’t break baguettes together?
On the phone, the restaurant manager said that prejudice “probably” prevailed, calling the hostesses “incompetent college girls” who “tried to tell the book by its cover.”
He thanked me for calling and said he would tell the “girls” – all blonde, by the way – not to do “that” again. He offered us a dinner – not that I’d ever return.
Arlene e-mailed me: “When the urgent push for the Americans with Disabilities Act took place, I realized that stepping up on a curb, entering buildings, taking elevators and so many acts that we take for granted are major hurdles for people with disabilities.
“Because it’s out of my daily experience, I don’t think about it. That doesn’t mean I am unsympathetic, biased or hostile toward people with disabilities. The three young airheads at the restaurant meant no harm.
“However being black in America exposes me to those kinds of subtle signs that remind me daily that all isn’t equal. Addressing inequalities and initiating dialogue are crucial in reversing some of this thinking. Yes, even today.” As miserable as this topic is, Arlene and I keep the dialog going.
She was unable to attend “Race” with me, but we hope to catch it next time it comes to town. Meanwhile we enjoy our examined lives in black and white.
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