This week, in the context of the current state of emergency in France, in the light of the significant score of Marine Le Pen’s far-right party in local elections, of the even more significant score of abstentionism, and of the impressive efforts of the “moderate” right-wing candidates to sound uncannily like Donald Trump, I have been mulling over some dark thoughts infused with anger and sadness, and with an urge to get the hell out of here.
Then I thought I’d better write a story.
Ok, let’s see. A proper story should have a proper introduction.
I am a white-faced, blond-haired and green-eyed woman who lives in France, sometimes in North America. I don’t know a lot, but here’s something I know:
I do not experience racism in my daily life.
(raised hands in the audience) Huh, no no. I mean actual racism: anchored, institutionalized. Like, Society vs. “My lot”.
For “my lot” (white-faced etc.), facing the scornful smirk of the Pakistani shopkeeper down our street is technically racism. Similarly, facing the scornful smirk of a lesbian (for instance, me) when you’re a man is technically sexism.
It hurts. It is unfair.
But you, male reader, and I, blond-haired woman, do not lose access to a higher social status, we are not economically downgraded by such lesbian and Pakistani smirks.
I am white, the shopkeeper is not. Therefore, I win.
You’re a male, the lesbian is not. Therefore, you earn more.
Let us now reverse the situation: I’d smirk at the Pakistani shopkeeper while you’d smirk at the lesbian. Can you feel the difference? If you do, then you see why “anti-white racism” / “reversed sexism” / “heterophobia” are not actual equivalents of racism, sexism and homophobia.
It is not a question of being White or Black, Male or Female, Straight of Gay per se.
It is a question of who is in power in a given society.
It is a question of whose social status is institutionally empowered.
In France, I now and then experience sexism and homophobia. Until recently, such unfortunate experiences entitled me to declare I could easily imagine what racism felt like.
I was wrong.
The white-faced, blond-haired, green-eyed woman has since then spent one month in Japan, and it turned out she had no idea what racism felt like, before actually experiencing it.
Disclaimer: I am not going to say that Japanese people are loathable racists. Admittedly, Japan is a pretty uniform country race-wise, with major racism issues. But there is probably as much racism in France as there is in Japan, or anywhere else. I am mentioning Japan in this article because: (1) There is actual, institutionalized racism in that country, (2) In that country, I was an actual target for it, (3) That was my first time as that kind of target.
Now let’s step into the story itself.
We travelled from Tokyo to Kagoshima and back, with nothing but a light backpack each, eating with locals and sleeping in cheap places. And it kinda kicked my white ass.
#Blacklivesmatter
It was very hot: 95% humidity, 47°C under the afternoon sun. I hate heat. So I guess I must have been cranky. Emotionally altered. Tired from the heavy backpacks on our shoulders, tired of our swollen ankles and tired of those goddam tiger mosquitoes.
But everyday, there were also the stares — especially in the countryside, when we walked into local shops or family-run sobayas. There were the scornful remarks:
“American? No? Canadian? No? Furansu (France)? Yes? Ha!” (continues in Japanese with his friend, with a disgusted smirk.)
There was finally that time at the train station, when the station agent refused to sell us tickets — in fact, he refused to talk to us at all and turned his back on us, to serve Japanese customers instead.
And yet, for almost one month, we had been trying hard to blend in (including not showing any overt signs of affection in public). We were trying to be polite, quiet and we always asked our questions in Japanese before switching to English or gestures.
On the “station agent day” (that’s how we refer to that day now, even months after), I broke down. I felt an anger that I had never felt before. It was powerful, it was deep — and I guess a bit childish. Looking back to it, part of my anger was probably quite similar to the anger felt by a spoiled kid suddenly deprived of a toy. A sudden irrational mixture of anger and fear that makes one clench their fists and want to break something.
Here was the white-faced, blonde-haired, green-eyed woman,
being despised because of the color of her skin, or maybe (but does that really make a difference?) because of the culture and history and tradition she carried on her face.
After one day, it was annoying. But after two weeks, it was infuriating.
My police record is clear. I have never — at least as far as I recall — stolen anything, beaten anyone up, dealt with justice as a convict. But I swear that, on that “station agent day”, I felt like punching someone’s face. I felt like stealing something, smashing a car window. Anything illegal: just for the hell of it.
Being stared at, constantly, as if I had done something wrong or was on the verge of doing something bad, put me into a sort of “what-the-heck”, “it’s-not-fair” attitude. Stared at by default, I was slowly losing the point of blending in.
Convicted by default, I was losing the will to abide by rules that I was not even allowed to respect.
To this day, I can’t imagine how it feels when it happens to you everyday, in the country you actually live in, and maybe were born in.
Don’t get me wrong: I am not saying that experiencing racism is an excuse for having an attitude, or for doing something bad. And I am not saying that people experiencing racism actually give up and break the rules.
I am saying that just that day, that one day, made me actually conscious of something that I thought I was already conscious of. That day kicked my white ass.
I realized how racism damages people: the racist and the “racized”. Racism damages society by excluding people from the rules it wants them to respect: it is thus a vicious circle, that permanently fuels itself.
But in the end, like in the end of every good story,
#Lovewins
That same day, we went into a small bakery in the countryside of the Kumamoto area. Again, the stares. Again, the reluctance to serve us.
This time though, someone stood out. A lady stepped out of the waiting line and started talking frantically to the waitress in Japanese.
We eventurally got our two pastries. We smiled, said our thanks in Japanese to both the waitress and the lady and showed ourselves out.
In the street, the lady ran after us. She came to us and handed us a small package. She had bought an extra pastry for us: her favorite cookie. She said she wanted us to taste it. Holding the small package tight, I didn’t thank her; my wife did. My throat was tight with a sudden urge to cry. With gratitude.
Crying with gratitude for being accepted despite the color of my skin? “That was unexpected!” exclaimed my white ass.
The vast majority of the people we met in Japan has been extremely nice to us. The minority who put blatant racism to our faces stand out in our memories because they made us realize that one doesn’t know what racism is until they have, painfully, experienced it.
Plot twist:
We ate the lady’s cookie the next day, in the train. We had bought some chocolate and orange juice to eat with it. Full of sweet expectations, we bit into the cookie. The filling was seaweed.
C.I.D
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