What I felt needed said, has for the most part been said. I would like to support a few aforementioned points of view, and add a retaliative unique experience. I will try to do that with out putting the boot to the reposing steed much.
I'll start by saying that I don't believe there is any alternative but to see the all black peit's as racist. Any practice, costume, depiction, etc., that pidgin holes a single race, is by definition racist. That seems clear, but what does not seem clear to me, is how some of U.S. can not see that this thing that screams racist tradition to U.S., is a benign racist tradition for the Dutch. If it ever was about being racist, it seems it has not been for a long time. Benign racism? Not exactly – a tumor is a tumor, and, racism is racism, but like a tumor racism for some ppl was a cancer that caused great pain that spread everywhere, and was nearly fatal. For these ppl it appears there is no more tumor, but the cancer has not gone, nor is it fully in remission. Just as someone recovering from great illness, may look to be fine, there remain lasting damage, even if not so apparent. The tumor in another ppl, having never caused them great damage, might be neglectfully never removed, and in time became an unattractive, yet barely noticed small lump, that just is. To cut away that small unattractive, inconsequential, lump now, may feel not as important as losing the healthy matter to which it is attached. That same small, unattractive, lump may seem very consequential to other ppl who have known the devastating damage it can cause, and, are going to have a much different reaction to it.
I have very strong beliefs that all forms of bigotry everywhere should be seen as unjust, and that every right minded person has a responsibility to help others to see that as well. But, I believe just as strongly, that you should not, and in fact, can not, dictate what morals others need embrace. Morals may be the one thing that everyone are capable of understanding through self direction. If one is capable of love, than they are capable of finding the correct moral understanding.
Ideally all ppl everywhere would lay to rest all icons of bigotry. We have done a pretty good job of that here in the U.S., nearly excising the last when social pressure and protest over the Sambo's restaurant name caused it to be changed, and was a factor in the chain's demise a few years later. (The Sambo's name in fact was a mix of Sam Battistone, and Newell Bohnett the names of the restaurants' founders, and originally had nothing to do with the story of little black sambo that it was later associated with.) BTW, do you think we would still have a NFL team named the Washington Sambo's?
See the biggest objection I have with Americans condemning the Dutch for their racist tradition is not b/c I really think it is OK, b/c I think the Dutch don't really mean it in a racist way, (which I do) b/c I don't really think it's OK. But before we take our self righteous, arrogant, hypercritical, hypocritical asses all the way to the Netherlands to tell the Dutch how to act, we should first have our own mess tidied up better. (ImhO we should not tell anyone how we think they should behave, but) And, yes with a few exceptions we have done a good job of cleaning our own house, but I want to tell you of an experience I had that suggest to me, that our cleaning of some rooms has been to sweep the dirt under the rug, or maybe the better analogy would be to say, just b/c the house appears clean, does not mean all the occupants are as free of filth.
About 18 years ago I drove with a friend to the small town of Many Louisiana (population 18**) He had gone throw a crazy bad divorce, had cousins in Many, and one who had gone throw a divorce himself , and invited Dave to move down. Dave was driving when we entered north/west Louisiana on interstate 20, and took one of the first exits going south. The 75 miles to Many was about the prettiest stretch I've ever seen. Western Louisiana gets a lot of rain year round, and everything was green and in bloom. To this day I have mixed emotions about what I saw next. For about the first 20 miles we had been driving throw lumber tree farm land, then a few miles past the last section of trees, back from the road maybe 50 yards is a big assed plantation house. And then another, and a third that was huge, bright white, with 8 or 10 white columns across the front. I had never seen anything close except in movies like Gone With the Wind. For the next 50 miles I was leaned forward, my head scanning from side to side. About every 5 miles or so there would be one, maybe only three true mansions, and most in some less than pristine condition. The architecture and front drives were expansive, and even the smaller projected a feeling of being dominate, commanding – like the capital of its own country.
It was fantastic, but almost as soon as we passed the last one, and the excitement waned, an uneasy feeling laid up in my gut. It's the same feeling I have now remembering it. I'm not from the south, or for that matter the north. My ppl were already in California, or had not yet arrived from Sweden at the time of the civil war. Just the same, as fantastic as that experience was, it still creeps me out to know what those places represent.
But that is not the story I had started to tell.
I had been in Many for about a week, and met most of Dave's cousins and his uncle, who carried a sidearm, but so did about half the male adults as far as I could determine. His uncle was the Constable of the parish. (Two things we don't have in Ca. Constables and parishes.) Dave said it was sort of like being the sheriff of a county. He wore street cloths, no uniform, and drove an unmarked Crown Victoria. His duties included, serving warrants, checking out complaints of code violations, and working as a liaison between business ppl, civilians, and the police. (what I saw of him in the two weeks I was there, was a social butterfly, who was always talking to someone, in a parking lot, front yard, leaned up against his cruiser – he had a million jokes & a thousand good ones, and told great stories – very likeable guy.)
One morning Charley, (Dave’s cousin), woke us up with three fishing poles in his hand, and announced we were going fishing on the yellow river. He was between jobs, having lost a job during the run up to his divorce, and then failed when he lost his investment in chicken farming, and now owed Foster Farms $3500 for a couple of big chicken coups they bankrolled. On the way to the river we stopped at a convenience store, (Piggly Wiggly, I think), and bought three big gulp sized wine, strawberry daiquiris, out of a slurpy machine. (Charley said in the next town over they had a convenience with a drive throw where you could get the same thing, and never have to leave the drivers seat. I thought, that really is convenient, especially if you were in a big hurry to get to Shreveport before happy hour, or too drunk to walk even.)
The fishing was mostly uneventful after the first hour when I caught two small catfish in rapid secession. (They were blue catfish I was told, so I caught blue catfish on the yellow river.
) After a bit I thought I'd walk down the shore a ways and try another spot. I got about 100 feet away when I must have spooked a beaver out from some undergrowth along the shore. He dove and swam off, right after he slapped his tail so loudly I thought the sky was falling. I had never seen a beaver, like that, up close, and had no desire to chase it then, much less the rest of my life.
About then the Constable pulled up, and after a story and a joke or two, said he was just in the neighbourhood, (which seemed strange b/c I don't think there was a house within 5 miles) and had to be getting back to town. After conferring with Dave for a second, Charley asked his dad if he could drop Dave and I off, so we didn't have to tag along with him on some errands he had to run. It was agreed, and Dave let me ride up front, prolly knowing that would be a new POV for me. Somewhere along the way I asked about something puzzling that had happened at the store earlier, and had been bothering me all day.
When exiting the store, I noticed a man about to enter that was going to reach the door at the same time as me. I stopped leaned forward and gave the door a pull to let him walk throw. The man, a black man, had seen me too, and he was also stopped. I met his eyes, and smiled the way you do when you are giving right a way. He did not smile back and did not move, diverting his eyes toward the ground. I didn't understand, but walked throw. As I passed the man, at the last second he looked up at me with a look of anger – and not just irritation, or frustration, it was the look of anger that I had thought was only possible between ppl who know each other. I did not explain my thoughts, or how strong the look was to the Constable, just the basic facts. At first I thought of the possibility that he somehow knew I was not from around there, and he wasn't about to be friendly with any dam stranger. I had pretty quickly decided that was not it, and that he just didn't like white ppl. But that I somehow knew was not the reason, or not the whole reason anyway. It seems obvious now, but at the time I was not ready for the answer.
The Constable, in a tone I had not heard him use before, or after, a tone that was almost scolding said, You can't do that sort of thing around here. He continued saying, I'm not saying it's right, but they know their place, and so does everyone else, and if he had walked throw that door and the wrong person had seen him do that, he could have had a load of problems. When he came out he could have got beat or worse, that's why he gave you that look.
Wow, this was the sort of racism I had only ever read about, or seen in movies, and then of a time 60 or 70 years in the past. I knew there were isolated cases – more in the south, of awful raciest acts, but I did not know that there were still whole communities that lived this way. Here was a civil servant, a somewhat high ranking police officer at that, telling me that
they knew their place. He had said, he wasn't saying it was right, but he had not said it was wrong either.
Since then I have done a lot of thinking on the matter, and have never remembered that with anything other than sadness, but if you can imaging the hate that our civil war caused to the families of a whole generation decimated, both north and south. Add to that the humiliation and what had to feel like a great theft of their independence – the stealing of states rights, for the south. Independence that many of their ancestors fought and died for. And add one more layer of injustice, how, in many ways the north abandon the ppl of the south in their broken condition, or worse, failed to honor promises of relief in many cases. That's a lot of hate, a lot of hate passed down. Hate of Yankees, which I had heard too often later living in liberal Austin Tx. It was always tongue and cheek, but I knew some were not laughing so much inside. What I had not heard a lot of was hate of black and white, but I knew that was because ppl don't openly hate the enemy in their midst, but considering everything it would be naive to think there would be no hate left. I knew Austin was not like Many, but I also tried to keep in mind that things were not as nice as they appeared. And when a co-worker canceled a date with no explanation, and I had to hear from another co-worker, that it was because she had made the mistake of telling her sister, who told her mom, that she was going out with a white guy, I felt the hate first hand.
Now I'm not saying it is right, and I am saying it is wrong, very wrong, but if you think about it very deeply it should not be surprising. This is the difference between what colors the two POV's, and it is my opinion that we have a lot more here to worry about than the relatively benign racist tradition of the Dutch.