I am sorry, world. I am White.

I can now stop cumpulsively studying every car on the road, which is a relief. I bought a car last week, and I didn't even fall down at the dealership (see "Bench Whore Man Frog"). I did my research. I compared emissions statistics, spent hours on the internet comparing invoice prices, poured over consumer reviews, looked at safety standards. Finally I found the car I wanted at a suburban dealership about 100 miles from my home. They had a 2004 Honda Civic in stock, and I knew it was the best price I would find.

I was surprised at the easy manner of the salesman when I called, and I made an appointment with him for that night to test drive the car (I went with a "ready check" in hand, intending to buy it that night). The salesman, Bob, went to the same college as Auggie, so there was some easy familiarity there. But when he found out I grew up in a town famous for its' many prisons, his comments grew very "white" indeed. He found out I had a son named Huckleberry. "Are you SERIOUS?!" He wanted to know if Huck was black, (HaHa) and "did I have an affair with a guard? No, if Huck was black, it must have been a con!" (HAHA).

I make no excuses for myself or my race. White people, if they are aware of their environment, know that they make compromises every day. They ignore or participate in small remarks, a sideways glance, subtle body language. Racism is everywhere, but perhaps more covert, more clever, more insidious than before.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I call Bob out? Would I say, "I would appreciate it if you would not make racist comments in my presence?" Would I risk losing my great deal on the car if I had to carry it further and walk out?

I smiled.

An Asian father and son were sitting at an adjacent table. The son interpreted for his father and the saleswoman, and there was animated discussion. Bob looked at me conspiratorially and began mocking their conversation. Modulating his words Jerry Lewisesque, he performed his "whiteness" for me. His modern minstrel show. I was in the "white club." I was trusted. I was taken care of. I was safe with him. I was a "good girl." I got a good deal on the car.

I remember as a child sitting at my father's feet in front of the TV as he watched the Friday Night Prizefights, listening to him drunkenly rail against the "goddamn apes," listening to his anger and hatred. And later there was the panic in our town during the Detroit Riots of 1967. Rumors were in the wind, and white men, our fathers, were out in the streets with guns, preparing for roving bands of blacks to invade our town.

I was a teenager when it occurred to me that my father was a racist person, but I was an adult before I realized that I am a racist person. I wasn't encouraged to critique much of anything, especially my family. I certainly wasn't taught to analyze power hierarchies, especially in relation to race.

Bob walked me out to my new car, kindly showed me all the workings. He treated me respectfully, but made sure to gently mock my jerky start during our test drive with the manual transmission. I laughed. This could have been a kid I went to high school with. I remembered that one of my teenage friends drove us around in a big Chrysler that we called "The Nigger Boat."

Bob told me to say nice things about him when Honda calls to ask about my experience with him. I replied, "Sure! This is the best car-buying experience I have ever had!" which was true, sadly.

Now, my mind freed from studying cars on the road (The Ford Focus sedan has its' back end raised, like a bitch in heat...most cars are boring...people want cars that kill other people, not themselves, which is a whole other blog...white over-done suburban women love the Lexus SUV, which separates them literally and figuratively from the rabble) I can move on to other issues, like student loan debt, divorce, or hypothyroidism. So many things to figure out.

My complicity in regard to racism is the issue that dwarfs all others. I writhe under the memory of Bob's ignorance and my silence when facing him. I am paralysed sometimes between anti-racist beliefs and the seduction and comfort of being taken care of. I damage myself with my duplicity. I struggle with self-hate. I get up and begin again.