My Personal Black History in the Land of the Free. Part III

I don't believe I have ever asked a woman to tell me the most sexist thing someone has ever said to her. I've never asked any of my many Jewish friends what the most anti-Semitic comment they've ever received was. I also don't believe I have ever asked any of the gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender people I have known over the years what slur, insult, demeaning statement or epithet that has been hurled at them rose to the dubious honor of "the worst."

Identifying such a thing may not be something most of us will find any redeeming quality in. Still, several months ago, while working on the book I am writing, which has a strong autobiographical aspect to it, I found myself musing over that very type question, namely, "What is the most racist thing anyone has ever said to me?" Fortunately (or unfortunately, I truly don't know which) I was able to identify that monumental event in less than 30 seconds.

Earlier, in another essay, several months ago, I wrote about the five times I have angrily been called a "nigger" to my face, by someone unknown to me, since I've been an adult. I believed then and still believe that is a story that needs to be written about. I'll also begin to tell that story once I resume giving public talks soon. One reason is that I believe it has several unexpected and therefore, very educational, aspects to it.

First, all five of these incidents were completely unprovoked. In other words, they did not occur as part of a series of one on one or group heated and charged debates on race in a number of drunken dorm rooms in my college years---events that are so familiar to those who have ever attended college and lived in the dorms.

No, when I say these five events were all unprovoked I mean just that. They were all completely unprovoked. In one case I was simply walking across a street, minding my own business and a bike messenger quickly passed by me and called me a nigger. More specifically I was crossing a street with the "walk" sign still glowing in its familiar white visage and in my favor when an unfamiliar bike messenger whizzed by going against the light. He yelled something like, "get out of the fucking way you fucking nigger." I had to stop for a moment to survey the environment to see if there was anyone else he could have possibly been speaking to. There wasn't. Now, that young man, in his deranged mind, may have believed I provoked him to yell that at me. Fortunately I know better.

The second interesting thing about these five times I've been called a nigger to my face as an adult is that every single one of them, yes, including the one incident I just elaborated on above--- occurred in the same city. That city? San Francisco, California. What makes that even more interesting is that since being an adult I have lived in Chicago, Kentucky, Mississippi, Louisiana, Florida and Arizona-- places I would venture to say almost anyone in America would believe I would be more likely to be called such a name in before the iconoclastically progressive city of San Francisco. But, whoops, there it is.

And finally, four of the five people in my adult life who chose to add to my adult life experience in such a way were white, openly gay men. I don't know the sexual identity of that bike messenger. The other four instances where I have angrily been called a nigger to my face and in an unprovoked way in San Francisco, California all took place in venues and situations where it was obvious or known that the perpetrators were fine, upstanding, white gay men.

But wait, we haven't even gotten to the punch line yet. None of those events, disturbing as they were, can claim the title of being the most racist thing that has ever been said to me. For that we do indeed need to go way back to my college seminary days. But not to drunken dorm rooms hosting vitriolic, philosophical race debates. Instead we have to look to a group of priests at that institution.

In the junior year in the seminary college, every student had to decide at the end of the year if he wanted to go on to formal study, as a priest or brother candidate, for the religious order that ran the seminary. If one chose to do this, his entire senior year would be a pre-novitiate year. What this means is that one's senior year would be spent preparing to go to novitiate directly following graduation from the college seminary. Novitiate is a stage in the training of young men and women whose ultimate goal is to become a Catholic priest, brother or nun. At that point in my life I was certain I wanted to become a priest in this order, so I entered the pre-novitiate year with zeal and excitement.

The pre-novitiate year consisted of an entire years worth of evaluations to determine if the young man was truly ready for such an important step--novitiate. There was mandatory psychological testing and therapy. There was mandatory spiritual direction focused on preparation for taking vows. There was mandatory evaluation from all the other young men who had decided to go on to novitiate. And there were evaluations from a large cross section of priests and brothers from the religious order itself. At the end of the year the candidate would be given a typed dossier that contained a years worth of summaries of all of that evaluation and process and there would also be a final recommendation stating whether or not the candidate had been approved to continue forward to further study as a novice which itself was a preparation for becoming a vowed person attached to the specific religious order and to formal religious life as a whole. It was all very much like what I imagine an application to a top tier medical school would be like. It was very rigorous. It was all very serious. It was very intense.

With much anticipation, the day arrived when I got my dossier. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The dossier arrived is a large sealed envelope and inside that was a blue manila folder. Inside the blue manila folder were the summaries of all the various tests and evaluations that I had undergone for an entire year. I imagine I was not the only one to go straight to the end to see what the final recommendation was. This truly was akin to being accepted to Harvard Medical School or not. And so I flipped nervously to the very end of the voluminous documents to read the final recommendation. What I read there is the most racist thing that has ever been directed at me in my entire life, either before or since.

The recommendation was made by a group of three priests at the seminary--all white--who were on a panel that collated all the information and came up with a final recommendation based, presumably, on what they believed was a thorough analysis of all the information that had been collected throughout the year. Given this, I don't know precisely who came up with the final recommendation. I do know it was not my spiritual director. I do know it was not my therapist, who was also a priest of the order. I do know it was not my peers. It was likely two of the three priests on that final panel.

The recommendation from the three member, all white panel of priests was that I was indeed suited to go on to study for the priesthood but that I needed to take a year off to go work at a predominantly black church somewhere in order to get more in touch with my "blackness."

I just literally laughed out loud just now when I wrote that above paragraph. I'm still laughing. I can assure you, the time I first read it however, there was absolutely no laughing happening whatsoever. At that time I was stunned, just stunned. I truly have no other words to describe how I felt at the time. Devastated may...may come close...

Many years ago when I was a young child, I would place a white t-shirt on my head and prance around the house pretending to be a white girl with long blond hair. None of the priests at the seminary were ever told about this. Besides, I'm pretty sure that particular childhood burlesque had far more to do with wanting to be a girl than wanting to be white. So it was a complete mystery to me exactly what information they used to come to the conclusion that I was not comfortable enough with my own blackness to go on to novitiate. I still don't know. Additionally, just how does a 50-something year old white priest who has largely been separated from the world at large, all his adult life, come to know or realize such a thing about another person? I truly and I do mean truly shudder to imagine what they were thinking. I really don't want to know either. I never found out from anyone directly involved in the whole mess and that is completely fine with me.

Some time after reading that recommendation, I pulled myself together enough to complain to the main superior of the order in America--a benevolent man who was also the superior to all the priests who had signed off on that unbelievable recommendation. He also just happened to be a black man/priest. That recommendation was then very quietly and swiftly revoked and I went on to novitiate with all my classmates minus the need to become more "black" first. The damage however, had already been done. I am impressed however, to see that I can get such a hearty and genuine laugh out it all now, all these many years later. But is the laughter masking something far more disturbing and unresolved?

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