I am a true son of the South. I can see that I have been trained well. I know what to expect when I meet up with others whose skin is darker than mine, whose features are unlike mine or my family.
I have learned what to expect, and much of my expectation has to do with my skepticism and their inferiority. What I expect of people with darker skin affirms and supports my enjoyment of being white. My experiences selectively confirm that my expectations were valid and helpful.
From my youth, I have learned to expect a dialect different from my own and reflective of an impoverished use of speech and thinking. I have learned to expect something more guttural, something lacking a rich vocabulary, something without much imagination. I have learned black speech to be less than the rich nuances I have associated with intelligence.
I am surprised when someone with dark skin speaks with the practiced skill of one who has grown up in an environment of reading and spoken language. I am surprised when I hear language that flows with ease, with familiarity and without crudeness.
I have learned to expect behavior that goes contrary to social norms, and I expect to feel uncomfortable, even assaulted. It is no surprise to walk past black young men smoking in the non-smoking area of the train platform, punctuating their conversation with spitting on the sidewalk. This is what I expect, this is what I notice, this is what I pull away from. Once again, my expectations are confirmed by experience.
I am not very surprised when black school-aged kids peer into the open door of my garage, when they stop and stare. I expect investigating looks of mischief and not simple curiosity. I expect loud and boisterous talk at the bus stop. I have learned to be uncomfortable with a behavior so unlike the respectful, subdued exchange I expect because I am white.
I am white to the core, and I expect my experience with black people to be alien, and so it is. I feel as distant and unfamiliar with their presence as if I had found myself in an asian fish market. The sounds, the smells, the sights are all alien and confirm my expectations of discomfort, strangeness and otherness.
My expectations guide me. They confirm who I am. My expectations make it easy for me to wrap myself in a satisfying sense of how much better it is to be white.