I Thoroughly Enjoy Being White

By Alexis Ryan

Last Saturday, I had a few drinks after work. Just me and a few of the girls from the office getting our drink on down at the corner tavern -- no biggie. I started out with a couple cosmos while Diane from accounting went on about her latest boyfriend drama. Caryn chimed in with some office gossip, Kate did a hilarious impression of the boss, and before you can say, "Just another wild night at TGIFridays," I needed a seatbelt to stay on my barstool. "Keep the extreme fajitas comin'!," bellowed Kate, tossing her lemon wedge at a passing waiter. (Or maybe it was another customer. Reality was starting to go all soft around the edges.)

Soon enough last call came around. Diane, Kate, Caryn and I piled into Diane's fire-red convertible, which took two or three tries. We got out of the parking lot by jumping a concrete barrier; Caryn apologized to it while giggling hysterically. Once we'd gained the open road, Diane cranked up the Shania and we all started singing along, waving our arms and gesticulating and such. I threw my sombrero in the air, yelling "Ariba!" as it flew far behind us before returning to earth. Kate took out a .45 and began firing into the air, much to the delight of passing motorists. (Or so it seemed at the time.)

Maybe it was because of the cosmos, or the heart medication, or maybe it was just being in a very fast car with some very fast friends, but suddenly I felt outside myself, as if the tether of my soul had unfastened from my body, letting me drift into the sky like a carelessly tossed sombrero. I looked down as if from a great height, examined my cackling friends, the tequila-stained car, the shell casings littering the floor. I took all that in and I thought: at least we will never seem as suspicious as a black man driving a Cadillac.

I'd never really thought about race before, but I thought about it then. I thought about all the times I'd gone into a posh downtown store and, rather than following me around suspiciously, the salespeople had asked if they could help in any way. Perhaps by showing me the latest in purse and purse-related accessories, or by rubbing my dainty toes, which did so ache inside my pointy and fashionable shoes. I thought about the welcome relief I saw in those salespeople's eyes when I entered the store. I was one of them.

And that reminded me of the time I'd been sitting outside my apartment complex and had been approached by four police officers. Now, I have nothing but respect for the men in blue who do so much to keep our nation safe. One of the clean-shaven gentlemen asked me for my identification, and as I took out my driver's license, he somehow managed to keep from pulling his gun on me. I admired such restraint. As the officers tipped their hats to me and passed on their way, I thought: I am very glad that they did not riddle my body with 41 bullets! Especially as I was unarmed and quite white!

Why don't I know anyone in prison? That seems odd to me. I know many people through my Rotary functions and tax-deductible donations. Not one of them has gone to jail. Yet if I were black, I'd be able to say that 49% of all inmates share my ethnicity. I'd be able to run some quick numbers and shake my head in bemusement at a country where 12% of the population is so more-than-adequately represented in our correctional institutions! I felt a little twinge of jealousy, but then I remembered that black males are three times as likely to suffer from prostate cancer, and I felt just about OK being white. Then I remembered I was a woman and felt confused.

It was all very confusing. I thought about slavery and indentured servitude and Malcolm X and the riots(Watts, Detroit, L.A.) and Cesar Chavez and immigrant labor and The Grapes of Wrath and the civil rights movement and working at McDonald's vs. selling drugs on the streets and hope and hopeless, it all rolling into one big thought as I felt myself pulled back down into my still-tipsy body with a crash.

Kate looked at me quizzically. She put the .45 in my hand. I took aim at a stop sign. As the metal blossomed red and white and the gunshot echoed through the night, I looked inside myself and said, yes. Yes, I thoroughly enjoy being white.