Fill out an application to a university or a job, and many state and federal government forms, and chances are you will be asked to declare your race. In many cases, the law requires that declaration. Most of us bubble in “Caucasian,” “Hispanic,” "African-American" (which isn’t a race by any definition), or half-a-dozen other categories, without thinking about why we need to define our race to enter college or to apply for a job.
So my question: Why do we need to check off our “race” on a form?
What does “race” mean?
So my question: Why do we need to check off our “race” on a form?
What does “race” mean?
If we are talking about skin color, then what in heaven’s name does the pigmentation of our flesh have to do with whether we would make a worthy professor of American literature or whether we might succeed at Harvard?
In fact, what does “race” have to do with human accomplishment of any kind?
Long ago, like most of my contemporaries, I was a fan of Star Trek. In my high school years—1966-1969—the guys in my class would discuss each episode of Star Trek the night after we had watched it. North Carolina was less than a decade away from the desegregation of restaurants, schools, and employment opportunities, yet none of my classmates mentioned that a black woman played Uhura, that an Oriental played Sulu, or that Spock was only half-human. (Okay, we did discuss Spock ad infinitum, but only because two guys in our circle wanted to be Spock). The Starship Enterprise was multi-racial, and the boys I knew then spent no time discussing the race of the ship’s crew. We were interested in what they did and thought.
Despite Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, despite fifty years of integration, “race” is as much with us as ever. There is the near daily racial incident: a white cop shooting a black teenager; black teenagers beating some innocent white bystander; Hispanics declaring they are unfairly treated because of their ancestry. The news media screeches about race; our politicians harp on the subject; government and university bureaucrats look for “racial equality”; some extremists on the left and the right yank our chains with cries of racism. Just this year, Harvard University is offering a graduation ceremony for black students only.
Yet I would be willing to bet that most of us—most Americans—have stopped looking at other people in terms of their skin pigmentation. We don’t sum up an individual because his parents were white or black or brown. Instead, we look at them as who they are, as individuals, as talented and inept, kind or cruel, moral or immoral, and we make our judgments of their character from that platform. We don’t care if they are black, white, yellow, brown, red, purple, green, or pink. Instead, we want to know what they have inside, their intelligence, the size of their heart, their values.
Martin Luther King had a dream, and he dreamed big. He said, “I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”
Weak as I am, dishonorable as I am at times, I look to that same day. I look to a day when we in this country can say, “I am an American.” I look to a day when my grandchildren won’t be asked on some form what “race” they are. I look to a day when all of us will finally agree we belong to one race: the human race.
In fact, what does “race” have to do with human accomplishment of any kind?
Long ago, like most of my contemporaries, I was a fan of Star Trek. In my high school years—1966-1969—the guys in my class would discuss each episode of Star Trek the night after we had watched it. North Carolina was less than a decade away from the desegregation of restaurants, schools, and employment opportunities, yet none of my classmates mentioned that a black woman played Uhura, that an Oriental played Sulu, or that Spock was only half-human. (Okay, we did discuss Spock ad infinitum, but only because two guys in our circle wanted to be Spock). The Starship Enterprise was multi-racial, and the boys I knew then spent no time discussing the race of the ship’s crew. We were interested in what they did and thought.
Despite Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, despite fifty years of integration, “race” is as much with us as ever. There is the near daily racial incident: a white cop shooting a black teenager; black teenagers beating some innocent white bystander; Hispanics declaring they are unfairly treated because of their ancestry. The news media screeches about race; our politicians harp on the subject; government and university bureaucrats look for “racial equality”; some extremists on the left and the right yank our chains with cries of racism. Just this year, Harvard University is offering a graduation ceremony for black students only.
Yet I would be willing to bet that most of us—most Americans—have stopped looking at other people in terms of their skin pigmentation. We don’t sum up an individual because his parents were white or black or brown. Instead, we look at them as who they are, as individuals, as talented and inept, kind or cruel, moral or immoral, and we make our judgments of their character from that platform. We don’t care if they are black, white, yellow, brown, red, purple, green, or pink. Instead, we want to know what they have inside, their intelligence, the size of their heart, their values.
Martin Luther King had a dream, and he dreamed big. He said, “I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”
Weak as I am, dishonorable as I am at times, I look to that same day. I look to a day when we in this country can say, “I am an American.” I look to a day when my grandchildren won’t be asked on some form what “race” they are. I look to a day when all of us will finally agree we belong to one race: the human race.
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