Now is the time in my web page when i Perplect.  

Perceive in Me:   

 I am white. I am single. I am straight. I am male.  With these 12 words I condemn myself.  Or rather society condemns me.  Or rather the portion of society that I often hold most dear condemns me.  What part is that, you might ask.  Well the part that is specifically not those things and actively pursues equality of treatment.  And in fairness in the western world it is ‘my kind’ that has made this inequality a seeming cornerstone of our society.   But it is a club to which I just don’t belong, to which I have been denied entry.

   Add to this another complication. I am a moderate thinker and actor.  I find it difficult to bend to the extremes, to react in a big way; it is just not me.  It is not that I think things like, ‘equality is great in its place,’ or only mouth the words that would suggest that my beliefs are true.   It is rather that I am an easy going, amiable sort of guy who feels that extreme action doesn’t usually win the day but rather that it is a slow, moderate movement for change that produces the best and longest lasting effect.  I say I hate inequality and injustice and I support things, but do I really?  That is the question I have been asked.  Do I protest?  Do I march?  Do I write letters?  Well, ok, I have been in a march, I have written a letter or two, but I don’t do it on an ongoing or regular basis.  I guess, as you can see, I do write a thing or two.   But this isn’t always enough, being there in voice doesn’t seem to cut it all the time. 
   Why do I care if it ‘cuts it’ you might ask, what makes me need for people to believe that I am not racist or sexist?  Simply put, I guess the answer to this is that I don’t really.  I am not someone who has ever really seemed to need anything like acceptance from my peers, or from people in general.  At the same time, being declared an outsider merely because of the four factors I mentioned can be a little offsetting.  I mean to be assumed to be a racist only because of these factors and when you protest you are disbelieved can hurt.  What am I going to say, ‘I can’t be racist, I have a number of friends of colour,’ or,  ‘What do you mean, my best friend is gay?’  This is the type of statement that gives me the biggest laugh.  What does it prove really?  It truly seems like your are grasping for something, anything to prove you are a good person.
   I have been told before that the only way to prove that I am not a white racist pig-dog is by being a person who goes to the other extreme, but this just isn’t in me.  I just can’t be like that.  I don’t get angry, I don’t get activist.  Sometimes my problems with over acceptance worry even me.  I have often found myself wondering if I was set up to relate properly.  I do get angry at things, but not at the same things and it takes more.  I don’t find myself filled with righteous rage very often at all.  And without having this rage present, it is even harder to assume that I am an ally, that I am a friend to the ‘cause.’  But I do relate, I tell the following story to illustrate.

   Last week I was on the way to a friend’s from work.  My journey would take me on one stop of the skytrain, short enough that I wouldn’t even have to sit down.  As I got in and stood at the opposite doors to get out on that side, I noticed three young men walk onto the train and sit in the seats next to me. They looked Pretty normal, I immediately judged them to be young punks because of the arrogance that they held as they walked on.  They were about 17 or 18 and I don’t really hold being a punk at that age against someone.  They were dressed kind of down, sort of half punk and half skater, I am sure there is a word for it but I don’t really know what it is.  (It has been a long time since I have been even remotely cool.)  They had very short cut buzz cuts and were all white.  This all meant very little to me until the one who was sitting down right next to me leaned forward a little as he sat.  He was wearing an armless t-shirt (hell, I am so uncool that I don’t even know what you call that particular article of clothing) and as he sat I could see that just under the back of his shirt, on his shoulder blade, was a tattoo.  I could just see it as bent over to sit.  It was a swastika with some sort of writing across the cross post, something that had the word god in it.
   At this point I admit, I jumped to a conclusion and formed an opinion.  These young men were skinheads.  Right away they dropped from being young men that I had deemed arrogant but was reserving real judgment upon to people that I just didn’t like.  This was the first time I had ever encountered people that I knew to be skinheads before.  You see this is where part of my easy going comes in.  Sure I have seen people with very short hair, army boots and with attitudes before, but I couldn’t judge them to be something as abhorrent as skinheads until I knew.  But I had not doubt about these young men.  I didn’t like them, I couldn’t imagine liking them, for there is nothing about skinheads that is likable. 
   There was, however, no reason to do anything about them.  What should I do?  So I just stood there and watched them.  The one nearest me, with the tattoo, appeared to be the strong silent leader type.  Both of the other two made comments that were intended to amuse or capture his attention.  But he didn’t really pay much attention, maybe throwing them a bemused smile now and again.  The thing was, every time I saw them make a comment, with that curious half smug, half evil smile of theirs, I was forced by my mind to assume one thing.  When they made a comment about a woman and smiled, I knew it was something sexist and demeaning.  When they made a comment about a woman across the train, a woman of colour, with an evil smile, a snicker and that poke in the ribs, I knew they were making a racist comment.  I suppose it is possible that they weren’t and that they were just being arrogant young people.  I mean, my friends and I say catty things about people all the time.  But it didn’t, and still doesn’t, seem to matter to me.  What they were saying was undeniably racist and sexist and wrong in my eyes. 

   The more they said, the angrier I got.  I don’t remember the last time I was angry at someone for just being.  For saying things that I didn’t know what it was.  It seemed like a righteous anger that I didn’t feel very often.  Soon though, my stop came up and it was time to get off the train.  I don’t know what I could have said to those young men to do anything.  If anything, whatever I could have thought to say would have added to them a tale of bravado or something that they could tell at the next third reich love in.  So I left the train, angry and upset and continued on with my day. 

   I guess this trivial little experience has given me a bit more understanding of what it means to be enraged due to racism.  A little window into what it takes to be consumed by that emotion.  I am reasonably certain that anyone who had doubted my feelings in the past would have accepted them upon seeing my face coming off the train.  But does this means that the only way that I can be seen as a true ally is to show this feeling and rage more often?  Should it mean that?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I am still laid back and easy going.  I know that I can’t be a person who reacts violently or reactionary to most situations.  Will you still believe that I am an ally?  Will you still believe that my faith and need for equality is at the core of my being?
   But you know what, in the end, I am still the accepting person.  And whether or not I get accepted, I am going to continue to be an equality advocate.  And I understand the need and the want to exclude me.  So what I am saying, I suppose, is that the status quo really is ok with me.