To Call a Thing by its Name

I called someone out tonight. I don't feel any better.

A client of mine was looking for a house, I informed him that I might be putting mine on the market. When he asked how much I'd be deducting for the "Mexicans" next door, I said, "that sounds a little racist." He said, "what? you don't want to deal with a racist?" and hung up.

My neighbor is not Mexican. He's from El Salvador. And not that it should make a difference, but he is a good friend of mine. That may be what gave me the courage, or conviction to say something. As I sit here seathing, I'm troubled by two things. One, I'm not adamant enough about racism. And two, I'm frustrated that I have to be on the lookout for it.

I will be the first to concede that there are dipshits among us. I'll also assert that they tend to follow no ethnic conventions. It's pathetic to assert that someone's mexicanness, or whiteness, or blackness, or asianness makes them do anything. If someone is an asshole, let's just accept that it's a personality flaw--not some genetic defect.

And so I fail on a regular basis. I don't call people out enough. And I am equally frustrated that I have to call people out at all. Unfortunately, I fear racism will alway be with us. It's a cheap form of insecurity. If you are racist you don't have to admit that you have no self confidence, you only have to demean others.

I can't solve the insecurity issue. But, I can commit to be more assertive. To call a thing by its name . . . If you hide behind the generality of ethnicity, positive or negative, and you are in my presence, you will hear about it. And if you are weak enough to have to hang up, or walk away, I'll not be ashamed. I'll be pleased to know that you've consented through silence that you are lacking.