COLUMN: An experience I can never know

From Alan Lowinger's, "The Rest of the Story," Fall '00 From Alan Lowinger's, "The Rest of the Story," Fall '00Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have been born black. The twist of fate is not so hard to imagine. I was not born into this body for any reason other than dumb luck. For better or for worse, you do not determine who your parents are. I approach the topic of African Americans in this country with some hesitation. There is something completely inexplicable about being black in America. I can't fathom being the subject of such widespread prejudice, hatred and fear. The country may have become more liberal over the last century, but old habits and ways of thinking die hard. Indeed, the "trend" toward acceptance of African Americans by the mainstream population is largely superficial. Attitudes don't change with candy-coated political correctness and liberally conditioned words. And in that scheme of things, I often wonder where I would be today had I been born black. I picture the powers that be guiding me not to the loving arms of Louis and Kay Lowinger, but to an African-American couple in the hospital bed next door. And then, I try to picture my life as an African American unrolling before my eyes. Where do I end up, and why? Holding my upbringing and intellect constant, do I still end up a student at Penn? Am I the same person that I am now? The picture in my head flickers out. I cannot do it. I can tell myself that I am imagining a realistic version of myself as a black male, but that is not true. I can picture myself being unfairly stopped by a traffic officer, waiting in the cold rain for just one taxi to stop for me, constantly being followed around by the suspicious eyes of a storekeeper. I can imagine being told horror stories of how my race of people were not granted full rights until after my parents were already young adults. I can imagine reading the works of Malcolm X and Booker T., nodding and holding back tears the whole way through. I can imagine being perceived as poor, as a criminal, by people around me, people who never spent a single minute in conversation with me. I can picture all of that, but the victim in the picture is not me. It is someone else, some African American being stripped of his or her rights. My mind draws blanks simply because trying to empathize with a black person is impossible. I can tell you that some of the things that African Americans have to go through on this campus really hurt, but I'll never know that pain first-hand. In essence, the only way to truly appreciate Black History Month, now underway, is to be black oneself. Can just anyone fully comprehend the meaning of the words of Malcolm X, who uttered, "We are fighting for recognition as free humans in this society?" Last I checked, just about every racial group in this country knew the meaning of "free" long before African Americans did. Understanding black history necessitates being treated like a black person in this society. But not one person among the nearly 95 percent of this campus who is not African American will ever know what that's like. Of what use, then, is Black History Month to others? Black History Month is not a month to empathize. I also argue that it is not a month to sympathize either. Instead, it is a month to realize, a time to add another piece to the large puzzle of history when you have realized that yours is incomplete. So pick up a copy of this month's Vision, the independent African-American newspaper at Penn. Thumb through the small pages, 28 in all, and learn more about black history than you have in your previous 15 to 18 years of education combined. Sad, but true. Or you can attend many of the programs running across campus in honor of this month. Don't do it in the hope that you'll understand the mind of an African American. Because you won't. The important thing is to educate yourself. Work to change the views that became yours when you realized that we are not all the same.