Am I a racist?

Well, according to some, if I still have to ask the question of myself in an uncertain manner, then I am a racist. Or rather (notice how he hastily adds) I have racist tendencies I need to deal with.

I could have just said I am not a racist as I abhor that character trait which many of us have, or struggle with or deny, or, sadly, enjoy. I ask readers to comment on bold, italicised portions on this blog as they are potential generalisations.

How could I have come to the conclusion I am not a racist? Well, I have taught children virtually my entire adult life. I don’t give a whit for skin colour; that child deserves the best education possible in a safe, affirming, creative, non-discriminating environment.

How do I come to the conclusion that I am still, to some extent, racist? The way I view people. In my case it is not so much black people, it is, as I write from China, how I view the Chinese.

I love living in China. I love it a lot. My current teaching job is cushy and I am grateful to all those people (Chinese) who have made that possible. Chinese children are adorable, often hard-working and generally well-behaved. I have Chinese friends and some of the most wonderful people I have met are Chinese, especially my friends Phillis Du, Andy Yao, my godchildren Star and Sunshine (both 23 and they adopted me when I first arrived here in China more than four years ago) and, though only a work colleague, Emma in the English department I currently work in, is such a wonderful lady.

But the way I view Chinese is interesting. I am not intimidated by them at all, even in confrontational settings. But I can be intimidated by white people. This clearly has a lot to do with my apartheid upbringing. Obviously people of other skin colour were treated as inferior. Like most people, I only started to wake up to the facts in SA as I grew towards adulthood.

My first job was teaching in a so-called black township school and I refused to put up the posters promoting career opportunities. One showed, on the top half of the poster, a white doctor and a white engineer. The bottom part of the poster showed a black nurse and a black mine worker. This was supposed to be stuck up in the standard six and seven classrooms. We all refused to put up the posters.

There is an excellent series on racism, the latest of which is called “The race question: A depressing response” by Mphuthumi Ntabeni, a most impassioned argument for the need for self-reflection on racist and other habits:

“Far too many South Africans lack (or refuse) self-reflecting tendencies and have a blame orientated psychological state.”

I think we need to develop “self-reflecting tendencies” and look at our attitudes towards other races and cultures, and one of the best ways of doing this is writing, or keeping a private journal or both.

When I write, I am less concerned about what happened than my response to what happened. The latter is far more important and is fundamental to ongoing personal growth.

We tend to write our own scripts, invent ourselves for others. The unconscious (in other words the “not reflected on” version) scripts tend to be destructive. The most fascinating writing experience I have had was writing my memoir, Cracking China. I had to create a self, the narrative self of the text, inescapably a version, or a replica of me, that some may argue is a fiction. Is the self I created an authentic version of me; does it have fidelity with the original? Some would say no, just as Jerry Seinfeld in the Seinfeld show created a fictionalised version of himself.

This is one reason why JM Coetzee chose to write his memoirs, or quasi-memoirs (Boyhood and Youth), in the third person, as he felt the narrative “I” was untruthful, not him, or is no longer him.

As an experiment, I tried writing my memoir like that and I didn’t even last one page. What I found did work was writing in the first person and being very honest about my moods and how “I” can sometimes be, a real grumpy Eeyore who watches his own responses and reactions (the two words are of course different) with amusement and my ambivalent regard for the Chinese.

As an example, although my Mandarin is at the intermediate level, I still prefer a Chinese friend to deal with queries over the telephone, as call-centre staff speak very fast, or use Shanghaiese slang, not standard Mandarin. I needed to query my wife not getting her mobile phone statements so I asked Emma in my office to phone China Mobile. She kindly said yes and sat on the phone in a telephone queue for several minutes. Eventually she got through, told the person the problem, and put the phone down. She said to me I had to pay one RMB a month to have it reinstated as though that presented a major problem. I said that is absolutely fine so she called again and unnecessarily got herself into another long telephone queue … why didn’t she just ask me on the phone the first time while the official waited?

My young maid, Tang Ying, often laughs at me because there is always a brolly in the side pocket of my rucksack when I walk to work. “But, Da Shu*, it’s not raining!” she will say in Chinese, giggling. She’s in her mid-twenties and still has not figured out how unpredictable weather can be, especially in Shanghai, where it rains a lot and it is advisable to always have a brolly.

Tang Ying came to me the other day and showed me a punnet of strawberries covered with mould, a real, purplish, penicillin feast and asked, “Da Shu, must I throw it away?” “Of course!” I almost thundered, “Why do you even ask?” “Because you foreigners eat such funny things, like cheese, which is just milk gone so bad like these strawberries!” she said, chuckling at me again. Most mainland Chinese hate cheese. Tang Ying’s face wrinkles in horror when she sees me munching on blue cheese. She finds me amusing, I find her amusing and endearing and we get along just fine.

My point is, I experience this loveable, daft behaviour every day. I find it entertaining and write about it. Does that make me a racist or simply an observer of human behaviour? As with previous blogs, I am perfectly happy to chuckle at myself when I write about my own behaviour.

Notice how I have to ask the question, does that make me a racist or simply an observer of human behaviour? The question is put to the reading audience. I am also the result of other people’s scripts for me. In conversations with the blokes at one of the local watering holes, the issue of daft Chinese behaviour and other cultures (the drinking squad comes from all over the world, representing a host of nations, cultures and differing viewpoints) often comes up. I make it clear to the blokes that I don’t see myself as a racist but perhaps other people do.

When I asked that question, “Am I a racist?” at the beginning of the blog, other people would decide for me that if I still have to ask the question, then I am one. That’s their script for me.

My own script? So long as I am honest and keep reflecting on my actions my attitudes will continue to mature and broaden.

And some of my actions can be daft, according to Tang Ying, like walking around the apartment barefoot. Chinese won’t do that, and she will gape at my naked feet, eyes wide, lips pursed. “You make your feet dirty, Da Shu!” she will tut-tut, running after me with my old slippers.

“And I’m a South African,” I will grumble in bad Chinese, “we like to let our feet breathe”.

“But your feet can’t breathe!” Tang Ying will giggle.

* Da Shu is my Chinese nickname, meaning Big Tree.