Joan is not a Racist

Joan is sitting at a table with her friend, Susan. Susan is crying.

“I feel like I can trust you,” she says. “So I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else.”

Joan is a good friend, and she immediately feels concerned and eager to listen. She takes Susan’s hand and dedicates her full attention, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

“I was abused as a child,” Susan begins, her voice cracking. “Everything you can imagine. I was beaten. I was used. I slept on the floor, was never allowed to leave the house. From the time I was five, I spent every day doing chores — scrubbing floors, washing clothes — even cooking for the family. I was beaten if I messed up. I was beaten if I talked back. I couldn’t ask for anything.” She pauses, remembering.

Tears come to Joan’s eyes. She sits quietly, waiting for Susan to continue.

“Thankfully, they forgot to lock me in my closet one day when a family friend came over. She saw me — skin and bones, in rags, scrubbing the floor. When my family saw I wasn’t in my closet, they took me into a bathroom and beat me while I screamed. Their friend saw everything. And thank God, she called the police, child protection, her social worker friend. After a few weeks of her advocating, they came to the house, talked to my family, talked to me, and determined that I was being wrongfully treated. Then they left.

“The abuse continued for five months. The authorities came back. ‘We’re trying to get you out of here,’ they said. ‘There’s just a lot of red tape.’ They left again.

“The friend advocated for me for three years, insisting that the authorities keep my case open. And one day, a social worker came with the police. Finally, they took me from that awful home. I can’t express to you what a relief that was.”

Joan nods. “I can only imagine.”

“And you know what the worst part is? It still hurts,” Susan says. “I never got over it.” She goes quiet.

“That sounds horrible,” Joan says after a few moments. “But hang on. You’re, what — 45, right?”

She nods.

“Okay, and how old were you when you were rescued?”

“15,” she says.

Joan pauses, trying to put this delicately. “So…that was 30 years ago?”

Susan nods again.

“That was a long time ago,” Joan says. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten over it. I mean, it’s not happening to you anymore. Don’t you think you should leave the past in the past?”

Susan stares at Joan in disbelief. “Well, I’d like to…but I can’t forget. It’s still with me. It still hurts.”

Joan tries to see her friend’s point of view.

“It must have been such a relief when you were saved from that place,” she says.

Susan gives a bitter laugh. “Sure, if you can say it’s a relief to be put in a foster home until you’re 18 and kicked out because your foster parents don’t get any more money from the state.”

“But it was still better than being abused,” Joan points out.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Susan says, giving Joan a hurt look. “But it set me up for failure. I qualified for some scholarships, but I didn’t have a complete high school education and my grades were horrible. I lived in a shelter and got a job at Dairy Queen. But then I got in deep with a loan shark. Someone introduced me to meth and I got hooked. I lost my job, got kicked out of the shelter, and started living in a tent in the park.”

“You did drugs?” Joan says incredulously. “Drugs are never the answer!”

“Um, I know that,” says Susan. “I was in a bad situation. Everything was stacked against me.”

“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?” Joan asks. “No one made you do drugs. If you had worked harder, maybe you could have saved enough money for an apartment, gotten out of debt, even gotten a degree. I know someone who used to be homeless and they’re successful now. They pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and now they make $300k a year developing software for Fortune 500 companies! I have another friend who was abused as a child and she’s totally fine! I’ve heard them speak, and they don’t think people with a past like theirs should keep dredging it up.”

Susan is getting angry. “Good for them,” she snaps. “But I never had a fucking opportunity to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I am not the same as your friends. My life started out shitty, and then it got slightly less shitty.”

“Um, language,” Joan says. “There’s no need to swear.”

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” asks Susan.

“Of course I am,” Joan soothes. “But look — a lot of people have experienced abuse in their lives, some way worse than you. And all you can do is talk about yourself.”

“That hurts,” Susan says. “I trusted you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be hurt, because it’s not my intention to hurt you,” Joan says.

“Do you not even care?” she says. “I feel like you don’t even care.”

Joan gets defensive. “Of course I care! I’m not some kind of monster! You’re acting like I’m as bad as your family!”

Susan looks at Joan doubtfully. “I just get the feeling you don’t care how you come across,” she says.

Joan thinks about that. “Well, I can’t help it if you don’t even acknowledge the truth. To me it sounds like you’ll make any excuse to have a pity party. Like you just want special treatment.”

“Look,” Susan says. “I shouldn’t have been treated like that as a child. I deserved a loving childhood.”

“Excuse me?” Joan corrects. “Everyone deserves a loving childhood, not just you.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Susan says, standing up to leave.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Joan says. “Calm down.”

“Seriously?” Susan yells. “My family abused me for years!”

Joan tries to be reasonable. “Okay, think of it this way. I’m truly sorry about what happened to you as a child. But you know not all people are like that, right?”

“Yes, I know that! The point is that my family was like that! They were horrible!”

“Right — but they were the exception. Most families are very loving. It sounds like you think all families are evil. You have a lot of misplaced hate in your heart.”

“Screw you,” says Susan. “I’m out of here.” She stalks out the front door, slamming it on her way out.

Joan stares at the door in surprise. “Oversensitive much?” she says to the empty room.

Translation:

“Don’t you think you should leave the past in the past?”

(Why harp on negative things that happened in the past, like black slavery and overt discrimination?)

“At least you were no longer being abused. Some people have it worse than you.”

(You should be grateful.)

“Drugs are never the answer.”

(You are wrong in the way you respond to your pain.)

“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

(It’s all in your head.)

“If you had worked harder…”

(You brought this on yourself.)

“I know people like you and they think you’re overreacting.”

(I have black friends who think Black Lives Matter is a joke.)

“There’s no need to swear. Calm down.”

(I don’t like to be around your feelings. Express them differently.)

“You shouldn’t be hurt, because that’s not my intention.”

(It’s not my fault you get offended so easily. I’m telling you the truth.)

“I’m not some kind of monster like your family was.”

(I’m not racist, so I can say these things.)

“Not all families are abusive; most are very loving.”

(Not all cops are bad.)

“Everyone deserves a loving childhood, not just you.”

(All lives matter.)