ONCE THE LONE RANGER
Tonto ain’t your pal.
Once the Lone Ranger was riding in the wilderness with Tonto and told him how much he appreciated his devotion and friendship.
Tonto was silent on his horse, as they galloped to their next adventure. Well, the Lone Ranger’s next adventure, where Tonto was only there to help.
Then suddenly, Tonto stopped. The Lone Ranger galloped on for a few strides, then turned his horse around, and came back to the Native American.
Tonto looked at the Lone Ranger. “I am not your friend. Or even your partner. I am forced to pair with you for your glory, not mine. You are my master, my oppressor. Take off your mask, Mr. Hero White-Man, and admit that you have elevated yourself by keeping all the non-White people down. You think you’re a hero. You are the villain.”
And Tonto kicked his horse and rode past the Lone Ranger and off into the sunset, leaving the Lone Ranger alone, an aging White man.
Okay…I get that didn’t happen in any episode of The Lone Ranger. But it should have. And could have if anyone was aware of the pervasiveness of white male culture. The culture that “made America great” and that Donald Trump so eagerly wants to return to.
I hate it all, because I bought it all growing up. And now in 2020: we are still governed by all those fucking white men in the Trump administration, who lie and cheat and steal to stay in power. Just ask Lindsey Graham.
I am afraid trump will get reelected…with help from Putin, China, Saudi Arabia…whomever. But I take heart after his racist rally in Tulsa was a bust, even though the 6,200 attendees can become super-spreaders of Covid when these assholes return to their towns all over the US.
I am enraged. Filled with anger. Filled with dark thoughts. Praying for a release from this evil. Praying to understand my own hidden bias and my white privilege — a veil making it impossible to understand. But I’m trying. I’m trying.
No, Lone Ranger, I am not your devoted partner either. Fucking take off your mask. It’s a hideous mask of prejudice and privilege. No equality is possible until the entire country is ready to look at systemic racism…of black folk, brown folk and indigenous folk. Of the LBGTQ community. Of the poor. Of the alien immigrant. We need a reworking of the American dream.
I’m sick of the whole rotten shit. Black men, overly incarcerated — a modern day work around to slavery. And if black men object…well, there’s always a handy cop ready to shoot them dead. I never realized how right wing the cops are. Fucking A…what fools we all are.
Ok…I’m on a rant here. But you know what? I still don’t understand this shit. I can’t understand the experience of being black…because I don’t live that life 24/7. At will, I can escape into my whiteness. Not so for my Black daughter. No respite for her.
1969 was my junior year at the all-women’s exclusive Manhattanville College in NY: A wealthy school, 99% white. There was the occasional wealthy Asian or rich South American. The rest of us, a bunch of calla lilies. Manhattanville was trying to be more inclusive. They gave scholarships to some black girls from Harlem….bright girls, but with some holes in their education due to the poor quality of public schools. They came to campus. They did not fit in. They sat by themselves at meals. Sat in clusters in classes. They shunned us. Rumors flew about them stealing shit. Finally, they had had enough. They fought back. There was quote civil unrest on campus unquote.
I was one of the organizers of a protest over their treatment. We took over the administration building until our demands were met. Eventually, the girls were exonerated and life on campus returned to “normal.”
But nothing was ever normal again. I tried befriending a few of the black girls. They rebuffed me. “You don’t know anything about us. Don’t think because you organized that sit-in you’re now our friend. You’re not. You’re no goddam Lincoln freeing the slaves. So white girl, go back to your white friends. You haven’t got a clue.” I simply could not understand why they rejected me.
Many years later, as the mother of a Black girl, I went to the open house at my daughter’s school. Many moms were there. I sat down with my friends. And suddenly I noticed, that the table I chose was the “black table” …the table of the moms of other black girls. We were willingly segregating ourselves. And I thought about those Black girls at Manhattanville and I suddenly understood. I sat with the other black moms because our experience of motherhood were different from the white moms. Our girls lived in a different world. And they still do.