We're all hypocrites and that sucks
by Matt Worley

Last week I went off a little bit about narrow-minded racism. A rock band resorts to name calling, a lobbyist resorts to twisted bigoted statements. I relate these instances to you, because I feel it is wrong people think this way. And then I start to look around at my own surroundings. Sure, I don't go around calling people nigger (not even friends) or claiming that smoking is safer than having gay sex. I don't look at someone and instantly think, "Hey, that black guy might have a gun." But I'm not free of racism--not even close.

I know that all people are the same in physical make up. Skin color is an aesthetic caused by various different chemical reactions and genes. The difference between us is only in our environment--in the learning that has taken place in our minds. Some people grow up in desperate situations, causing them to react in desperate ways. And every time I talk to black people, I realize that they are black. It's one of the first things that comes to my mind. I try not to dwell on it, but, like it or not, I've been conditioned to thinking this way. It wasn't always like this.

As a child, I had many different colored friends. I grew up in a place very diverse in terms of racial make up. Many of my friends were black. They didn't come from the same family make up as I did, but we had equal footing at school and on the playground. We respected each other. And then my family moved to a different place. In my sixth grade class (my first year in this new place), there was only one black kid. We became fast friends. Unfortunately for my own development, things went downhill from there. I lived in a part of town overrun by white people. Hell, the whole town was mostly white, so I saw difference (black or otherwise) infrequently.

There wasn't much to do in the small town I grew up in between the ages of 10 and 17. Kids had to be creative to occupy their time. Most of the creative things were illegal. Drinking, smoking, dipping, tipping cows, stealing street signs, that kind of thing. Occasionally, as we drove from one activity to the other, we had to go through rarely traveled sections of town. They weren't ghettos (there aren't any ghettos in a town of 30,000), but they were segregated. One evening, I remember being told we were going to do a drive by. Not a drive by shooting--just a drive by.

The theory was that the black people who lived on a certain stretch of road would see white kids driving in a car, pull their shotguns out and shoot at us--giving us the quick thrill we needed to get us further along into the boring night. Driving at least fifty m.p.h. in a residential area, my friend raced past the "scary" houses and the rest of us, certain a shotgun blast was coming soon, crouched down in our seats. Nothing happened. We didn't go for in another run, we just went on our way to whatever else was happening that night. Probably trying to find someone to buy beer for us, or dragging Main street.

I've never felt threatened because of where I was in a town, but a certain uneasiness occurs in new places--or places where a difference is perceived. While in Florida last year, we lived in a predominately black section of town. There were lots of gun shots at night, our cars were burglarized a few times, and there was even a drug house protest ("Keep selling the crack?/ We're gonna come on back!") a block down from our house. While cutting down our lawn with a scythe, my brother was given tips by a passerby. When my brother asked how he knew where he learned the technique, the passerby replied, "I was in jail."

I didn't feel threatened by people who lived around us, I felt threatened by those I couldn't see. Those kids who broke into my car repeatedly, taking everything of value (and yet, they never took any of my audio tapes) that wasn't nailed down well. All of those strange sounds in the middle of the night. When we moved away, there was a feeling of relief. I didn't have to worry about being paranoid anymore. I didn't have to worry about all my stuff.

Random acts of hatred stand out when they occur, and I forget about all of those random acts of kindness. I still marvel when an entire sports stadium gets up to dance to "YMCA," a song essentially about gay men hooking up for sex at the Y. It is incredibly uplifting to see stereotypes ignored by sports figures, and, to a lesser extent, the entertainment business. We all acknowledge the greatness of a Michael Jordan, a Tiger Woods or a Martina Navitralova. For a few brief moments, we all get together and cheer these remarkable people on without concentrating on their skin color or sexual preferences.

It's those long silent moments in between our short bursts of togetherness that vexes and causes me to wonder if we'll all (even myself) figure it out someday. We all want to feel comfortable with and around others--humans are, after all, social animals. But the one thing that sets us apart from most animals--our advanced brain--also holds us back from attaining a truly meaningful existence.

Matt Worley has only wanted one person to actually die. And luckily the Chiefs beat the Broncos and John Elway on Sunday, saving Matt a quick trip up to Denver to test his sniper skills. The win won't stop Matt from thinking "Kill! Kill!" before each play when the slow, white Bronco takes a snap.

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