Outside of this blog, on Facebook and in the real world of Germany, people seem confused, annoyed or puzzled about me talking about race, racism and privilege a lot. Some people are just uncomfortable with the topic, others simply don’t see the necessity of engaging in it. There are also those here in Germany and elsewhere who feel offended. They want to tell me that I am wrong and that I’m just as racist for using terms like ‘white privilege’. So I thought I would write down why I talk about it, why I never wanted to and why the reason is not that I am black.
When I was still in elementary school, I didn’t understand what it meant to be black in this world. I thought I was white, with which I mean not different from anybody else around me. I did not know anything else, did not know a great number of black people. All the black people I could have looked up to or identified with were on TV and they were mostly doing comedy or making music, both of which had no significance to me, because I didn’t understand it. I didn’t view myself as different. But my environment did not let me forget what I was to them.
I thought like most white people, like your average German. Perhaps I could be best described as a white person with medium racist tendencies and a soft spot for the ‘coloreds’. I perceived the world in a racist way. When it came to Africa, for example, I wondered how we could bring more education and technology to that poor, underdeveloped continent that desperately needed our help and consisted of starving babies, warring factions and a lot of flies. Why couldn’t they just get along and share what little they had? The same is true for my understanding of Black Americans. I believed they just needed good education and then they would accomplish great things, because obviously they weren’t doing anything good for themselves at the moment. You know, gang violence and stuff. (That’s the impression you get from 80s and early 90s TV and movies!) I had a white savior complex. I was certain that the Civil Rights movement was entirely successful, racism was dead and I believed that it was all solely because of the non-violent approach of MLK jr. I didn’t grasp the ideas of the movement or of Dr. King himself. I could not have named another person involved in the struggle. And I had no idea of the high price countless black people and their supporters had to pay for their fight. Even the assassination of Martin Luther King jr, little more than 20 years before, was only an abstract thing to me. You need to be white to be that ignorant. And, like anybody around me, I thought ‘German’ could only really mean ‘white’.
But, as I said, my environment reminded me of my different appearance at every moment, so that I could never fully forget it. I was constantly told that I looked like Eddie Murphy, Michael Jackson or Bob Marley. (Search for pictures of them right now! Remember that this was the 80s, so look for an old picture of Michael. The three of them don’t look alike and I don’t look like them.) People constantly touched my hair (and they would still do that today, but it’s short now) and compared me to chocolate. I never called anybody out on this, because I didn’t know how and I didn’t want to offend these people. I was afraid, because I intuitively knew that I would be the only one with my perspective on this. (Later in life, I was proven right. They were all well-meaning and got upset and irritated, when faced with a different view on their comments. ‘But chocolate is something good!’ ‘Perhaps, but I don’t even know you! Why are you talking to me at all? Is this your standard procedure for first-encounters?’)
It was really exhausting. Only once did I call somebody a ‘speck of cream’ after they had called me the name of a German sweet, which – oh the hilarity! – is called ‘Negerkuss’, ‘negro kiss’. The term has since gone a bit out of style, thank God and political correctness, but there are a lot of Germans who are very vocal about their right to continue to use it, as it ‘is not offensive’. Period. Note that these are white people declaring that a term, which black people have explained is offensive to them, is not offensive. This is how Germans have always talked, they say, once again confirming that to be German is to be white and the white perspective is all that counts.
I didn’t understand, why I was considered to be different. People asked me things about Africa or where I came from. (Not from Africa! Never even been there!) At some point, I had to give up fooling myself. I wasn’t white and the fact that my mother was and everybody in that side of my family, didn’t matter at all. It didn’t matter that I had a German name and passport (People are always a bit surprised when they see me, since my name does not tip them off to my skin color). It didn’t matter that my grandfather and my grandmother’s brothers had fought for the Wehrmacht in WWII, it didn’t matter that my great-grandfather had fought in the Kaiser‘s army. It didn’t matter that I could trace my German family back to the early 1800s. I wasn’t German, because I wasn’t white.
So, you people who wonder about why I am so involved in topics of race, this is the answer. I didn’t want to be, it was never a topic I wanted to worry about. But I never stood a chance. If I could, I wouldn’t talk about race, but I just don’t have that privilege. If I didn’t talk about race, racism and racist structures, I would have to go along with being called racial slurs and being compared to chocolate and other brown things, because it’s oh-so-funny. I would have to accept to be racially profiled. I would have to accept that a black man could never be a German. And I would let down the future generations of people who were like me: Born to a white German, raised by white Germans, thinking like white Germans, but never accepted as just that, because of the color of their skin.
In short, I don’t fight racism because I am black. I fight racism because I was white.