The caller wanted to invite me to a reception at an
uptown art gallery -- to see if I'd come.
She'd read my recent column lamenting the lack of
diversity in uptown's nightlife. She told me she was inviting me to the
event to see if I'd really attend. In the column, I wrote about how some
African Americans don't feel comfortable partying in the heart of the city
and others were unwilling to spend their money where they felt they
weren't wanted.
The column struck a nerve with white and black
readers, but this caller took it personally. After reading it, she decided
to see if I would walk the walk. She issued the invitation to the North
Tryon Street art gallery like it was a challenge. And to do her part in
promoting diversity uptown.
Inviting me to anything -- whether it's a watermelon
eating contest or an artist's reception -- is a weak attempt at breaking
down racial barriers and challenging comfort zones. I'm safe. Since I
write for The Charlotte Observer, many readers feel like they know me. And
unless I'm attending a Klan rally, I feel comfortable anywhere.
Whites should try spending time with minorities on
our turf instead of always asking us to come to the right side of the
tracks. You're not doing us a favor. We already live in your world. How
about spending some time in ours?
Instead of inviting me to one of your gatherings so
you can earn a diversity merit badge, you should ask the Hispanic guy
cutting grass for a living if you could hang with him at a soccer game. Or
you should ask a black woman cleaning office buildings if you could party
with her at the Vault nightclub one Saturday night.
But, in the interest of bridging the culture gap, I
attended the caller's reception.
When I walked inside, she said, "You must be
Tonya Jameson!"
I chalked the comment up to her being an avid reader
of The Observer. She walked me around the gallery introducing me to people
and schooling me on the paintings. The artist sounded interesting, so I
suggested the caller contact our visual arts reporter for a possible
story. The caller reminded me that I was a guest at the reception not a
reporter.
"So, at least you can say you had one
invitation on Tryon Street," she added.
It gets better.
After shaking a few more hands, I said I had to go
cover the Nelly concert. A guest said she'd heard of her. I explained it
was Nelly the rapper, not Nelly Furtado. It's a common mistake, but the
caller couldn't leave it alone. She started rapping "do you wanna
take a ride with me..."
We laughed. Another black guest wasn't familiar with
the Nelly song. My caller couldn't stop there. She continued with a few
verses from Grandmaster Flash's "The Message" and the Sugar Hill
Gang's "Rapper's Delight." Then tossed in a few rap-like
gestures to finish her performance.
I left.
Walking me outside, she explained she likes to shake
things up because the other black guest always seems oblivious to rap. I
suggested the guest could honestly be clueless about the music. The caller
dismissed the idea, as if it was incomprehensible to her that a black
person wouldn't know about rap.
I would rather deal with in-your-face racists than
people who think they can relate to me because they've heard of Nelly or
Jay-Z. Black people are more than rap songs or hand-symbols from the movie
"Breakin'."
I have more tolerance for the racist who sent me a
copy of my uptown diversity column with the words: "There's No
Pleasing You N------," scrawled at the top. Or the person who
suggested I'd watched a "Roots" marathon before writing the
column.
It's the people who pretend to embrace diversity
without acknowledging their stereotypical assumptions who wreck my nerves.
They would rather cloak themselves in delusions of tolerance than truly
get out of their comfort zones to learn about other cultures.
Tonya
