Truth in Black and White

A playgroup evokes thoughts on political correctness.

by Nancy French

Our first week in Philadelphia, my children and I strolled past a man on the street who was proclaiming white people were evil. My 5-year-old, Camille, was disturbed enough that I had to explain: "Some black people don't like white people because they're white, and some white people don't like black people because they're black." I ended by simply saying she should love people no matter their color.

My smugness about handling that quite well, thank you, dissipated at the park when Camille told the mother of her new friend, "I like your daughter even though she's black." Not quite understanding the terror on my face, Camille quickly added, "I mean, even though she's khaki."

The socially segregated South hasn't provided opportunities for her to figure out the nuances of race relations yet, and I'd hoped Center City would be a classroom on diversity and tolerance. That day in the park, I gently guided Camille to the sidewalk.

"Please avoid all conversations about skin color," I told my confused daughter.

Honestly, confused describes me as well, as I find myself in a much more diverse population than rural Tennessee. When my friend Jacqui invited me to see her afro before she went to the salon, I was perplexed—every other time I'd seen her, she had long, gorgeous hair. I had no idea how that could miraculously metamorphose into an afro. "I've been wearing a wig," she laughed. "Don't you know anything about black women's hair?"

The answer is a definitive no.

I was further confused when she invited me to her playgroup in West Philadelphia called Mocha Moms.

"Mocha as in African-American?" I asked, trying to hide the distress in my voice. I'd like to report I pushed aside my apprehensions and expanded my racial horizons that by the end of the playgroup we were swapping recipes and singing "We are the World." But, instead I politely declined.

"Why are you so hesitant?" she asked.

"The truth of the matter is," I began, failing to come up with a good excuse. "I'm not black."

She assured me that Mocha Moms has a racial nondiscrimination policy, which was like a dentist promising to use novocaine—good to hear but still a little uncomfortable. I mean, they didn't name it Mocha Moms to attract displaced white Southern women.

She drove me to the playgroup and didn't roll her eyes when I asked who was on the radio. ("It's Luther," she said. Seeing my blank face, she added, "Vandross.") We talked rapidly on the way home, and I thanked her for letting me go in spite of feeling a little awkward—I can't remember being the only Caucasian in the room. The other mothers were welcoming, but I still was ill-at-ease—feeling I should address the obvious fact that my skin will never be described as mocha, but not wanting to "Johnny Cochrane" it up by making race more of an issue than it should be. In fact, even writing this essay has been an internal tug-of-war, as I continually modify words and edit language to be as innocuous as possible.

"You shouldn't use "black' so much," my husband advised.

"Jacqui says "black,'" I mumbled, hitting delete and sprinkling in few African-Americans for good measure.

As Camille pointed out, the terms black and white are not quite precise enough, but "African American" is a little culturally insensitive—lumping all people of color into one continental generalization. It's also ambiguous, since the phrase accurately describes Teresa Heinz Kerry (from Mozambique) but not Colin Powell (of Jamaican descent).

The heart of the matter is that I'm baffled. Political correctness instills in me such a fear of inadvertent offensiveness that I sometimes prefer to stay home and watch Regis and Kelly. I literally don't know the words to say or the way to act, so I take the path of least resistance by not interacting honestly with others.

This cannot be what the inventors of political correctness had in mind, creating such a tinderbox of language that racial differences are even more profound and exaggerated. In the car on the way home that day, Jacqui and I agreed to be both candid with and gracious to each other, which has paved the road for many topics related to race. Although we still don't agree on politics or Condoleezza, we've both gained a better grasp of the other's point of view.

On second thought, I regret admonishing my daughter never to mention skin color. Perhaps an unflinching truthfulness combined with a steadfast refusal to be easily offended is the best way to begin to crack this racial code of conduct.

Nancy French is a novelist from Center City. If you would like to respond to this Slant or submit one of your own (800 words), contact Duane Swierczynski, City Paper editor in chief, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., Pa., 19106, or e-mail Duane Swierczynski.

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