Melanin Won't Melt
Voice of a Dark-Skinned Immigrant...

by Nila Sagadevan

"Well, whadya know! We got a white-lookin' nigger flyin' this plane?" I heard one of my passengers remark, sotto voce. I was working as a commercial pilot on Alaska's North Slope flying roughnecks and supplies to oil fields strewn across this frigid, featureless hell. An aristocrat from the "deep south" (obviously only temporarily pressed into menial service as a welder) had caught a glimpse of my face through the cockpit door and elected to apprise his comrades of his learned assessment.

We were about to begin taxiing on this godforsaken ice strip in a near-whiteout when my copilot - a Canadian chum who also overheard the gibe - gave me one of those "let's teach the bastards a lesson" grins and pulled the power levers back to cut-off. The outside temp was around - 40C. My friend and I stepped out of the aircraft (a fourteen-passenger twin) and into our warm-as-toast Suburban crew transport. We kicked back, sipped coffee and waited for the fun to begin. Strangely, I don't recall being angry; I actually found the whole business a little humorous.

At 40 below, the temperature inside an airplane - especially one with its doors agape - plummets once the engines spool down. The dozen or so good ol' boys inside hadn't a warm sanctuary, as did we, to which to escape; the vehicle that dropped them off was long gone. As expected, apologies from the partially frozen, parka-clad genealogist were swift in coming, and we were all soon on our way. [The chap who made that sagely pronouncement and I actually became good friends; a successful catfish farmer in his own right, he invited me to a barbecue at his home in Arkansas years later.]

Looking back at over three decades in this country as an immigrant from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), I can recount only this one overt act of racial indecorousness directed at me. So what's the point in regurgitating this ripple of unpleasantness buried in what is otherwise a span of rich, positive experiences?

A few kids in school have begun to taunt my 12-year-old son as an "Iraqi terrorist."

And I am mad.

Some may dismiss the slur as innocuous childish horseplay. I see it as symptomatic of a deep-rooted societal problem. These children's behavior bespeaks an upbringing by careless - and probably clueless - parents. Racial barbs like these can be brutally hurtful, not only to the child at whom it's directed, but to his loved ones as well. And I find my son's anguish all the more wrenching because he's such a kind, friendly boy who strives to be his best (he's the only straight-A student in his class and the winner of twenty-eight tournament chess trophies, if you'll pardon the preening). He is understandably hurt and confused. And I, not just as a father, but also as a human being, commiserate with him and share his shredded little heart.

This bit of ugliness in the life of a beautiful child led me to ruminate upon my own thread of race-related experiences since arriving in the US from Britain. And it quietly began to dawn - no, rise as through a sea of molasses - that while the isolated Alaskan incident may have been the only overt act of rudeness directed at me, countless little covert, unspoken bits of subtle behavioral actions have peppered the course of my life in this country. A series of low-level tremors that register almost subliminally, these events constitute more an incessant, annoying hum of mild discomfiture than bloody cuts of aggression.

For someone of my constitution, racial cuts would be readily manageable. Duplicitous patronage and quiet conceit, on the other hand, are slimy devils that defy grasp.

These annoyances - I treat them as nothing more - assume a spectrum of hues as broad as life itself. Interestingly, these subtle discourtesies seem to vanish the moment I speak. Whether it's the dulled British accent that does it I don't know, but it never fails to elicit a look of bewilderment. I frequently spy expressions that vary in shade from mild surprise ("this chap appears to be educated") to downright disbelief ("who the f--k is this Indian sumbitch"), depending on the caliber of the individual under whose scrutiny I happen to fall.

I suppose I'm expected to bask in the glow of my thus-stoked immigrant ego and celebrate these endless moral victories over bigotry and conceit. But I've come to view these initial wordless exchanges - my obligatory presentation of credentials, if you will - as being simply too routine to even consider, let alone gloat over. Decades of exposure to these subtle disharmonious undertones have not so much desensitized me as made me impervious to their prejudicial tenor. At a subconscious level these episodes bear the flavor of some medieval ritual of acceptance...a bizarre rite of passage, if you will, for the sole purpose of laying claim to my status as an equal human being.

These passing bits of theater could unfold just about anywhere.

Standing in a queue at the local supermarket, for instance. The crusty old codger behind the counter is effusive with his cheery greetings and courteous platitudes to the string of people (WASPs, of course) ahead of me. But when yours truly reaches the hallowed orb of this master of etiquette, the only sound that rips the silence is the clanging of the cash register followed by a dour, almost militaristic demand for money. Not even a half-swallowed "please" trails off as an offering of redemption.

Of a sudden, there's no smiley, "Good morning"; no spirited, "How're you today?" No courteous, "Find everything okay?" Just icy silence. He does maintain eye-contact, of course, but just not with me. The beneficiary of his lofty gaze could embody all the excitement of, say, a well-stocked shelf.

But I seize upon every such occasion as a challenge. Cheerfully handing him the money, I explode with exuberance: "Well, how's it going, mate? Having a splendid day, are you?" I may also throw in a flank attack on the hapless bag-boy for good measure: "Paper, please; I am ecologically sensitive". The commander's eyes dart about in flickers of shock, frantically searching for the source of the eloquence. It couldn't possibly be this Indian ex-goatherd standing before him; that would be absurd. Once he mentally connects the dots between brown skin and silver tongue, the poor devil comes alive with verve and vigor that surpasses even his earlier virtuoso performances.

This sort of thing happens more often than I care to recall.

But sometimes, even once a truce has been drawn and rapport established, there still remain some deep-seated beliefs even these fresh initiates in geo-politesse find difficult to shed. Sadly, this is true even of a great body of decent, well-meaning Americans who have limited conversance with foreign cultures.

It's an almost innocent presumption of a certain cultural "incongruity" from which they believe all foreigners - especially dark-skinned ones - suffer.

And this usually ratchets the drama up a notch.

A semblance of parity now having been established at the basic human level, the deeper appraisal begins. "He's probably an engineer," they conjecture with a wary eye; "A doctor, perhaps. No matter - he's a foreigner." At this point the nice ones begin to tread gingerly in their choice of words, eyeing me with a wisp of quaint curiosity. Whatever vestige of intelligence I've thus far demonstrated I possess is now somehow counterweighted by the assumption that I couldn't possibly know much outside my ethnic mise en scene.

They deduce, almost reflexively, that I'm unlikely to be as conversationally savvy as a typical (read WASP) American. Yes, polite small talk may have proven itself tenable, but the cultural divide is deemed simply too wide to bridge; it is assumed that nuance, inflection and vernacular would plunge hopelessly into the abyss. There's sometimes even an inordinate concern for my sensitivities ("these chaps worship cows, you know; better watch what I say.") Profanities are sucked back in midair, leaving my cherished Alaskan lexicon unexercised. Conversational topics face deep pre-analysis to ensure they adapt to my obvious limitations. Banter and jocular repartee are sidelined, as they'd only fly over my head.

For instance, when I take my car in for service, the adviser glibly swipes me with his mental barcode scanner and concludes that I wouldn't know a driveline from a differential and drifts into tortuous diatribes. The plumber sympathetically grasps for a synonym for "gooseneck" (fearing I might panic thinking there's a bird stuck in my sink?) The sommelier's regal gaze makes a passing assessment as he ponders whether his delicate wisdom would be squandered on ill-bred ears ("besides, do these guys tip?")

A request for a Single Malt by name and year transforms the bartender's quizzical squint into a smile of kinship and relief. The weekend racer at the bar who had been delivering a spirited sermon on dynamometers to a visibly dull-witted audience politely shifts gears to accommodate my narrower conversational repertoire - and, presumably as a gesture of compassion for "my people," deftly slides into Palestinian politics. Firearms, a passionate hobby, are best avoided altogether; even regulars at the firing range (battle-hardened armchair warriors all) assume this fakir wouldn't know a Mauser from a mousetrap.

Mind you, all of this is usually handled with great fragility and care. But responding to these stereotypical assumptions can be quite frustrating if only because they never seem to be directed at WASPs - unless, I suppose, they walked around with white canes.

Constantly having to leap across this cultural divide even after all these years remains rather a tedious affair. Life sometimes seems one endless, arduous pursuit of that immigrant's utopia: a swirling, vibrant homogeneity of peoples - a cultural invisibility, if you like. This, I'm afraid, is likely to take a few more generations to achieve.

At any rate, I became aware after a while that things could be worse.

I discovered fairly early in my immigrant life that all "coloreds" are not created equal. There was a clear distinction between being "brown" and being "black." This was never more obvious than during the fifteen years I spent virtually living in Alaskan oil field camps. While these coarse outposts may have been located in the Arctic, their populations were an extraordinarily diverse slice of mainstream Americana, albeit with very few, if any, blacks. Memories of sitting at meals with these rugged "cat-skinners" and "blade-hands" and "grease-monkeys" shall ever remain vivid.

Intelligent as these men were, "nigger" jokes were as common as vulgar reaches across the table for the ketchup. The darkness of my skin, strangely, had become irrelevant to these fellows. The objects of derision at these dizzy intellectual summits were not lowly "spicks", "gooks" or "ragheads" (my lot), but "spooks," the Negroes. As repugnant as I found the barbs directed at this unfortunate group, I had little choice but to reluctantly play the role of an observer of low life, and quietly ponder just how many of these bigots must go unnoticed on the streets of America.

A great melting pot this country may be, but melanin, alas, seems not to melt so easily.

It only occurred to me recently that my closest friends (indeed, virtually all of my friends) happen to be WASPs. Whether my schooling in Britain played a role in influencing this I don't know, but that's just the way my cards landed. Actually, I reflect with some surprise that I have hardly any friends from the old country - and heaven knows it isn't due to a paucity of them. This is quite at odds with the common American myth that Third World immigrants gravitate into enclaves (or at least, social orbits) that approach critical mass, and jabber rudely in strange tongues even at the workplace.

Having traveled abroad extensively, I find Americans, in the main, to be among the friendliest, most hospitable people on earth. Fresh out of college from Scotland, while hitchhiking from New York to LA, complete strangers - WASPs from the heartland - not only picked me up but also heartily invited me into their homes. I stayed with a couple in Ohio for three weeks, during which time they introduced me to their circle of friends, who in turn invited me to meals, picnics, church functions. No raw immigrant could have dreamt of a warmer, more lavish welcome to this lovely country, so overwhelmed was I by that virgin transcontinental voyage; it will remain etched among my fondest memories.

Naturally, I was shocked to read years later that polls repeatedly reveal American tourists to be the least liked by inhabitants of countries westerners commonly visit. They are seen as arrogant, demanding, pushy, inconsiderate, and largely insensitive to the cultures and customs of the lands to which they travel. I often wonder who these "ugly Americans" are that constitute this group of statistical miscreants, because the boors of whom I speak have probably never left the country - except, perhaps, on military tours of duty.

So, then, what ails ol' Billie Bob and Joe Sixpack so grievously that they deem everyone who looks different "another goddamn 'furrner'?" What causes them to cast that subtle look of contempt whenever a dark-skinned stranger crosses their path?

Ignorance of the outside world.

America is such an incredibly vast country that, for better or for worse, it has virtually become a world unto itself; a world bounded by the Atlantic and Pacific oceans on two sides; a well-dyked sea of "wetbacks" on a third; and a barren Pole on top (Canada doesn't count - that's just a friendly northerly extension of American cultural real estate). Certainly, we have a friend across the pond bound by a common language, but we've never felt moved to understand the great cultures of the rest of the foreign-speaking, cheese-nibbling, wine-sipping, sausage-eating lot - even if they happen to be card-carrying WASPs (and even if our dominant genes point directly to them).

But heaven help the Third World. That's just an overpopulated, malodorous, muttering mass of humanity that we'd all be better off without. (It's too bad we need to step in every so often to advance our vital interests under the guise of dispensing "freedom and democracy," but beyond these self-serving motivations the lot of these buggers may as well be extinct.)

Too many of us continue to see all Asian immigrants as desperate refugees seeking the "good life" that only America has to offer. They're often viewed as being as alien to the American landscape as would Martian microbes. Those of us who view life wearing these blinders are unaware of the rich veins of opulence and luxury and tradition that run through many democratic Third World cultures - many of such unabashed splendor as to make garden-variety American millionaires weep with envy. (True, the ratios may be heavily skewed, but a girth of poverty within a country does not necessarily denote an absence of prosperity. When one lives well in these societies, one lives very well indeed.)

I was absolutely flabbergasted to learn that George W. Bush had never stepped foot outside America until he became president of the world. But not nearly as flabbergasted as when I learned that a study a few years ago revealed that more than 65% of American high school kids could not point to Mexico on a globe. Yes, Mexico, our neighbor. It is unfortunate that it took 9/11 to open millions of little eyes, because kids now even point to antipodes such as Afghanistan with alacrity.

A surprising number of us are so utterly clueless about what lies beyond the hermetic confines of our precious American bubble. Worse, our self-aggrandizing posture as the world's great "melting pot" belies our unsightly little prejudices against everything "foreign" that we don't understand. Or care to understand. Recent global events are, perhaps, a brutal wake-up call to the "strange" new reality that's opening up before us.

It is time we learned to better understand and respect the customs and cultures of the other inhabitants of the planet we share.

And we don't need to travel abroad to do this. Our work can begin right here at home, given our huge pool of immigrants from around the world, a great many of whom are proud, hardworking American citizens. The path to a better understanding of our "foreign" compatriots begins with a willingness to adopt a sense of equality, fairness and mutual respect that is truly blind to race, color and creed.

Although most of us claim with great conviction and sincerity that our country presents a level playing field to all its citizens, we quietly acknowledge deep within ourselves that, in the real world, this does not always hold true. But, mirabile dictu, never - not once - have I, personally, experienced even a trace of these biases in the professional arena. On numerous occasions I've been privileged to witness the inspiring (and sometimes humbling) spectacle of seeing the best man win. I can assert with conviction that this is indeed one American playing field that is ruler flat (and probably goes to explain why I've yet to encounter a degreed bigot.)

But blending into the mainstream, however, is another matter.

The few xenophobic threads woven into the American tapestry have, alas, frayed little over time. The younger generation, thankfully, seem remarkably adaptive - even oblivious - to the ethnic mélange that's shaping the complexion of the country around them. However, many of the older generation, in my experience, are more tenacious and anchored in their ways, and often seem to vehemently resist the sweeping tide of change. Letting go of the old paradigm appears painful to many of these old-timers, and seems to bear the emotions associated with abandoning a life's work.

Rather than seeing change for being the enriching, empowering force that it is, they choose to frame it as a swipe across the face of old world traditions and values, and see the influx of immigrants as an alien invasion. One would have expected at least some readjustment of the old guard's vision following the cruelty we inflicted on our own Japanese citizens during World War II. Now here was a clear case of paranoia, prejudice and ignorance that conspired to define an underclass of citizenry in this country. [Incidentally, did we also round up all the Germans? And the Italians?] Try as they might, Asians, it seems, will not be accepted, or appreciated, as true "All American" citizens for some time to come.

To illustrate my point, let's say that my forebears from Asia settled in the US two centuries ago. Would I even today be embraced, at face value, as a bona fide American patriot? Fat chance.

Now let's take old Murphy who climbed off the boat from Dublin last evening. Would he make the grade? By nightfall. (Meaning Murphy no offense, of course.)

Until this clear double standard sings its swan's song, "?of the people, by the people and for the people" shall remain, alas, a lopsided dream. For this noble vision to become a pulsing human reality, it is imperative that "the people" of whom it speaks be first defined. And there is no nobler definition than that enshrined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights."

We are all "The People."

We are either a nation of immigrants or we are not. Neither tenure nor color is a yardstick of allegiance. Indeed, many a white "all-American" terrorist from the heartland has all too vividly demonstrated the falsity of these myths.

The wheels of the great ethno-cultural winepress have slowly and irreversibly been set in motion; and they are beginning to turn with ever-increasing rapidity. Change is inevitable. It is only a matter of time. In the interim, rather than shun our immigrants as a pervasive societal cancer, the die-hard ultra-nationalistic keepers of the faith must learn to see, and accept, these people as a source of talent and diversity that can only enrich the gestalt of this great country.

Renunciation of things "foreign" and a fixation on the superficial is not only foolish, it is ultimately futile. Such bigotry serves but one end: it usurps a false sense of superiority in order to feed the latent insecurities and inadequacies found only in small people.

Such thinking cannot possibly prove fruitful in a new century.

I bore the nickname "Yank" in Scotland before I ever set foot on American soil; so naked was my pro-American fervor. I could deliver a flawless rendition of the Gettysburg Address when I was twelve. While growing up, Lincoln, to me, was next only to God.

I am a naturalized US citizen. My son is a citizen by birth. We are proud to be Americans. I have only this to say to those of my fellow citizens who disdain our presence in this country and would rather see us go "back home:"

We are home.