Not Hetero Pudge And Ronny: Chapter Fifteen

This is part of my subversive Accelerated Christian Education fan fiction. To learn more or to see more chapters (sixteen so far), go to the "ACE Gay Porn" tab at the top of this site, or to my Deviant Art page here.

 
"That's okay, Pastor. I can see myself out." Jamal Michael Kindharte smiled politely, trying to counteract the slight edge in his voice that he couldn't help.
He had been preparing for this awkward conversation for a long time now. The long meeting in the old, white pastor's office had involved a lot of passive-aggressive pleasantries. Pastor Alltruth had been "concerned" that "Michael" would be more "comfortable" in his old church. J. Michael had just smiled and reassured him that he was right at home anywhere that the word of God was preached.
Alltruth had been taken aback for a moment. "Um...but surely there is a slight cultural difference...?" the old white preacher had objected.
"The only culture I need is the culture of committed believers. That is the culture here, is it not?" he had nodded, a smile plastered on his face. "We are all one in Christ, after all."
"Well, yes, but...you grew up in that church. Do you really want to abandon it now?"
He had been asked this question, sometimes in anger, by some of his own friends and family. He knew, though, that this was what he wanted to do--or rather, what needed to be done.

The hurt, for him, ran deep.
Their school system was still segregated. The commute to his all-black, private Christian school was almost an hour, while the white school (truly, the white school), Highland, was only thirty minutes away. He had passed it twice a day, every day.
He later realized how truly disturbing it was that his black school was called Harmony--as if that should be the primary goal of the African-American community: "getting along" (and it didn't refer to "getting along" among themselves, either). He believed, and had no doubts at all, that the message was deliberate. Black people, judged by white people, according to white standards, of how well they got along with whites.
There were all these "little things" that had disturbed, all his life. He had been called Jamal in the first few weeks of first grade, and remembered the day that his teachers had first started calling him by his middle name. He had been confused, but had eventually gotten used to it. He only realized, years later, that, if memory served him, it had coincided with a special visit from the head of the white school, who had visited their classrooms and had spoken in chapel. He wasn't sure whose idea it was to change his name, and sometimes doubted that he was remembering it correctly. The worst part was not knowing for sure, and not being able to bring it up or wonder aloud without sever condemnation for "playing the race card."
 But he wondered if making blacks doubt themselves was not a tactic to leave whites off the hook for their actions. And when he thought of all the other "little things," they sure seemed to add up fast...
He got into the habit, when he was older, of asking his supervisors and principal how long they had been teaching, and (a few days later, so that they wouldn't suspect what he was doing), how many times they had spoken at the other schools. Most had only spoken a handful of times, if that. Speaking at the Philippino school was also much more common than speaking at the white school.
Yet he knew the head of the white school by name, he was so familiar with him.
He started noticing that some girls were told their hair was "unkempt" when they wore it long. The dress code encouraged girls to have long hair, as it was "proper," but very curly hair became "messy" when it got long and stuck out at the sides. Those girls fought a losing battle with their hair, trying different products and things, but could never really please the black, female monitors, most of whom had straight or nearly straight hair. He wondered if they would have been hired otherwise. He noticed that teachers were especially fussy the day before a white guest speaker came.
He didn't realize, until he got to college, that the word "apartheid" was a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.
And that American slavery was almost never "mutually beneficial," with women raped, families torn apart, and people abused, tortured, and killed. He knew now why most of his teachers seemed so uncomfortable when the topic came up--because they knew better! They knew that they were teaching the children a lie.

He also learned, in college, that all of these "little things," that so bothered him, had a name: Microaggressions.

There was now a word to fit all of the many times that he had had to "wonder." For all of the times that whites said he was equal, then had dismissed out of hand what he had to say about his own life and what had happened to him.
For all of the times that they had said they respected him, then had not bothered to make him feel respected.
For all of the times that they thought not "hating" someone was enough.
For all of times that they professed love for him as a brother in Christ, then had spoken badly about bills protecting his equal rights--even those that were decades in the past, when they were sorely needed, as bigotry was much more present (or rather, as he knew in his heart, more openly expressed and "acceptable").
For all of the times that they affirmed that Christians should marry "within their own culture," making him if a black man, even a committed believer, wasn't good enough for their daughters.
For all of the times that white people made excuses for violence and discrimination that seemed so very plain and obvious to him, even when these horrible people were not fellow believers. (But what did he know? They said he was an equal, but acted as if his mind was inferior and incapable of making correct observations, unlike theirs.)
For all of the times that the races should be "separate," while white people controlled all of the power structures. (And apparent "separate" did not include master-slave relationships.)
For all the times he had apparently "played the race card" when trying to bring up real concerns.
For all the times someone had uttered, "I'm not racist, but..."

So he had come home, now, and had set his mind to changing things.
He had gotten opposition, it seemed, from almost every direction (though his mother and a few of his friends understood). Some thought he was turning his back on his community. Others were concerned for what would happen to him, both within the church, and, in an unspoken, heavily implied way, to his physical safety.
He sometimes even doubted himself, wondering if he was doing the right thing, especially with his mother's concerns. But he felt that he had to see just how far he could go in his little cause. Some black children might not be as strong as he was, able to resist those implied messages and weed out the bullshit. He especially didn't want his future son or daughter to have to deal with that, and so he felt compelled to at least try to change the system from within.
And so he had prepared himself for this uncomfortable conversation, writing down his points and trying to anticipate what the old white pastor would try to say. He knew he was probably not the first one to attempt this. He hoped that he would be the last to have to.
And so he had smiled, nodded, and politely but firmly told Pastor Alltruth that he would feel right at home in a church where he knew he would not be welcome because of the color of his skin.