I admit some remorse after reading this column in the Torstar;
“I’m not certain the truth about history will do much to enhance the cultural esteem of white students, though perhaps ultimately, that’s what we need is for black people feel [sic] a little better about themselves and for white people to feel a little worse.”
Mostly for the 45 seconds I’ll never get back, but as badly as it’s penned, it does ask a question that I’ve struggled with most of my adult life. Why can’t I feel worse?
I live in a modern western society, blessed with wealth I’m told was extracted at a cost of centuries of pain and exploitation. But try as I might, I cannot bring myself to share this essential white burden.
While my melanin content is a product of my birth, “guilt” does not come easily to me. Call it a flaw in character, but my guilt has always been partnered with “consequence” – consequence for my transgressions – not my mother’s, nor my grandfather’s three times removed.
I cannot feel their pangs of conscience. Their remorse eludes me.
And even in those rare moments during quiet reflection, when I push back the force of reason and allow quivers of 18th century slave-trading shame to wash over my 21st century privilege… I have no place to put it.
Scotland was never known for its cotton.
While I’m sure many Scots grew fat trading in human bondage, I can’t count my rooming house ancestors among them.
And there withers the root of my spiritual failure. Like the African hyphenated people of today, my cultural history is lacking completeness. Their ancestors were robbed of their liberty – my ancestors were deprived of their slaves.
History has never fully reconciled my people, haunted as we are by a record of slavelessness.
Our society, our governments, must reach out to support our search for worse feelings, recognize and answer for our diminished angst.
I know there’s no turning back the clock. No government can compensate my ancestors – men and women who toiled their own soil, tended their own flocks, washed their own laundry. No program of today could provide the restitution that might fulfill my ancestral guilt – a slave of my own.
But they could pay for a maid.