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Faulking Around - Mar 20, 2004 - Printable Version
- Coming Out
by Mark Faulk
All right, I'm coming out of the closet. I've tried to deny it my entire life, but this is how God made me. I was born this way, it's not a choice that was mine to make. I can't hide it any longer, and everyone is just gonna have to deal with it. Truthfully, if I really think about, I realize that most people probably already knew it, but were too embarrassed to say anything about it. I guess it's pretty obvious by the way I act, the way I dress, even the the music I listen to and how I dance. Anyone paying attention could tell simply by looking at me. That's just the way it is, and it's certainly nothing I need to be ashamed of.
In reality, though, I am ashamed. Ashamed and embarrassed by who I am. Sometimes I wish I could make it go away, but I can't. It's time to come clean, to accept it, to shout out loud what I've known since I was young.
I'm white.
There, I said it. I'm white. Not lily-white, but white none the less. Caucasian, if you prefer to be politically correct.
I can't help it. I'm white, and middle-class too. Sure, I was born poor white trash, but all I had to do was say "I want to be middle class", and my middle-class neighborhood said "Welcome, come on in". Because I'm white. A lot of my friends aren't white, but my middle-class white neighbors can't tell that by looking at me, because I look white.
Sometimes I feel guilty about it, but other times I just feel lucky, because this is America, and white is right. I know that that's wrong, but it's true. How do I know it's true? Because I said so, and white is right, and, as I said before, I'm white, so it must be right. See, it's a win/win situation, that is, if you're white.
I was sitting around talking with my family on Christmas, and noticed that my stepfather is American Indian, my cousin's wife is Equadorian, his kids are African American, my other cousin (and her "life partner") is gay, and their baby is, well, just a cute baby. Somehow I felt really white. For a brief moment I wished I was a gay African American Indian baby from Equador. But I'm not. I'm white.
My nephew is half Hispanic, and all the girls say he's really cute. They don't say that about me. I'm white. 100%, undiluted, not cute white. His brother is white, and sometimes he dyes his hair different colors to disguise himself. Orange orange, fire engine red, hot pink. It doesn't matter, in the end he's still white. In fact, he's even whiter than I am. Ouch.
I went to work, and was hanging out with some of the guys who work with me. One is from Honduras and he's Black, his cousin (who works for me as well) is from New York, and he's Black too. Another one is Hispanic. And they're all a lot younger than me. Sometimes I feel cool because I hang out with young Honduran Black Hispanic New Yorkers, but other times I just feel old. Old and white. Because I am.
My grandmother and grandfather were Catholic, and they were white too, but at least they were white Catholics. Not me, I'm just white. Plain old non-denominational white. My Aunt is white too, but she has a morphine pump. Not me, I'm just white. Non-sedated, non-denominational white.
Last night I dreamed I was a morphine addicted gay Honduran African American Indian Hispanic Catholic baby from Equador, with orange hair. It was cool. But then I woke up, and I was white again.
Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
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