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Tuesday, March 17, 1998 By Tony Norman
"So, how does it feel to be compared to a white supremacist?" one of my friends asked.
A letter in the Weekend Mag had done just that. I'd finally settled on one snappy rejoinder: I like to think of it as just one more example of the black columnist's burden.
If you're hip, you'll appreciate the sly way I hijacked Kipling's patronizing ode to imperialism. And while you're at it, I hope you'll also slip me some credit for having enough brains to be ironic about race and a core of decency when a column fails to resonate with "right thinking" people.
My offense was a line I used about a gate crasher at the Grammys: "I was greatly relieved that at least the biggest idiot on the show wasn't black."
I'm afraid some well meaning but essentially clueless people will always react with horror when they believe racial chauvinism rears its ugly head in my column.
And since we're blithely wading into politically sensitive waters anyway, I might as well confess I've noticed an interesting pattern to this criticism.
Sadly, a minority of self-described "thirtysomething white women" aren't digging my puckish ruminations at all, especially when I violate sacred liberal bugaboos by cracking wise about the unmentionable construct known as race.
It's a weird and ghastly state of affairs when a black columnist is expected to get by in this world with a "colorless: palette. I'm not sure what readers want, but I didn't get into this game to rant about Mantovani or the Scarsdale Diet.
And while it's interesting that some folks never "see color" in their dealings with us race-obsessed Negroes, some might interpret such broadmindedness as yet another layer of invisibility imposed on black folks.
In a recent episode of "Seinfeld," super liberal Elaine, who doesn't seem to have any black friends, couldn't bring herself to ask a man she was dating whether he was, you know, "African-American."
The whole episode with its hilarious indictment of white anxieties in the face of black identity was more honest about what ails America than any show airing during NBC's Thursday night sitcom lineup usually is.
Even if Elaine's cluelessness were typical of white nervousness, it would at least be easier to deal with than the liberal militance I encountered four years ago while scoping out an exhibit at the Whitney Museum called "Black Male: Representations of Masculinity in Contemporary American Art."
While wandering around the show, I ran into an old acquaintance, a 50-something black painter I've known since I was a kid. He was checking out the exhibit with his girlfriend, a young white socialite in her early 30s. They were accompanied by a very WASPy middle-aged couple from the Upper West Side (that's Seinfeld country, to you).
We'll call this painter "J" and his girlfriend "P." Now "P" was very interested in what I thought of the show and questioned me closely within minutes of being introduced.
She immediately launched into a rap about how stereotypical the images were and how they failed to reflect the complexity of the black experience. She looked at me, daring me to contradict her. Glancing at "J," I suddenly remembered why I never liked the dude. I couldn't believe he was still wearing braces.
Because I'd already decided I didn't like "P," I took an extreme position on the exhibit, insisting that it was enlightening (it wasn't).
After my critique, well, we just looked at each other with utter contempt. When the WASPy couple tried to get in some licks about how the show insulted black masculinity, I d had enough.
On the contrary, I said borrowing a line from Woody Allen. I think it can be scientifically demonstrated that you couldn t know more about the black experience than I do.
It was the sort of shot their well-heeled liberal arrogance deserved, but "J" wasn't having it. "You were a jerk when I knew you back in Philly and you're a jerk now," he said.
I'd been called worse by people a lot cooler than him. Though it was an ugly scene, I ve been able to mine it for fodder lo these many years, so it was worth it.
And obviously, the majority of thirtysomething white women who ve written me enjoy the column, so none of this is meant for them. As for those who are convinced I'm a racist, I d just like to repeat the words of my man Rodney King at the height of the Los Angeles riots: "Can't we all just get along?"
That snickering you hear in the background is your own, I swear...
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