Does White Skin Give You Privilege?

More than a few years ago, I relocated to Baltimore MD and went out looking for a job. I found one in a small factory on the west side of the city. They made pretend fireplaces out of concrete. The plant was filthy; there was concrete dust everywhere, but I was going to be making $2.00/hr. Beside the plant manager, I was the only white face there.

I went to introduce myself to my new co-workers. This is a hard working group of guys, I thought, as I watched them labor. The first guy I introduced myself to grunted and asked how much money I was making.

“Two bucks an hour,” I replied.

“Boys, we got a problem. This white boy is making two dollars an hour.” All I heard was angry laughter. The men gathered themselves together and walked in the direction I was coming from, the manager’s office. They opened the door and entered.

“How could you pay this kid 20 cents more than you are paying us. You cannot do that. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of what we do or how we do it… and you’re paying him more than you’re paying us!”

“OK, I’ll cut his pay. He will make what you are making.”

“WAIT A MINUTE,” I protested as my own self-interest was on the line. My co-workers joined me in protesting.

“You’re not gonna to cut his pay--you are gonna raise ours!” the workers insisted.

The manager disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with the news that every worker would now receive $2.00/hr.

After my first day’s work, my coworkers took me out for all the diet sodas I wanted, “on the house.”

The question is, why did the manager offer me an extra twenty cents an hour? Some of my coworkers had worked there for a year or more without a pay raise. They knew what they were doing. I was off the street. The management saw me as becoming the crew chief or supervisor. They did not think that any of their current employees would be able to do that job. Based on my white skin, they saw that I was “executive talent.” Apparently, white guys cannot judge talent.

The same thing happened to me when I went to work at a plating factory. Plating is filthy, corrosive, poisonous, dangerous, unhealthy, and as unpleasant a work environment can be.

The plant manager warmly received me. He expressed concern about being able to hold on to “talented workers.” He immediately told me I had a future if I stayed. He offered me considerably more an hour than what he was paying the 100% black workforce. He assured me that in no time he would move me into management.

When I was an organizer for the Hotel and Restaurant Workers Union, they sent me to be part of a team organizing the workers at a luxury resort in the mountains of Virginia, the Homestead. Opened in the 1800s, it represents the epitome of southern hospitality. Guests are still expected to “dress” for dinner.

The Homestead featured an all black wait staff and annual events, such as, the watermelon carrying races, etc. Since there had not been black people living in the county since the 1960s. The hotel imported Jamaicans every year to pretend to be “ole black Joe.” The wait staff lived on the grounds in an old run-down dormitory with three toilets and three showers for about 150 people.

Poverty is pervasive in this part of the mountains. Imagine houses with roofs caved in, but still inhabited.

It was a very difficult place to organize. More than one organizer had been chased out of town by a local shooting buckshot. Besides the coalmines, the hotel provided most of the employment in the area. People were glad to have any job.

My teenage daughter came to visit me in the middle of the campaign. She joined me on my rounds as I talked to people about the union. As my daughter saw the poor conditions the workers lived in, she said, “These people are certainly going to vote for a union. They have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

We lost the election for union representation 5 to 1. Why? In the words of more than one worker, “At least we have it better than the blacks.” And, they were right. They did not have much, but at least they were regarded by the local power structure as being “better than Black.” In an area where white people had very little, that meant a lot.

Our new Attorney General, Eric Holder, called us a nation of “cowards” for not having honest discussions about race in America. He is right. Stories like mine happen far more often than can be imagined. Black people know it; white people do not want to admit it, but white skin privilege exists.

Try renting an apartment. Statistics show that white people on a waiting list get housing before Black people. If you are white, you can go into a jewelry or clothing store worrying about security following you around.

Part of having an honest dialogue is to accept the reality that white people enjoy privilege based on their color and nothing else.

Abbie Hoffman and thie Seige of Miami

Abbie Hoffman and the Seige of Miami

Abbie Hoffman was out on bail appealing his conviction as part of the Chicago 8. Word was that he was coming to Miami to do some fundraising to defray the costs of the appeal.

A phone call from the Miami Peace Center led to an introduction to a long haired young man who introduced himself as Abbie Hoffman’s advance man. He would handle press relations and fund-raising. We gave him a desk at the Center for Dialogue (a defrocked Lutheran church that was now used by several peace and civil rights organizations). Right off the bat he insisted on having the mailing lists of all the radical/liberal organizations we were in touch with. Alarm sirens sang out. We told him we were all capable of keeping our contacts informed and saw no reason why he should have access. Abbie Hoffman’s advance man was a cop. We called Abbie in Chicago to tell him our suspicions. Abbie’s response was that it was impossible. We all shook our heads. Abbie claimed his advance man could not be an agent…he had long hair!

Abbie arrived in Miami and was taken to the home of Thalia and Dr. Philip Stern. Thalia was the mover and shaker of the peace movement in Miami. Her husband, the dentist, was a sometimes less than thrilled supporter of his wife. They lived in a beautiful home on Biscayne Bay. It wasn’t overly large. It wasn’t particularly opulent. It was a very comfortable upper middle class home with a built in swimming pool and a small sailboat tied to their own dock. Thalia was my mentor and close friend. The affair to take place that evening was the main fundraising event to take place. The next night Abbie would speak at the University of Miami and that would be the place for the students, radicals and others to meet Abbie. However, Thalia agreed that a few friends could attend the shindig at her house. We were to stay out by the pool though and not enter the house. OK. Everything was going fine except one older woman stayed outside with us young ones. It was Abbie Hoffman’s mother. She refused to enter the house as long as anyone else was being excluded. I fell in love with Abbie’s mom.

In order to appreciate what happened the next night at the University of Miami it is necessary to have an understanding of the state of the student/radical movement at that time. Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) had split into 3 factions. The Progressive Labor Party was a 1950’s split off from the Communist Party USA. They thought that revolution would come through the working class and they swore off drugs and long hair. The Weatherman/Revolutionary Youth Movement (RYM) 1 faction was based on drugs, long hair and the belief that young people would follow the lead of 3^rd world nations and peoples and revolt against the empire. RYM 2 was somewhere in the middle. The three groupings all thought the other to be mortal enemies. At many campuses, physical confrontation between the three was the rule. The student movement at the University of Miami was unique in that all three factions still worked together. We knew we had differences but tried very hard to maintain cordial relationships. We would go out to the everglades once a week and shoot off our weaponry. Tom the leader of our Progressive Labor faction would supply ammunition and also offered Karate and self defense lessons to the RYM 2 and Weatherfolk.

It is also important to understand the conditions at the University of Miami. There were an awful lot of violently anti-communist Cuban exile students there. They were people who were eager to literally kill Communists and those who supported the Cuban Revolution.

We on the left knew that we were facing real dangers at Abbie’s speech and were serious about providing protection.

The three factions had a meeting where we split up responsibilities for Abbie’s protection. The Weathermen would be responsible for the perimeter. They would search suspicious looking people before they entered the area where Abbie was speaking. Progressive Labor would patrol where the audience was. RYM 2 would protect the stage where Abbie was speaking.

Outside of the Student Union Building was a large patio with chairs and tables. There was an elevated walkway from the Student Union to other classroom buildings nearby. The audience would be in that open patio area.

The crowd started arriving early. Our Weathermen went to work. They confiscated several weapons and kept others from entering the area. Progressive Labor staunchly carried out their responsibilities keeping a lookout for weapons and suspicious incidents.

The time came for Abbie to speak. Accompanied by the RYM 2 faction Abbie took the stage. All hell broke loose. Salt and pepper shakers which had been on the tables in the patio were being hurled at Abbie. Other less identifiable objects were being thrown and intercepted by the RYM2 guards. Fights broke out in the audience as the Progressive Labor contingent duked it out with the anti-Abbie Cubans. Above the din and ducking condiments, Abbie yells out, “What’s going on? Are you all in PL?” Hearing this Tom, the leader of the PL forces stood tall and raised his fist in the air and yelled back, “Long Live the Progressive Labor Party” and led his troops off the battle plain.

Our defensive strategy broken, RYM 1 and RYM 2 quickly agreed to get Abbie out of there.

We regrouped at a friendly professor’s house. Concerned that his bail would be revoked Abbie was concerned that the news would refer to the happenings as a riot. When they did not he relaxed. We all shared some dope. Abbie left with the professor’s wife. Abbie’s wife, Anita, and the rest of us smoked a few more joints then fell asleep.

Coney Island

When I was not quite three years old, my family moved from Brooklyn, New York to Chicago. We would visit family on our week vacation every summer. It was on one of those trips that I first went to Coney Island. My Uncle Zuskie took me the first time. The subway trip was memorable. The train route took us on an elevated trip through Brooklyn. Looking out the train window and seeing no guardrail keeping us from falling to the street below got the adrenalin flowing. Good preparation for the thrills that lay ahead.

My brother and I drove miniature racecars – we rammed each other with the magnificent bumper cars – we played pinball and ski-ball in the arcades where we also watched penny movies. We gawked as the rickety steeplechase where riders rode mechanical horses around a buildings roof. We stood in line forever gladly soaking up the smells of the French fries and hot dogs grilling at Nathan’s. We stared in awe at the crowds on the beach from the boardwalk.

I only visited Coney Island a few times after that. It was always as exciting.

As I grew older, Coney Island grew from an amusement park into a cultural icon.

The history of the place entered my consciousness. To “the huddled masses” Coney Island was a blessing. It was a place for rest and relaxation. When my Aunt Bess and Uncle Sam retired from the cloak industry they took an apartment on Ocean Ave. My Mother tells how the family would visit them for pinochle (and it was often) they would give my Mother a quarter and instruction to go to the arcade and win a couple of packs of cigarettes. She never disappointed. My father-in-law talked of standing on a soapbox on the boardwalk in the 1930’s and raising money for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade fighting the fascists in Spain.

It was the playground, recreation center and propaganda center for this country’s greatest concentration of the working class.