White Man’s Chocolate and the Evolution of Racism

When my son Vincent was in grade school at Horizons School on Dekalb Avenue, I gave him a valentine. It was the same valentine I gave my boys every year—a box of chocolate and a teddy bear. Because Vincent and Wolfie were spending the night at their dad’s house on Valentine Day eve, I did not get to see the immediate reaction to the gift, which I had bought with love and expectation of, well, frankly thanks.

However, when I picked the boys up to take them to school the next morning and asked about their gifts, the reception from Vincent was quite cold. “How did you like your valentines?” I asked expectantly.

“It was okay,” Vincent replied.

“What do you mean ‘okay’?” I prodded.

“Mom,” Vincent said with a note of disgust, “that chocolate? That bear?”

“What do you mean ‘that chocolate and that bear’?” I asked.

“Come on, Mom,” my eldest son spat in disbelief. “White Man’s Chocolate? Don’t you think that’s a little racist?”

“Vincent, Whitman’s Chocolate. Whitman’s,” I corrected him.

It was a misunderstanding that I shared in Sunday School last week. The topic was: Justice and Race: White Privilege, Affirmative Action, and the Obligations of Reparation. The reason I shared the anecdote was that I thought it was a good example of how the generations in my family had changed with respect to racism. From my grandmother’s black Aunt Mary, who became a ‘family’ member as a result of losing her arm to a firecracker thrown by my grandmother’s father as a boy. To my mother running away from boarding school to go freedom riding with Dr. King. To my own experience at Spring Street School using the “N” word and spending that same night alone in my room without any supper. And finally to Vincent’s vigilance against racist chocolate.

But these were my stories. Others were told in Sunday School — and others were untold in that venue. These personal experiences spilled out into coffee time after church and into the parking lot. I heard at the vestry meeting last night that the conversation was carried on later Sunday evening at the welcome party for our new choir master Tom Gibbs held at Bruce Lafitte’s house. Indeed, as the vestry waited for everyone to arrive, we continued to share our memories of racism growing up in the South and points beyond. In short, the conversation begun by Joe Monti in Sunday School is far from over. And I invite all St. Dunstan’s parishioners to continue the conversation here on the St. Dunstan’s blog.