I grew up in a white, lower middle-class suburb, but for about a decade of my adult life I lived mostly with Black people.

(Personally I think there is only one race of humans. But in a racist society it is impossible to speak of social reality without using terms like "white" and "Black.") After reading Lise's piece about what the moving men from Baltimore experienced in Brattleboro, I decided to write about some of my experiences, with colors of "figure and ground" reversed.

I wince when I hear people say that we need to talk about race relations in America because to speak of "race" relations implies that "race" is real, and that people actually belong to one race or the other. Science has established beyond any credible argument that, in fact, the concept of race has no biological basis. It is valid to talk about racism, but to talk about "race," only lends credibility to a racist concept.

Categorizing people by color is insane. Yet it is impossible to be color-blind when everyone knows that there is a color line. In Buffalo NY, where I lived in the late 70s, Main Street divided the East side from the West side, and it also divided people by hue. When I returned to my old street for a visit in 1994, to my amazement, what had been a white neighborhood, had become thoroughly mixed.

It is difficult to explain the grip that the color line had on people's minds.

I was enrolled in a job training program at an auto mechanic school, Ted Banks Auto Service, at 1159 Jefferson Avenue in the heart of the East Side. Jefferson Avenue was lined with boarded up stores. The administrators and all the teachers except one were Black, as were most of the students.

My outlook then, and now, was to live my life as much as possible as though people's skin color is irrelevant. That can be challenging. It was my resolution never to be concerned about being the only white person among Black people, and never to be concerned about finding myself surrounded entirely by white people. It was my intention to be myself, and to connect with others as human beings, not as members of a “race.”

One of the biggest compliments in my life came from one of my classmates, a guy named Kenny. One day Kenny said to me: “I don't know what it is about you, Steve. I could never get along with a white boy. But you're different. There's something about you. I don't know what it is, but Steve, you is a nigger white-boy.”

I never tried to “act Black” or to “talk Black,” so Kenny was not talking about outward style.

One day Kenny expressed concern about my safety walking through the ghetto. “Steve, when you walk down Jefferson Avenue, you gotta walk fast, like you're heading somewhere.” My girlfriend, Diane, also worried about me. One night I walked her home, which was near Jefferson.

Before I set off for the West side, Diane said, “Steve, put your hood up, and walk fast.” It was not cold. I knew what she meant... cover your white face. I kept my hood down.

No one ever bothered me on the East side... well almost no one. One day I was on a side street, about a half block from Jefferson. Suddenly I heard a deep voice: “Hey, white boy!” I kept walking. I did not feel scared, I just decided not to respond because I do not believe in white and black so I was not going to answer to “white boy.”

Again: “Hey, white boy!”

I kept walking, not changing my pace.

“HEY, WHITE BOY!!!”

That time I turned around.

I saw it was Mr. Miller, my teacher! I cracked up. Mr. Miller cracked up.