Racism in the Military
TL/DR: The surprising benefits of prejudice and proximity in the United States Military
Redd is six foot, two hundred and forty pounds, has bricks for hands, and skin as dark as night. He points a knife hand at my face and launches into a tirade,
“Shut the f — k up you mayo-eating, cousin-f — king, Justin Timberlake-looking motherf — ker!”
A look of panic crawls across my face, and I lock a non-existent door on my Polaris RZR All Terrain Vehicle. As a golf kart on steroids, this vehicle is my primary conveyance on Al Asad Air Base, Al Anbar, Iraq. My verbal assailant bristles at my pantomime. I turn to my mixed-race passenger and say,
“Don’t give him any money. If we ignore him, maybe he’ll go away.”
Lang stifles a laugh with his hand, and Redd puffs up like a Grizzly Bear. As Redd raises another knife hand, I gun the the All Terrain Vehicle away and do a donut, kicking up a cloud of dust. As we jet past the choking Redd, an outstretched middle finger salutes our departure. This is brotherly love at its finest.
I deployed as a part of a unit of fifteen males and one female. Eight black, four Hispanic, one Brazilian, one Asian, one Polack, and me, the Irishman. Our Section Head was from Atlanta, our Administrative Supervisor was from the Bronx, our Warehouse supervisor was from Puerto Rico, two warehousemen were from Houston, and another from Jamaica. We had a first generation Somali, and a mixed-race kid from Austin. We had three Mexicans, a Peruvian, the Brazilian, and a Cambodian. This left two white kids, the Polack and me, the Mic.
Over five months of training and seven months of deployment, we became closer than family. By training together, eating together, sleeping together, fighting each other, and fighting outsiders, we had learned everything there was to know about each other. I could spot a member of my unit at seventy-five yards and know who it was just off of their silhouette and gait. Modern people barely achieve this kind of intimacy with their own flesh and blood.
Our cultural experiences were so varied, that throughout our relationship, we had to communicate through stereotypes. We lampooned each other’s cultures at every possible occasion.
- The African Americans were mocked for fatherlessness, poverty, poor schools, obsession with sneakers, and gang culture.
- The mixed race kid was mocked for his light skin, Southern Californian accent, and marijuana-addled brain.
- The Somali was mocked for being Muslim, and for having a big butt and twig arms.
- The Mexicans were mocked for being border-jumpers, and were alternatively chided with a sleepy Mexican accent, or the Los Angeles cholo accent.
- The Peruvian was easiest to mock because English was his second language, so a copy of his endearing stutter, and slow pattern of speech was an easy enough angle.
- The Cambodian was often left alone because of his serious demeanor and overall competence, but because of his affinity for hip hop, he was often labeled a bl-asian (half black-half asian.) He carried this description with pride.
- The Brazilian had a unique enough personality that he could be picked on without ethnic bigotry. This is also partly because nobody knew enough about Brazil to make fun of it.
- Finally, the Polack and me, the only representatives of the ‘white race,’ were simply subject to every stereotype about rednecks possible with occasional references to the pop culture effeminacy of white men.
Through these simple depictions of our respective groups, we were able to start from a perspective of general understanding, move to a more nuanced understanding, and then still use our stereotypical perspectives as comedic cudgels with which to beat one another. It was great, and we grew to love each other through our joint experiences and constant verbal sparring.
I was horrified when I returned state-side to a unit that did not see racist jokes as a way in which to learn more about each other. I was further horrified when the culture war kicked off, and a vocal crowd of moral busy-bodies claimed stereotypical humor was a stepping stone to genocide.
I find this so incorrect, and so counterproductive that it is actually painful to hear. That does not mean that my compatriots and I did not hurt each other, or stumble in our attempts at understanding.
Hersi, our Somali member, was particularly singled out for abuse. He may have been black, but his insistent identification with his Muslim faith, and his inability to let insults roll of his back, simply made him the target of ever increasing verbal abuse.
As a matter of operation, the N-word was used on daily basis by leaders and subordinates alike. It was used across racial lines, and as a term of endearment and derision. It was an in-group privilege, extended to the whole unit because of our intimacy. However, a misuse of the N-word with -er at the end versus -a, launched a forty five minute lecture and discussion about the historical use of the word, its contemporary use, the licensing of that use, how incorrect usage is painful, and how correct usage is an intimate privilege. It was a truly beautiful moment in human relations, laced with profanity, argument, debate, and indignation, that brought us all closer by the end.
Because of our training at Marine Corps Boot Camp, and because of our proximity and harsh circumstances, we became family. To this day there are members of this unit that I would kill and die for.
The power of intimacy and humor cannot be denied, because in another unit, it converted a full blown Neo-Nazi.
I met this man who was above average intelligence, and fairly charming. He had a handsome face, was slightly overweight, and had developed a great sense of humor to compensate. I never noticed any bigotry towards our brown and black brothers, but one drunk night, he confided that just a few years before, these interactions would have been impossible.
Brett had been raised in rural Georgia, and had fallen in with a Neo-Nazi gang. Just a teenager at the time, he had bought into the myths of the Old Confederacy, the inherent corruption and evil of African Americans, and the conspiracy to breed out the white race through immigration, economics, and abortion. Brett pointed to his tattoo,
“HONOR”
I thought nothing of it, and neither had the Marine Corps. Brett explained that during the recruitment process, he had constantly worried about the tattoo because it stood for,
“Hail Our Nation, Our Race,”
The tattoo was purposefully innocuous, and the Marine Corps’ core values were Honor, Courage, and Commitment. The Recruiter had seen the tattoo and didn’t even blink. It was a good thing he hadn’t.
As Brett grew older, he felt his prejudices slip. A few encounters with everyday black folk had disabused him of his presumptions. The Marine Corps had destroyed them. It wasn’t that Hispanic people didn’t like certain foods, or that some Black men didn’t talk aggressively, but it was that past these surface level characteristics there were deep, interesting, beautiful, and flawed people, all scrambling to create the best life they could. Brett saw himself in his military brothers, and through that experience, he fully dropped his White Supremacist persona.
Redneck, Mexican, and Black jokes didn’t deepen Brett’s hatred, they allowed him to relate with and get closer to his military brothers through mutual disparagement. Because it came from a genuine place of humor, and attempts at understanding, mockery became an important transformational tool to move Brett from his prejudice to a closer relationship with cultural strangers.
I don’t pretend that racist and sexist humor is virtuous in and of itself, or that it can’t reinforce prejudice. However, what I think could be powerful is a cultural race to the bottom in humor, concurrent with a cultural race to the top in understanding, respect, and genuine care for our fellow brothers and sisters.
My peers and I were able to disparage each other brutally because we knew that we relied on each other for survival. Our identity as Marines made it so we had a base level of care and respect for our brothers and sisters that let us know that no matter how hard we torched each other rhetorically, we would fight and die for each other in a moment of truth. I believe it is time that we come up with an a-racial, a-gendered, a-religious definition of what it is to be an American, that incorporates all those who love our country and love their fellow citizens. Then I believe we need to get together, cook some food, drink beers, and mock each other mercilessly.
