The scent of warm, freshly baked corn tortillas is the most beautiful smell on earth. It sends me back to my childhood, running around with my friend Dagoberto, chasing chickens in the field surrounding his small family trailer home. Dago’s parents were migrants from Mexico, and I spent nearly every afternoon at their house during 2nd grade. Dago’s mom didn’t speak more than a few words in English, and I only knew a few in Spanish, but her smile, her care, and a few warm tortillas with Dago were all I needed to know I was loved and accepted in their home.
The soothing smell of Cocoa Butter reminds me of the innumerable days I spent with James and his family. We lived in the same large apartment complex when we were 8-10 years old, and our weekends consisted of a Friday night sleepover at his place, Saturday morning cartoons, WWF wrestling, hotlinks for brunch, and then off to the community swimming pool filled with 10 of our friends to recreate the wrestling moves of our WWF heros. Our gang of school kids must have terrorized those poor adults at the pool. 
Afterwards, we would head back to his place to watch the afternoon Kung Fu movies and goof around. It was here that I learned that Cocoa Butter helps keep one from getting “ashy”, so I joined in with everyone else in applying copious amounts of Cocoa Butter to my little caucasian elbows and knees. The treatments must have worked, because I don’t ever remember getting ashy. I did get addicted to that lovely smell, however, which brings me back to those early memories of James and our little gang in the apartment complex.
Until high school, I never really knew that Dago was “Mexican” or that James was “Black” or that most of my friends in the neighborhood were of various ethnic backgrounds. They were just friends with whom you played baseball, climbed trees, and goofed around. Didn’t everybody have Low Rider Parades, Break Dancing Competitions, and Cinco De Mayo Festivals? Didn’t every kid watch What’s Happening, Welcome Back Kotter, and Good Times? Didn’t we all want to be Penny’s boyfriend, didn’t we all wish we were rich like the Huxtables?
Our Little League Baseball coaches were mostly Black and Hispanic, coaching kids that were of all skin colors… but I didn’t know that. Coach Rowe taught me to respect the game and yourself, and always, always hustle on the field. Coach Winston, who looked and acted just like Lando Calrissian, taught me to be “cool headed” on the field. Coach Garza (amazing man with only one leg) taught me the subtle technique, the power of team, the grit and the “psychology” of baseball. Because my teams were mostly made up of 
names like “Alvarez”, “Martinez”, and “Sanchez”, the loudspeaker would always pronounce the “J” in my last name with a Spanish flare: Derek “Shoe – Hahn”. It was in those moments that I felt different than my teammates, but to be honest… I have a really crazy last name.
Middle School was spent with my best friend Corey and his family. They lived miles away in an amazing home near the river, and I would go visit several times a week after school. They hosted big family parties, and they took me to church every week at Williams Memorial COGIC. Sure, I was probably the only white kid there, but I didn’t know that. Corey and I were just a couple of 7th grade goofballs, and no one ever made me feel “different”. Corey’s family truly adopted me into their lives in every way. And even though I had a secret crush on Corey’s cousin, it was the genuine love in this family that attracted me. They were an inspiration to me of a healthy and loving home.
When we all hit 9th grade, our small “stream” of 80 or so kids from middle school merged with 2000 others from various other neighborhoods, including some rural redneck areas and other urban Bloods/Crips gang territory. High School seemed to be a mix of racial tension, violent crime, drugs, and deeply divided sub-cultures. I heard racial slurs and cruel profanity
every day as we were assimilated into the general population, and it became clear that skin color did matter to everyone. It broke my heart that the apparent “innocence” that we had in our multi-ethnic neighborhoods was getting polluted by the ugliness of racial hatred and ignorance.
It was my first step into “the real America” in many ways, and it wasn’t just black/white. It was a conflagration of slurs aimed at Vietnamese, Mexican, Chinese, Thai, Indian, even light-skinned vs. dark-skinned black. It was a painful display of the racial ignorance and hatred transmitted from parents through the cruel language of insecure kids trying to cut each other down. My “White Privilege”, as it has been described, became a bypass ticket (of sorts) to avoid much of the racial tension awaiting. Sure, I was called various names at times and bullied to a degree, but my skin tone kept me safe from the most of it. I learned to rely on my wit, humor, and sometimes a sharp counter-attack, to defend myself and any immediate friends… but these “racial issues” seemed to become part of daily life for the rest of my high school experience.
There is no real thesis to this brief walk down memory lane. We were all just kids, goofing around, climbing fences, making friends, laughing, 
wrestling, exploring, living together. Our shared experiences helped make us who we eventually became. Our childhood “racial identity” seemed irrelevant until others told us that Race Matters, when we were met square in the face with racial slurs and cruel remarks. Looking back now, I am sure that moment of “racial identity” came much earlier in the lives of my friends, when their parents had to explain why somebody made an off-handed remark or looked at them strange or wanted to “touch their hair” or made them feel uncomfortable in the store or on the street.
I wish we could celebrate our cultural diversity in America without having it devolve into ethnic hatred, racial slurs, and just plain ignorance. I wish that our children could have a “bypass ticket” to shield them from the racist excrement they hear from their peers, parents, grandparents, and teachers, often propagating bigoted attitudes and values deeply rooted in our American identity as a nation. Apparently, however, there is no bypass route on this long road.
It has been said that progress often happens one funeral at a time. I honestly believe our national dialogue on race is becoming more open and honest with every generation. Our kids are becoming more tolerant and accepting of diversity, and we are seeing more “mixed marriages” than ever… something that once was illegal in so many places. For me, this is a trend in the right direction. It may be happening at a snail’s pace in many ways, but there are also millions of people who think we shouldn’t be talking about race at all, that we should just sweep it under the rug and “move on with life.” I wish it were that easy.
But healing takes time, and our “family” as an American people has been through a lot of horrible junk over the last few hundred years. We need to talk. We need to heal.
Related: A Whiter Shade of Pale 
schujahn [ ˈshü · jän ] 