I was trying to tell my children what it was like to live in a society where no one, and I mean NO ONE, noticed, mentioned, or applauded or condemned a man based on his skin color. We did not notice it any more than we noticed hair color.

The only “racism” in those days was as mild and milquetoast as “dumb blonde” jokes, or the stereotype that redheads were hot-tempered.

We would gather with friends for a night’s entertainment, and, afterward, I could tell you everyone’s name and what they did, but if you asked me their race, I could not tell you. (I found out later that one of my friends had Korean ancestry, the other was a mulatto. None of this was obvious to my non-racebaiter eye)

No one harped on these things. No one in public expressed hatred for the White Man.

No one applauded a Black Man for being Black, as if being born was some sort of accomplishment.

No one pretended he was being oppressed. Black men did not act like sissies in public, or whine, or blame everyone else for his shortcomings.

My kids could not imagine it.

They could not imagine a world where men were only hated for doing something hateful, a world where no microaggressions nor dogwhistles were alleged to exist, and no one hated you for something you never did and could not change.