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Community Essay : ‘Lessons Have to Be Learned Face to Face’ : We must discover a way to tolerate intolerance so it can be brought out into the open instead of festering in the heart.

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<i> Debra Hotaling is a writer living in the South Bay</i>

You wouldn’t know it by looking at me. I’m party-line politically correct but with a terrible secret: I’ve glanced to see if the 35 m.p.h. freeway driver was Asian. As a group of African American boys crossed the street in front of my car, I’ve reached to lock my door. I’ve stood mute as others--assuming that since I’m middle-class, Anglo and Protestant I automatically share their world view--complained about immigrants, Mormons, South-Central Los Angeles, homosexuals and the Japanese.

Does one racist thought make us a bigot? Two? Twenty? If not, how many do we “get”? And what about the times we did not speak out when others spoke in ignorance or hate--should our silences also weigh in against us? Even if we grant ourselves a handful of thoughtless gestures over a lifetime, there’s still plenty of us who, if we’re honest, couldn’t measure up. Perhaps we could start a new 12-step program: “Hi, I’m Debra and I’m a racist.”

I know from my own experience that prejudice caused by ignorance can sometimes be righted if we have the courage to speak up. For this to work, a difficult thing has to happen: Instead of permitting intolerance to disguise itself in PC buzz words or in silence, we have to allow a kind of world where people can say what they think--even if what they think is offensive. Particularly in our universities where young people are for the first time trying on new ideas--sometimes even bad ones--we must discover a way to tolerate intolerance so it can be brought out into the open instead of festering in the heart.

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My own worst moment came in college: After pulling an all-nighter, I turned to a friend’s roommate and tossed off a dismissive comment about the “Jews” living in the San Fernando Valley. The air suddenly felt as though it had been sucked out of the room. The friend’s friend, who was Jewish, turned to me: “I’ve heard about people like you. You’re racist.” I started to explain that I didn’t intend my comment to be taken literally; I had used the word “Jew” in a general sense, as one would use the word “niggardly.” Horrified at the unfolding stupidity of my argument--until that moment, had I never thought of these words as ones to be taken personally--I sat miserable and silent while the woman prepared to go to a neighbor’s until I left.

For weeks after the incident, I agonized over whether or how I might make things right. A letter? A phone call? What would I say? “Hi, remember me? I’m the racist you met at Linda’s house a couple of weeks ago.” Cowardice won over guilt; I did nothing.

However, I began to reconsider my assumptions--some of them so slight they might never be cross-examined. How many of these assumptions had made their way into conversations with people too polite to tell me what they thought? How many times had I conspired with others by not speaking up?

I understand the impulse for some to mandate what should be off-limits to promote a safe environment for everyone. But this tactic may lull us into a false sense of security. These lessons have to be learned the hard way: face to face.

During a discussion about AIDS, my class of college freshmen struggled to keep their deliberation afloat without saying anything sexually naive or politically incorrect. A big bear of a football player blurted out: “I have to say this--I’m really homophobic. I’m sorry, that’s the way it is.” An embarrassed silence fell over the room as the football player, arms crossed defiantly across his chest, glared at the desk in front of him. Another male student, well-liked for being “one of the guys,” turned to the athlete. “I’m gay,” he said quietly. No one moved. At last, the football player uncrossed his arms: “When did you know?” he asked. For the next half hour, the gay student fielded questions from the other undergraduates. Even after class was over, small groups of students lingered, unwilling to give up what had been a compelling exchange of ideas.

Afterward, I thought about how far the other way the discussion could have gone. But it didn’t. And while I was certain my football player didn’t leave the classroom reconsidering his teammates as possible additions to the dating pool, the next time someone started railing about “those fags” he might be less inclined to automatically jump into the melee.

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For this reason, I find myself reluctantly turning in my PC membership card. If our true aim is to change the way people think, we must be brave enough to talk, let others talk and to listen. This is also an open letter written many years too late. To Linda’s friend: I’m sorry. And thank you.

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