"A Whiter Shade of Pale"*

Racism is the US main story today. Up, front and center. It has pushed Cornavirus aside. The evident conflict is an old one and it’s black versus white. But we encounter racism in almost every walk of life, at times coming from opposite ends of the spectrum and every time bent on fostering the illusion that one human being is better than another.

An old story, told by Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa comes to mind. Recently arrived in London the future Nobel Prize winner was living in rented digs. A bedroom window broke. The landlady called in a carpenter to fix it. A burly, red head Scots appeared. The carpenter and the writer engaged in tentative dialogues between tea breaks; the novelist to improve his newly acquired English, the carpenter because he had never met a Peruvian. A modicum of friendship began which allowed the carpenter to ask a pressing question, “Am curious to know mate, how it feels to live in a country where everyone else is white?” (This is England in the Sixties) Vargas Llosa, of Spanish descent, was speechless. The question bore no malice, for any Scotsman all Peruvians were colored.

Years later I was living in New York and planning a trip to Japan. I carry a British passport courtesy of Her Gracious Majesty’s government and the travel agent informed me that British nationals needed no visa. Was not too reassured, so I called the Consulate, and was asked: “Were you born British or did you become British?” “The latter”. “Where were you born?” “Peru”. “You have to come in”. I went. Took out a number. Approached the window and showed my passport. The official took one very brief look at both, me and my passport, and said, “You don´t need a visa”. For someone born in Japan all Peruvians are not the same color.

My sister has lived in Buenos Aires for 30 years and has never lost her Panamanian accent. She’a big dog lover. Before the pandemic she would walk her small poodle every day. One day she runs into a guy walking a huge scary-looking dog. She addresses him politely (the only way she interacts with anyone) to ask him to leash the dog who by this time is ogling the poodle thinking of dinner or sex, whichever comes first. The guy refuses. My sister still in polite mode shows the A Hole a sign that says it’s mandatory to leash your dog. The A Hole goes ballistic and yells, “Go back to your country, you f….ng N word!”

Looking at my sister is kind of complicated to wrap your head around the notion that she is black. Then I understood that this was not a story about color.

My sister could’ve been born in Lapland and spent her life tending reindeers, she still spoke like someone from Central America and that in the eyes of the uncouth porteño made her intrinsically inferior.

Or black.

*Title of song by Procol Harum