Recently a childhood friend posted on Facebook: “If I ever did anything that you thought was racist or that offended you, I’m sorry.” 

“How can you apologize for something when you don’t even know what it is you’re apologizing for?” I responded. 

Since then, I’ve thought a lot about how I may have facilitated the racism that is unavoidable in our world today, and one memory keeps surfacing.

Around 30 years ago, I went to Fort Lauderdale with a bunch of (white) college friends for Spring Break. We were getting ready to go out for the evening, and MTV was blaring on the television. As I sat down to wait for everyone else, a chunky black female singer in scant clothes appeared on the television screen, singing and gyrating to an in-your-face sex song I’d never heard before. 

“That nigga was born to breed,” I said absent-mindedly.

Though the music video was still playing loudly, I swear you could have heard a pin drop.

“What?” I said, surprised at the impact of this particular crass comment. “Is this about the N word?”

I explained that I grew up in the South (in a town they’d never heard of); that 60% of my school was black (not normal among this crowd); and that a lot of people in my hometown used the N word, including black classmates who only laughed at me when I said it, which admittedly wasn’t often.

I got an earful in response, and I felt horrible. I truly had no idea this one word carried such immense ill intent. I learned a good lesson, and it seemed we’d all gotten over it by the time we left the hotel.

Later that evening, I was talking to this really cool black guy who worked at the bar we were in, when one of my friends came up and said, “Did she tell you what she said earlier tonight?”

My heart dropped. I knew she’d had a few drinks already.

She told him all about my “born to breed” comment and left me to explain, which I did profusely.

And you know what? He completely understood. He told me that, though my comment might rightly offend a lot of people, he found nothing wrong with it, except that I should reserve crass comments like that for people I’m confident understand where I’m coming from. “Especially if you use *that* word and you’re not black,” he added.

“But isn’t it racist to say that black people can use a word and white people can’t?” I remember asking him.

That lead to one of the most meaningful conversations of my life. We talked about what constitutes racism, and whether “reverse racism” is even a thing. We talked about real history and the history that those who control our social system choose for us. We talked about slavery and the sad possibility that the ancestors of the woman on MTV that evening may literally have been born to breed. “Think about all the things that woman’s soul had to experience to end up singing and dancing on MTV,” he’d said.

When my friends and I left, I thanked him (and I thank him still) for responding to the incident with a sincere desire to understand and for sharing his light. Do I regret what I said that night? Certainly not. Otherwise, I never would have learned so much from this beautiful stranger. But I’ve never said it again, except to tell this story.

Lately, family and friends have asked me why I continue to engage my Confederacy- and Trump-supporting childhood friends on social media when they’ve clearly made up their minds. It is because my life has been blessed with incidents like this. I'm convinced that, if we’re to bridge the widening divisions in this country, we must *invite* candid and uncomfortable discussions with people we think won’t understand us; and, when they accept our invitation, we must respond with compassion, respect, and patience, which means listening at least as much as talking. I’m far from perfect in this regard, but I refuse to stop trying.

Melissa Rooney is a Polish-Lithuanian freelance writer, editor, and educator who was born in Richmond, VA; grew up in Martinsville, VA; and has lived in Durham, NC, for 20 years. To connect with her, visit www.MelissaRooneyWriting.com.