{"id":26964,"date":"2025-04-07T15:10:31","date_gmt":"2025-04-07T23:10:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/andyrukes.ca\/greenroom\/?p=26964"},"modified":"2025-05-14T09:14:40","modified_gmt":"2025-05-14T17:14:40","slug":"racism-a-plate-of-lies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/andyrukes.ca\/greenroom\/2025\/04\/07\/racism-a-plate-of-lies\/","title":{"rendered":"Racism: A Plate Of Lies"},"content":{"rendered":"

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\nMarshall Gaskin | December 12, 1949 – March 29, 2024<\/em><\/p>\n

The first time I realized I was racist was in summer of 1998. The ironic thing is that my best friend at the time was Marshall Gaskin, a big, black, beautiful man. A gentle giant and an incredible artist. We lived in adjacent buildings in an Artist’s Co-p  just outside of Toronto. I’m grateful for having known him for he was a major influence in my life. Sadly he is no longer with us.<\/p>\n

One day at the co-op, I was going through the underground parking lot and came across a young black man leaning on a car door towards a young white woman seated on the other side of the open window. Without hesitation, I pointedly looked at the woman and asked,”Are you alright”? She nodded and I walked away.<\/p>\n

My stomach turns at the memory of it. Who the fuck was I to presume that this woman was in trouble. The same feeling I had the next day upon realizing what I had implied to a complete stranger.<\/p>\n

More and more I became acutely aware of my racism. Like the time I was in an elevator with three black men much larger than me. I noticed that I felt uncomfortable and my heart started to pound. Faster. Faster. I thought, “What the fuck. This is racism! If these were three white guys, I would be cracking jokes.”  After leaving the elevator I was grateful that I could see through the bullshit. I’ve extracted and examined most of my racist moments and although I think I will always be racist to some minor degree, I acknowledge that any is too much.<\/p>\n

\"\"I write this because I recently recounted a story, that my mother told me, to a group of friends. It was a story that my uncle would often repeat about a souvenir tin plate from Niagara Falls. I realize now that this wasn’t<\/em> a story about something my uncle purchased. It was a racial slur wrapped in a story that he could tell over and over again. I never liked that he enjoyed making fun of minorities and yet here I was … participating.<\/p>\n

I write this because I am sorry.<\/p>\n

I write this because I’m ashamed.<\/p>\n

I write this for Marshall.<\/p>\n

I miss you buddy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Marshall Gaskin | December 12, 1949 – March 29, 2024 The first time I realized I was racist was in summer of 1998. The ironic thing is that my best friend at the time was Marshall Gaskin, a big, black, beautiful man. A gentle giant and an incredible artist. We lived in adjacent buildings in Read More …<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[28,9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-26964","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-all","category-personal"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t