Someone recently had a blog up entitled Does Race Matter.  (My apologies I can't remember whose it was.)  I checked the time stamp, got twisted around about what it meant, and spent an hour composing a reply.  About three minutes after I posted it, the diary vanished.   (Will she ever learn how to figure out time?  Mebbe not...adding 24 hours to any time just after 12:00 any-meridian is fraught for me.)

I wanted to expand on my original comment, just my opinion on race mattering, or not.  Can't begin to guess how this will go...

The simple answer would be: of course it matters; with additional questions: how much, to whom does it matter, when might it matter most, when can it be compartmentalized just a little  to consider oneself a human being, not just a certain kind of human; or to achieve some goal or other.  A tough gig for anyone of color; I get this.  I'd gather we could dispense with how much it matters if you happen to white; it matters hugely to start with that trait in your person-hood pocket; most of us just seem to forget that to other people's detriment. In terms of how much race matters, it will, of course, be different for everyone: which race, which class, where someone lives, what support system one has; a zillion factors. 

  I am not a person of color; but I am the mother of a family of color.  It puts me in a special sort of place, in a way; I might be able to address pains and problems I witnessed and experienced around race that some of you may feel unable to address as too sensitive, or negative, or self-referencing; any of that.  These comments reference my experiences through (mainly) my son's experiences, which are more stark that my daughter's; and also possibly more relevant to the AA café denizens.  We'll see.

  My husband and I adopted a new-born African-American/Azteca babby in El Paso, Texas. The saga involved with that is another story entirely, and I won't tell it.
  We did give great consideration to the advisability of raising a black/ Aztec child in a predominantly Anglo community; in the end, we decided that it was 1983, and high time to be able to do this well and proudly, even while recognizing the obvious potential for difficulties.   To the extent that we were right or wrong, I have left to our son, who is now 26, to decide:  He says he is supremely glad that we adopted him, though there were some tough times when he had his doubts.
  In my pride and pleasure at our new son, I tended to be blind to xenophobic responses to a white woman carrying a black babby in a Snuggli out and about in the world.  My husband took notice of  the pointedly disgusted expressions some people made; once I did notice, I tried to distance myself from that sort of dreck, and assumed their reactions were their problems.
  Our very rural neighborhood just happened to be home to two different families that, I swear to God, had relatives who had belonged to the Klan, and not all that long ago.  My personal bias was that bigotry was based in ignorance and separation, and I figured that a tiny, beautiful babby could be an emissary who could soften their hard, dry hearts.  Little by little, I am elated to report to you, it proved to be so in our neighborhood.  Even to the extent that one older couple who had disowned their son because he married a lovely Navajo woman, relented after some very personal and warm conversations that would never have happened but for the presence of our son, and the opportunities his being presented.
  When he started school, he was the only black child, though there were a few Native American kids, and plenty of Hispanic kids, who had only recently gained a wider acceptance at the school, sports excellence playing its inevitable part in that. 

  There were occasional racial incidents, but nothing hideous. By the time he was seven, we also had an adopted Native American daughter in school.
  As we began to witness some racial bias at the school among the children and sometimes the teachers, we set out to help in the ways we could. Steve taught Native American History here and there in the grade school, I taught age-appropriate AA history. I raised money to buy multi-cultural books for the library; I was permitted by the administration to hold festivals for Cinco de Mayo (that was as multi-cultural as they could strech; I did them, and won't report how difficult even that was. Baby steps; I was a Good Scout. I brought multi-cultural anti-bias gender curriculum programs to present to the school board for adoption, I advocated for anti-bullying programs for years, ahead of their general acceptance all these years later.  I was on every damned educational committee the school had, trying to effect some positive changes.  And I utterly loathe meetings.  If I were Queen Every meeting would have a 90-minute maximum life, and if you couldn't achieve what you'd hoped in that time, Tough Nugies.

  Whether or not all these thousands of hours of efforts really helped,  I can't say.  I hope they did.
  By high school both our kids suffered racial abuse; though our daughter, not as much, as is always the case with gender differences.  The principal always claimed that racism and bullying were not *tolerated* in his school, bur it always was.  It doesn't matter what school policy is if no one enforces it.
  If there is one thing about which our son holds bitterness toward me is that I always advised him, begged him, not to get into fights over racial bullshit; the sad truth was that the minority kids were always expelled, not the white perpetrators, in such incidents.  He says that 'if I'd just busted someone a good one just once, it may have been over.'  We'll never know, and I'll never know whether or not I gave him Crap Advice or not.  But; there it is.

  There were no clear or easy solutions, only emotional support and honesty and perspective. And books and authors; and humor. Baldwin, Ellison, X,  Mosely, Chris Rock, long lists of black writers through history, and even, for godssake, mystery writer Robert Parker, whose sidekick Hawk was a sublime example of a self-actuated black man with a huge and wry humor about him.
  At some point, our son decided living well was great revenge; he studied his ass off, even with the learning disabilities for which were forced to find outside help; the school had less than nothing to offer; the 'Chapter' kids (federal reading program) teachers were always punished by being given those teaching assignments.  If I had a nickel for every time on of them talked about the dumb kids...   He became a runner, and was proud to excel at track and cross-country, and found some comfort in his achievements.
  When did race matter most?   I'd say when a white girl's parents wouldn't let their daughter date a Black Boy.  Just fancy the hurt and confusion that can cause.  When store security would follow him around a store.  When he was frisked roughly if he were leaving a store and someone hadn't disabled the security thingie on his purchase, and extra security was called because he was a...a...you know.  When he was under extra scrutiny by the police, and stopped for any infraction, or no infraction at all.   You get the drift. It's very hard to feel like a human being, a Man, not just a man of color, a man proud of his color, but also a good man, a fair man, an empathetic man with all the crap happening. That was his job, and bigots and systems which supported hidden and careless racism, or even unintentional bias made it all harder.
  There is possibly no force as fierce as that of a mother bear; and it was so hard trying to work through the system, to improve it, to dialogue about it,  when I really wanted to murder the people and the institutions which found my son, my daughter and their minority friends as less, who couldn't even be bothered to offer them a safe place at school; not to even work at it.
  It became such a delicate balance for our son to realize the often-biased ways of the world, but not always assume bias preemptively, or let it rule his life. And to become the man he wanted to be in spite of the baggage of some white people, and often even other minorities. At least in this part of the world, color gradation matters; like: I'm Native American, and I'm whiter than you, you suck.  Hue as pecking order determinant.  Arrgh.  Did you ever wonder why Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition never really took off?  Well...
  Our son went to a small college in an historically Hispanic valley, and found less racism there, but still some: again with some racial criteria, only a big one was:  Are you black enough, which seemed to translate to Urban Black enough.  Nope; he was not urban. 

  He called one day in his senior year; I could tell by his voice that something was mighty wrong; I prodded.  It turned out that he had been stopped by the highway patrol the night before.  He was ordered out of his car, handcuffed, tossed into the Patrol car, and taken X miles away to their station; he wasn't even allowed to grab a jacket, or lock his car.  

  At the station, he was chained to an interview table and interrogated by five cops for seven hours; they wouldn't even let him have a pee break.  They claimed there was another man with his name, same make of car, for whom there'd been a BOLO issued.  I think it was bullshit; that they were bored and needed some sport at his expense.  Examination of any documents and license plates would have solved any confusion.  They eventually dumped him back at his car, shivering in the cold later; no apologies.

  Experiences like this aren't uncommon, and they have this result: you have one more pissed off black man in America, just waiting to get hassled preemptively; and it comes...and comes....

  He graduated college, and is now a wildland firefighter, and loves it.  He might teach history one day, or go to graduate school.  Lest you think racial issues are no longer relevant: he was offered a permanent fire job in the Ozarks; we began online searches for crew photos in the district; you guessed it: not one black or brown face.  Mmm, thanks, but no thanks, he told them.   Not worth the hassle.

  So while race may not be the whole thing, it can sure be a huge thing.  Depending on all the other zillion things.

  The politics of race is whole 'nother matter. I'm glad the *post-racial* President finally met with the Black Caucus (Yes, the CBC has some issues); for those who don't think we should address Black Issues, or Native American Issues, Muslim-American issues etc., they can just take a number as far as I'm concerned.  Women, seniors, everyone can band together as a constituency, sometimes with great effect.  My belief is: fine, when there IS a level playing field one day, then we can work for all people, or all poor people, and so forth.   Meanwhile, we take note of who is suffering more as regards:   unemployment, crap schools, loan refusal, high interest home loans based on *risky* mortgages, health care access and issues, lack of  access to grocery stores, etc. and address the damned issues.  Economic justice is justice writ large; when that's equalized, we'll have been well on the road to all the rest.