I’ll go first.

The first time I realized I was racist was in the summer of 1998. Ironically, 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-op 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

I write this because I am sorry.

I write this because I’m ashamed.

I write this for Marshall.

I miss you buddy.