I told this story last year, but I though it was apt here:
My husband works as a deputy warden in a prison, which is admittedly a type of place not generally famed for its racial sensitvity. But my husband is, as it’s often put, (albeit in stronger language) one of those “Minorty-lovin’ college boys” who won’t put up with racist remarks.
About a year ago, he recived a complaint that one of the prison doctors had been been repeatedly mocked by some of the officers. When the doc entered a room, the officers would pound out a drum rythym on the table and start singing a Native American war chant. My husband asked the doctor about this, who confirmed that the officers had been doing this to him for a while now.
Hubby called them into his office, and repeated what he’d heard they were doing. They vehemently denied it.
“Why do you think I called you in here about this?” Hubby asked.
Sullenly, one of the officers said, “You’re going to accuse us of doing something wrong, and punish us, but we didn’t do it.”
My husband smiled. “Of course you didn’t. I know you guys, and you’re not stupid. You know that if I ever caught anyone doing something like that, I’d ruin their careers. I’d make it my personal mission in life to see to it that they lost their jobs. As you guys know, I won’t stand for that racist bullshit in the workplace. If any of you guys were racists, you WOULD be punished, but we don’t have to worry about that, do we? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
They all nodded. Hubby sent them back to their posts. The next day, apparently after some time to think it over, and most likely being told by their union rep that they didn’t have a grievance, the officers asked to come into my husband’s office. He bade them to be seated, and one of them spoke up, sounding nervous but earnest.
“Uh, sir, we’re not saying anything happened, but if it DID, it wasn’t meant to be offensive-- it was a joke, and, uh, it’ll never happen again.”
Hubby nodded. “I understand completely. Thank you.”
As the officers headed towards the door, my husband called, “Guys?”
They stopped.
Hubby shuffled some papers. “He’s not Native American.”
“What?” The one who had made the apology stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“He’s not Native American. He’s Hispanic, you fucking idiot. You’d think the fact that his last name is Gonzales might have given you a clue.”