Years ago when I was in my twenties, I paid a weekend visit to the home of a fellow black buddy. He talked about the “white people” on his job. It struck me odd. These were people he had worked with every day for years. Together, they celebrated birthdays, fellow-shipped at company picnics, shared family joys and tragedies. And yet, he did not refer to them as Joe, Dave, Pam or Sue. He referred to them as a monolithic group, “white people”. There are whites equally guilty.