Two women of color are sitting on the bus behind me, talking about how hard it is to get up in the morning when you stay late. And as I eavesdrop, I think, “Isn’t it just like them and their kind to do a stupid thing like that?”
But there’s no sense in thinking that way, none, because at this very moment I’m running an hour late because I stayed up late last night. I don’t think it’s stupid, either; I chose to take my time this morning rather than go to bed early. Staying up late is something I richly enjoy. In short, it is my instinct to criticize black people for doing what I love to do, because they are black.
So that’s racism and what it does to you: it (and therefore I) so despises the other that it will do anything to mock, or condescend, or hate.