I'm not a racist, but...

"I'm not a racist, but..." is a line that when uttered alerts the listener or reader to the plain fact that the speaker is, in fact, racist. I am having my own "I'm not a racist, but..." moment right now. I'm not a racist, but I don't want an Indian (male) doctor. It's an issue that I find quite a challenge, and here's why:

Our story is about a hellish and (with hindsight) hilarious train ride from Chennai to Delhi, taken by a friend and I a few years ago. My dear friend Sally had bought the wrong tickets - instead of buying tickets for the nice sleeper class, she bought tickets for what I shall call cattle class. It was Sally, me, and 100,000 impovrished Indian men on their way to Delhi to search for work. There certainly weren't enough wooden benches to go around; we were crammed in like all those stereotypical pictures of India would have you believe. A couple of times I made it to the fouler than foul toilets I found elderly ladies sitting in there, in the stench and the filth, because there was nowhere else to go.

Despite attempting to carve out some space, eventually Sally and I had to share our bit of wooden bench with as many men as was humanly possible. We had to be aggressive, if one of them groped me I would shove my elbow into him so hard for so long he'd eventually move. The groping was something I was pretty used to by then. Groping on the street, groping on the train, groping at the market, groping at the children's sports event. Unlike the cows, no part of my body was sacred - bum, boobs and vagina were all fair game for the gropers. And no, I wasn't dressed like a wanton western slut.

During those 40 hours on that train, my sit bones in agony against the hard wood of the bench, everybody was trying to do the impossible - get comfortable and try to sleep. At one point, exhausted beyond comprehension, I reached blissful unconsciousness for a few moments (I have no idea how long, time lost all meaning, we were never getting off that train). However my sleep was interrupted when I woke to find that the man opposite me had wrangled his foot up between my legs, and through my thin cotton pants and underwear, was rhythmically ramming his big toe, complete with sharp toenail, into my vagina.

I grabbed his foot and started to twist. I twisted his ankle with all the strength I had until he started yelling. I kicked him in the shins. Somebody told him he deserved it and should leave the white girl alone.

It's not an experience I cherish reminiscing about. I felt violated and scared, and I could do nothing to remove myself from the situation. I felt somewhat pleased that I had had the courage to hurt him back, and that another man had had the courage to tell him off publicly.

Writing it down now has been difficult, because since it happened I have expended a fair amount of energy into not thinking about it. I loved India, I even went back. That train trip, while awful, was an amazing experience. India all over was an amazing experience, however this incident, coupled with the constant sexual harassment and groping (in one city I was groped 10 times in one day) during both of my trips there, has really soured my perception of the place and its people...well, its men actually.

I know well and good that it was men who did those things to me; sometimes I feel that my response would be more "genuine" if I had a problem with all men, not just Indian ones. But that's not the case, I only have a problem with Indian men. My initial reaction to all men of South Asian appearance is distrust and distaste (note this doesn't seem to apply as much if they present as Westernized ie if they grew up here, and in no way applies to South Asian women). I am trying hard to work though these feelings and get past them. Just because there are some pigs in the world doesn't mean all South Asian men should be tarred with the same brush. There are men everywhere who harass and assault women, we've got plenty of white Aussie ones too. Becoming good friends with some gorgeous, gentle, respectful and downright honorable Pakistani and Bangladeshi men during uni has helped remind me of this.

Well I thought I was working past these feelings; but now the prospect of my first obstetrician appointment at the hospital is approaching. As I looked at my dairy to check what time the appointment is a tingle of fear rose in me - what if the doctor is an Indian man, putting his hands all over my belly...and what if he needs to do a vaginal exam? I know Mr T will be with me, I am sure the doctor will be nothing but caring and professional....but...

I feel highly uncomfortable at the thought, my pulse quickens and I want to cry. I don't want to feel this way, I don't want to be a racist. What should I do? Do I try to get past my feelings? I know intellectually that they're wrong and I would prefer it if they weren't there. But then again this whole pregnancy thing is making me feel vulnerable and emotional enough as it is, is this really the time to be forcing myself to confront this? But then, what actual action could I take? Call up and ask if the OB is a South Asian male? How fucking racist and disgusting does that sound? Just go to the appointment and burst into tears if they do turn out to be one? Just hope for the best...?