"Adam, you wouldn't seriously want a black guy to be our President, would you?"

That's an actual quote from one of my uncles a few weeks ago. The thing is, I didn't grow up in an explicitly racist household. My parents had an interracial couple as some of their best friends, and my mother worked quite closely with plenty of black employees, both at her level and below her on the chain of command. But there was an undercurrent of prejudice that was constant and unwavering.

I never heard the word "nigger" from my parents. I was, however, told to be careful when driving in bad neighborhoods because "they" like to drive into you in a beat-up car and then sue the insurance company. "They" was never explained, but merely understood.

My first girlfriend, Vickie, had olive skin that I thought was gorgeous. Over at my friend Randy's house, showing her picture to his grandfather proudly, I was mortified when he and his son started mocking me for dating a "sand nigger". I didn't even know what that was, but I knew it wasn't something nice.

As a teen, I spent my summers and vacations working for a business owned by family members other than my parents. It was there that I heard "nigger" bandied about regularly, even from relatives who worked closely with many black friends. "You can't trust them." "You have to watch them like a hawk or they'll rip you off." "They're lazy and will do the work half-assed if you're not careful." I was taught these "lessons", along with phrases like "nigger-rig" and "nigger rich".

Yet, with all of this subtle and overt prejudice affecting my perspective, education, and growth, I still managed to be objective and come to my own conclusions. I'll never forget Nicole, with her great smile and gorgeous chocolate skin, holding hands as we walked down the beach that summer. And Angela, with that beautiful curly hair and intoxicating laugh. And friends who were African and Indian and Asian and Filipino and black and Jewish and Hispanic and the only thing that mattered to me was whether or not we got along.

I'm not writing this post to pat myself on the back – yay me for not being racist! No, my goal is to give a bit of hope. My parents' generation grew up with the civil rights movement. They had to change their perspective on race and prejudice during their formative years. I can't blame them for being affected by their environment and upbringing just as I was affected. However, I, and my generation, and the generation after mine, and even the one before mine, grew up with an integrated society. And maybe, just maybe, it's possible for us to become increasingly color-blind, even if raised in a color-aware environment.

If Obama gets this nomination, and I'm sure that he will, I hope that there are enough of us out there – generations of young adults who grew up in an integrated society and know that racism doesn't even make sense. I hope that we are legion enough to make a difference in November. To show my uncle and those like him that yes, we seriously want a black guy to be our President, because we want a "smart" guy to be our President, and it doesn't actually matter if he's black, white, yellow, brown, or not even a guy at all.