Unlocking Genetics Won't End Racism.

IN the same week that scientists announced they had unlocked the secrets of the human genetic code, I tried -- and failed -- to hail a cab in New York City.

All in all, it seemed an ironic confluence of events.

We could render disease a thing of the past, the scientists said. We could eliminate birth defects, manipulate intelligence, stop the aging process.

And then there was this: The genome researchers mapped the genetic codes of five people, self-identified as Caucasian, African American, Asian and Hispanic. When it was done, they couldn't tell one from the other. As one scientist put it, "The concept of race has no scientific basis."

About the same time he was saying this, I was opening the back door of this taxi on 44th Street, only to have the driver tell me he was off duty. When I pointed out that he didn't have his off-duty light on, he promptly remedied the situation.

Now, let's be fair. It's entirely possible the guy had simply forgotten to turn the light on until I mentioned it. But as a black man who has frequently found it impossible to snag a cab in New York without appealing to some hotel doorman for help, well, let's just say I have my suspicions.

I do not, by the way, mention this episode because it's something extraordinary and new, but rather, because it's tired and old, part of the Berlin Wall of bigotry -- those small, quality-of-life compromises that become so routine, such a part of the landscape, that you almost forget to comment on them, almost forget they are there.

Almost.

When Danny Glover griped last year about his inability to get a cab, I remember being jolted at the idea that he might think it worthwhile to complain. Why not file suit against the wind while you're at it?

Right about now, of course, someone is getting ready to reel off the usual bogus statistics purporting that cabbies are justified in bypassing guys like Danny and me because nine out of 10 black men are serial killers. I could respond in kind -- I've pretty much had to memorize the FBI's Uniform Crime Reports as a means of self-defense.

But that misses the point. I ain't no statistic. I'm me -- a man who, science just reconfirmed, is not fundamentally different from other men.

Unfortunately, the sameness of men has always been hard for men to grasp. We tend to be drawn to the differences instead, to define ourselves against the alien ways of this tribe or that. That's not an American trait but, sadly, a human one.

Which is why we live on a planet of perpetual war and constant refugees, of ethnic cleansing and ancient grudges: We define by difference.

And difference is never hard to find.

On its daily trek, the sun crosses Kiribati, an island nation in the South Pacific where it's considered rude to touch another person's head; Yemen, a country on the Arabian peninsula where they socialize by chewing a mild narcotic called "qat;" Senegal, an African country where it's improper to give or receive an object with the left hand alone; and the United States, a North American nation where they sometimes deny taxi service based on the color of skin.

Yes, worse things happen. But this... it's like a pebble in your shoe, sand in your eye, an irritant that takes you out of the moment. It makes you feel... demeaned.

And I guess it seemed a particular affront in that week when genome scientists had just confirmed the commonality of human existence, and in so doing challenging us to look into one another and see ourselves reflected there, and in doing so, understand:

That I am a straight black man, but also a gay white one. Asian, but also Inuit.

I am rebel yell and soul shout, powwow and luau, Kaddish and hymn. I stand in the shadow of Lookout Mountain in Tennessee, and Mount McKinley in Alaska, Aconcagua in Argentina and Everest in Nepal and Tibet.

I grow coffee in the foothills of Kilimanjaro on the birth continent of Africa.

And I stand on 44th Street with my hand raised, waiting.

Leonard Pitts is a columnist for the Miami Herald.