This thread makes me sad.
I'm old, so when something from my childhood stands out to me, it's from a lot of years ago, and it affected me, as a very young child, deeply.
I remember watching film on a grainy black-and-white tv of a bunch of people with pointy hoods dressed in white, cheering and waving flags beneath four limp figures hanging from a tree branch. I asked my father what happened; he bluntly told me. I recall staring at the hanging figures, and realizing slowly, with horror, that they were dead, and the people in the pointy hoods had killed them because they were "colored"... whatever that meant (I honestly had never seen a black person at that point in my life, even on tv).
Later in my childhood, can't recall how old I was, I saw on that same grainy black-and-white tv a man in a suit flanked by uniformed police officers barricading a door. An angry crowd was screaming and shaking fists at two small black children (yeah, I knew what black people looked like by then); they spit on those children as they passed through the gauntlet of angry white people. When I asked again what was happening, I was told that the black children wanted to attend an all-white school, and the white people didn't want them to.
I remember thinking I was glad I wasn't black, so people wouldn't spit on me and keep me from going to school.
I learned a lot about race relations as I reached adulthood and beyond, but I never forgot my introduction to blatant, gleeful racism, and how that visceral gut-punch affected my entire life.
So yes, I'm not proud of the race I happened to be born into... but I am sometimes ashamed of it.