Itis time to begin a “national dialogue on race.” I'm ready. I just reread Obama's book Dreams from my Father:A Story of Race and Inheritance. It has brought me to reflect on the racial influences in my own life and how they have shaped me as an individual. I recall a series of unrelated events that worked together to create the tapestry of my experiences.
1949 (approx.)
My very first recollection of seeing a black person was when I was about six years old. We lived on a farm in rural northern Minnesota. My father had hired a contractor to paint the barn. As with most novel events in our limited world exposure, the younger children were forbidden to be anywhere near. I recall the man who came and spoke with my dad as a white man but the person who actually did the painting was black. At that time, all I knew of black people was that they came to this country as slaves and that it was now illegal to have slaves. When I saw this relationship of the contractor and the painter, in my young mind I was sure he was a slave. But the culture of our home was that children never asked questions so my assumption simply held until I was old enough to understand and reflect on the complete picture. Until then I was certain a slave had painted our barn. It had a tingly feeling. I'm not sure if the unsettledness I felt was seeing this different person, believing my “righteous” father had done something wrong, or simply a fascination When I would want to punish my father, I remember plotting if there were a way I could let someone know that a slave had painted our barn to get my father in trouble. Oh how the minds of young children work.
1959
We later had moved to a larger, nearly suburban, community. My father owned a cafe which also sold tickets for the Greyhound bus. If the cafe was not busy with customers, the passengers usually sat on the stools to wait for their bus. I was sixteen and worked as a waitress for my father. At that time Anoka had no noticeable minorities. There were definitely none in my school. But one day a mixed racial couple came in and bought a bus ticket. At the time, the cafe was empty and the couple sat down on one of the stools. My father promptly went over and sternly said, “Your kind is not welcome here.” He pointed to a sign that declared “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone” as if that justified his position. They were told to wait outside (fortunately the weather was agreeable). I remember being mortified! I desperately wanted to make amends, apologize, find them a place to sit, anything to correct the injustice I sensed. But I had been raised not to question, contradict, or even suggest that my parent may be wrong. The vision haunts me. Why did I react as I did? Race was not something ever discussed in our home. But something in me knew this was wrong.
Spring 1968
When Martin Luther King was assassinated I was doing a graduate internship at Central High School in St. Paul, Minnesota, a predominately black school. I was teaching a special education class for cognitively delayed students. The students were black, big (compared to myself), and lovable. I saw them as big teddy bears. They actually wanted to learn. As soon as the news was announced that King had been assassinated, the school was dismissed. I was puzzled since other schools were not dismissed. I did not fully understand the significance at the time. But I had spent no time in the school to be familiar with the sentiments or attitudes. I was too busy in my own world raising a family and going to school. But I was fully aware of the struggles that MLK had brought to the forefront and the racial turmoil of the sixties. This was never a wedge between my students and me.
Fall 1968
My husband and I and two small children went to Indonesia to teach for four years. On the initial trip to our new home, we took a 26 hour boat trip from Singapore across the Malacca Straits and up the Siak River. Our sons were aged one and three. The smallest was a tow head. Both had big, blue Scandinavian eyes. In the afternoon I was sitting on deck doing some knitting. My pattern book prominently displayed a very blond, fair, blue eyed child modeling the sweater I was making. Some of the Indonesian women noticed the photo and seemed quite struck with it. I wish I could recall their comments exactly but I remember discreetly putting the pattern photo out of site and feeling quite embarrassed. These Indonesian women who worked for the Americans tried hard to cover themselves and especially their children from the sun in an effort to keep their skin as light as possible. (I recall Obama in his book sharing his confusion at the magazine ad for a product to lighten black people's skin. ) However, when we went to the village or into the jungle areas, skin color was not the locals' concern. Sometimes we even encountered individuals who had never seen white skin. It was an inverse experience to my earliest encounter with differences in race. It was very difficult for us to take our children out of the main camp where we lived because the locals would converge on our children wanting to touch them, unintentionally frightening them. One time we had tried to get them a hair cut in the village. A crowd of little kids gathered to watch and scooped up any scrap of hair that fell to the floor. After that of course, we cut their hair ourselves. In this environment, we were the minority but in a different perspective. We were the haves. And we were reminded of that regularly by our surroundings. I know what it is to be a minority, to be stared at or pointed at. Yet here I was of the “privileged” group.
1978
The next stage of my education came as “the affirmative action officer” in my school district. I was aware I was appointed to this role for my views but how they were so obvious I didn't know. I was apparently less subtle than I was aware. An incident in point: one day as I walked into the teachers' lounge, a group of men had been sitting around a table jawing about something and as I opened the door I heard “a nigger in a wood pile.” The speaker immediately looked at me and apologized for his remark. At least I felt I had brought some awareness to the situation. I know I didn't change behaviors or attitudes.
1991
Brazilians prided themselves on their color blindness. They would tell you what a mix their culture was: Portuguese, Indian, African, and other European and Asian. These nationalities were evident and visible. However I could not help notice that the favelas' (slums) residents were very dark skinned. The housing we were provided was walled and secured and was home to many nationalities. Crime in Sao Paulo was rampant. Each morning at eight o'clock a steady stream of workers poured through security. These were the maids, the cooks, the amahs, and the staff for the complex. These individuals were exclusively the darker skinned persons. I could only be amused at the Brazilian hypocrisy.
1977-1998
I grew up in a home where women were discouraged from college, raised to be wives, mothers and child bearers but we had no voice. In my career as a female in a male dominated profession, I have experienced discrimination both subtle and blatant. I have experienced wage discrimination and been denied promotions because of my gender. But I have never felt the humiliation of being a second class citizen. Each “ism” I believe is separate, unique, and inexcusable. But I am sure my fierce fight to be a full citizen of the world helped me more more accepting of others who may not have opportunities of the majority.
2008
I am embarrassed to tell the latest story because I was a coward. With friends and family I am able to confront a biased joke or comment. However, I was recently playing bridge with a group of women. At the end of the game as we all rose to leave, I heard one woman remark how she would never vote for a black man. I am ashamed to say I continued to walk away without comment. Is it not my responsibility to tastefully but openly reject such idea?. Why was I unable to do so? I have since been plotting what comment to make at our next encounter, devious as I am and desperate to vindicate myself. I have a long way to grow.
Summary
But how did I get here? My oldest brother adopted multi-racial children which was very difficult for my parents. They never really warmed to the idea and walked a delicate line in the family relationships. Those children, though privileged, have struggled with race as well. How did I become who I am? I am delighted that as a country we have made a statement through our recent election even though I know it is not the statement that every American wants to hear. What do I do now? Let's continue the dialogue, not so much of a confusing history but of an enlightened future.
