I wrote this piece in July 2019 as a result of the rhetoric being heard from our President and the effects I believe it is having on our society. This morning, waking up to the second mass shooting in less than 24 hours and number 250 for the year I felt a need to post this piece. To remain silent to me gives silent permission..and I do not give permission to anyone that says there is not room in our world for this person or that person based on what color they are, what country they came from, what religion they practice, or who they choose to love. When we give in to the idea that we have a right to take away the rights of one group for any reason then you must stand back and ask, "When will it be my turn?" We are not a perfect nation, but we must always strive for the ideals set forth in our Bill of Rights and our Constitution.
"All Men Are Created Equal."
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“I love you,” said Jim, my school friend.
“Oh, you can’t,” I said, “we're not allowed.”
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because you're black."
I was in first grade.
My family was living in a downstairs apartment in my grandparent’s home in Waukegan, Illinois, a racially mixed neighborhood, where my black friends outnumbered my white friends.
I was surrounded with language that was racially charged, and tainted by alcohol. My home was not a warm fuzzy refuge from the world. At this age I was already being sexually molested, raging alcohol events were weekly occurrences, and family turmoil was part of my every day living.
To have invited a friend to my home, meant my mother would be orally brutal in her response to my visitor. “Who is that little whore?” she would ask me in front of my friend. I grew up understanding I could never have friends over without being embarrassed by my mother’s behavior, so I never did. Oddly, my parents social life was wrapped around the local bars and their friends would come and go depending on any conflict that would develop. No one stayed in our life for very long.
Along with Jim sharing his feelings for me, I also had friends who would invite me into their home to share some milk and cookies when we walked home from school. The kindness I was showed by my friend’s mother was something I coveted and I would find myself wishing my home was like hers. My friend was black. I felt love from her family and made to feel welcome.
These experiences caused me to believe that what my parents were saying could not be trusted. How could their opinion of people who showed me compassion and kindness be so ugly? There was a wide gulf between what I was experiencing and what I was hearing. My parents attitude and behavior toward people who only showed me good things in life allowed me to see that there was another way of living outside my own world. Too often my parents behavior towards others made me feel uncomfortable.
This rose again when my grandmother died in 1968. George Wallace was running for President. I disagreed with his segregationist position and my family didn’t. Unlike when I was a young child who lived every day dodging landmines, I had found my voice and expressed myself at my aunt’s home during my grandmother’s funeral. I was asked to leave the house. I stood, turned to them and said, “Our country will not survive with this kind of thinking, “ I then turned, walked out, and never went back.
Two years earlier I started my new life with Pat in Pennsylvania. This new life found me surrounded by people who were kind, open and loving which provided me a place to create a life I wanted to live.
While raising our four children, we invited all kinds of people into our home. I was determined that my children would judge people for who they were as a person, not what color they were, or what side of the track they lived on. We had “Fresh Air” children come spend the summer and exchange students to spend their school year. We made friends with Jews, Buddhists, people of color, eccentric artists and people who had the courage to live life to the beat of their own drum. Pat’s grandmother once asked me, “Do you have any normal friends?” “Grammy, having normal friends would be no fun!” I responded. We laughed. Whenever a family gathering took place and one of our friends needed a place to be, she never said no to our asking if we could invite them to join us. It provided opportunities for meeting interesting, challenging and diverse people that always made my life richer for knowing them.
After the race riots of the 60’s, society seemed to open up to diversity. The ugly language of name calling became taboo and “being politically correct” was the norm. I am not naive to the idea that this meant racism went away. I know that most of the ugly feelings went underground or stayed within the family conversation. But this time period allowed for the young people to grow and be nurtured in an atmosphere of acceptance. I’ll never forget the day my grandson, while playing with a young black woman in our home, suddenly looked at her hand, looked up to her face in surprise and said, “Yvonne, do you know your hand is turning black?” It was the moment he suddenly noticed her color. He was 3 years old and had known her his whole life. Another change in life came when my adult children, living out on their own, would call me and talk about their day, mention a new friend and all that they were doing. Months would go by and offhandedly during a conversation it would be mentioned that she/he was black. I am overjoyed at the idea that their color was not a defining definition of who they were.
I know that the black population kept trying to tell us racism still exists and many of us said, “I am not racist…you are because you turn everything to race, get over it” And they developed a frustration because no one would listen to them. Then along came Trump. And now we see. Today I hear language on the street that reminds me of the 50’s and 60’s…only there is a difference. Victims have found their voice, and it is good. The diversity that has been allowed to grow during the “politically correct” times has taken root to the idea that there is room for all of us and all of us are entitled to the same rights.
At this writing we are existing in a tinderbox of frustration and anger on both sides. I worry that Trump’s words will bring forward some person, inspired by Trump’s rhetoric, who will take action that will bring harm to innocent people just living their life. I believe the right side of history will prevail but I know it will take a fight to get there. We must never stop aiming for the ideals set forth by our Bill of Rights and our Constitution. May both documents always stand as a light in the darkness.
