I grew up in California, visiting the Carolinas in the summertime. It was much later in my life that I realized I did not learn about racism in California, although my classmates and I were all blended. I learned about racism in the county where I now live. These were my lessons:
4th grade. Mitchell Company. My mother is buying cloth, pulling it from a bin. A young black girl runs up to me and touches my summer olive skin. “You mixed?” she asks me. Later, I ask my mother. “Mom, what’s mixed?” My lovely mother tells me, “We are all within us a world of beautifully, blended colors.”
7th grade, age 13? I have moved to NC. Each day I am up very early to ride a bus from the hollow into town. This is a first in this community, this act of desegregation busing.
My friend, also a Teresa, spills something on her shirt. She is embarrassed because of the large stain. I tell her I have a spare shirt in my book bag that she may wear. She gratefully accepts. Before riding home that day another friend asks me, “What will you do if she returns your shirt, throw it away?” I look at my friend confused. It is only later, I realize the full intent of the remark. My happy friend, Teresa, returns my shirt, clean and pressed, and I wear it the rest of the year without pause.
11th grade, age 17. A friend loves someone white, and he loves her, but with the reservation that he cannot take her to his home. Later, when the love does not leave them, his father threatens to disinherit him if he continues the relationship.
Married. Age 25. I now have a young son in preschool. My son’s favorite friend is Yolanda. I frequently ask Yolanda’s mother for a play date. When she finally acquiesces, we sit together one afternoon while our children run in and out of the house and about the yard. She looks at me and “thanks me,” for having them over. She apologizes for the delay in bringing Yolanda to play, and she remarks, “she hasn’t had a white friend before Luke.”
Age 32. My oldest daughter is a recreation league cheerleader. I become aware that one of the other cheerleaders, whom I’ll call Shan for this share, may have to quit the squad because transportation has become an issue. I offer to pick her up on the way to the practices and games. Shan’s mother accepts my proposal. The first day I take them, the girls run together ahead toward the gymnasium. Another mother comes walking up and asks me if I gave “Shan” a ride. I say, “yes.” This mother, whom I liked, quips, “Aren’t you afraid your children will get lice?”
1990. 36. Life has been good. We have a large swimming pool in our backyard. I am teaching a summer-school class in town in one of the (now) “Section 8” apartments. I invite my class to come swim as a reward for good attendance. The students all show, and we have a great day together. A “friend” who observed the gathering asks me if I plan to “drain” the water after…
At 46: I make friends with a small, neighborhood lad, Tyson, who wants to sweep my drive for a quarter. I thank him, pay him, and offer him a snack. He looks at one of my youngest child’s books. “Read it if you’d like,” I offer. “I can’t read,” he replies.
The next time Tyson drops by for another chore, I respond, "Only if we practice reading first." He agrees. Soon after, I have Tyson's grandmother’s permission for my husband and I to read with him together a few times a week. As a treat, we walk sometimes to the nearby playground at a church on a corner. Not long after we make this a habit, Tyson and I find the gate around the play area now regularly locked. I wonder….but I cannot fathom.
About a year later. I am 47. A young biracial girl comes to live with me, Si. Her mother is dying. She begins attending church with me. Same church from previous story. Around the third time we visit, one of the deacons stops me on the way out of the door. He tells me he has always “liked” and “respected” me, and that he likes my children. “But I am not in agreement with mixing races,” he says. Today, I ponder the life of my friend, the deacon...his grandchildren are both beautiful and bi-racial.
2001 continues. I have not been successful in finding a home for Si. I refuse to let her slip into a foster system, and although I wonder if I have the energy to fully raise another child, my husband and I have met with an attorney to begin the adoption process (before the miracle and a family for Si comes forward). This is background and not part of this telling.
I am in a store at the mall near our only movie theater. The older gentleman, a clerk, states to me as Si and I are “checking” out our items, “Your grand? Terrible what our children do to us these days.”
Last night. A conversation at Sacred Ale about racism. We discuss and ask, "Are we making a difference?" This morning, I read friend Steve's FB post. I read the article Steve shares: “My White Friend on Facebook Asked Me to Explain White Privilege.”
I feel this flood of memories. I read Steve’s closing comment on his post, “We need to lookout for it in our own lives and not be complacent when we witness it. Plus if you make some of these remarks to my kid....I'll put some grass stains on you…” Steve and his wife Mary, and their beautiful blended family.
I am almost 61.
I hold fast to my mother’s lines. “We are all within us a world of beautifully, blended colors.”
