Selma

Dr. King, Mom, Katrina, Mr. Evers, the folks who braved the Selma Bridge – I owe you an apology.  An apology for taking 52 years to realize my role in perpetuating prejudice and racism and for passing that on to my son.  I am frequently reminded of my mother’s comment that I am the “dumbest smart person” she ever met.  Today, as I listen to Dr. King’s “I have a Dream” speech those words have never been more true.

I have had the benefit of numerous learning opportunities that helped form my liberal views and supposedly unbiased approach to people.  Oh, I’ve fought my battles with prejudice over the years, based more on income than race, but I never really saw how I fit into the problem until recently.  I've had the privilege of teaching students of color for the first 18 years of my career.  Indeed, it wasn't until 2007 that I had a Caucasian student in my classroom.

The last school I taught at in Texas was comprised of 85% black and 15% Hispanic students.  It was there that someone was finally able to reach me and awaken my awareness of how I perpetuated both prejudice and racism.  I don’t use racial epitaphs, though I would be lying if I said I had never heard them in my home growing up.  I am generally well respected by my students and have never been accused of racism.  Well, there was Antoine who yelled it out in class when I disposed of some copper sulfate.  He insisted that I was oppressing the copper. 

Even so, during a staff discussion on racism and prejudice one of the older teachers looked me dead in the eye and stated baldly, for all to hear.  “You are the problem.  Not your teaching, you.”  I’ll admit I was quite taken aback and unprepared.  I did manage to squeak out “Me?  I don’t understand.”    She got straight to the point, as she was want to do.  “You live over there in Hewitt, right?  How many black neighbors you have?   How many black folks have you invited into your home?  How many friends who are not white does your son invite over for sleep overs?”  She might as easily have asked, “How many times did you lock your car doors when you saw black men walking at night?”

The conversation went on for some time and was uncomfortable to say the least, but she was right and still is.  As long as I separate myself and my son from folks whose culture is different than mine, I keep those lines drawn and prejudices fed.  It is only when I invite other cultures, other viewpoints (even republican) into my daily life, into my common everyday routines that I become part of the solution.  

It isn't about inter-faith gatherings, voting for gay rights, or making donations to the food shelf.  As important and honorable as those are, real and lasting change will come when my daily, common activities embrace differences.