Earlier this
week I tried writing a post about the deaths of the three black people, George
Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor and the protests that are occurring
across the country. I came to the conclusion that I don’t really know very much
about any of that. Overnight, I decided the only thing I could post about was
my own experiences.
My mother was born in Tennessee and
the only story I ever heard that involved black people was about a beating she
received because she had gone off to a black church because she liked the
music. When I was growing up, my mother worked downtown at Kress’ dime store.
Some of her coworkers were black. She always treated them with respect and
expected the same from me when I was introduced.
The only example of racism I can
remember in my family came from my father. A bunch of my friends had come home
from school with me. We were all playing outside, probably tag or some game that
involved touching each other. One of my friends was Pilipino and later, my
father told me I was never ever to let that black kid touch me. I was shocked
and amazed by his order because I didn’t see the skin color, I just saw a
friend.
In high school there were only Caucasian
kids until my senior year. Then, two black girls and one black boy came to the
school. They weren’t in any of my classes and appeared to pretty much stick
together. I didn’t give it much thought at the time and now wish I had made
more of an effort to be welcoming.
It wasn’t until I was 26 years old
that I had my first black friend. He was employed by the adjoining department
at the University of Washington, but some of his professor’s research happened
in the lab on my floor. My friend had to walk by my office entering and leaving
the lab. We got to talking and it became a habit for him to stop, sit down and
we’d talk. From there, we began having coffee in the cafeteria whenever it was
convenient for us both. I also gave him a ride home now and then.
I had never really given it much
thought, but in our conversations it became very apparent to me that he and his
family were just like me and my family. They had the same dreams, desires, and
kind of lives that my family and all the other white families I knew did. It
was a revelation to me.
At one point, my friend stopped coming
around. I had told him to let me know if I ever said or did anything that was
offensive because I’d never had a black friend. I asked one of his friends what
was going on. He didn’t know, or said he didn’t know. I asked him to tell our
friend I missed him and wished he’d resume our friendship. So, my friend came
back and it wasn’t anything I said or did that made him stop having coffee or
visiting with me. His professor and some of his white co-workers had made very
offensive (to him) remarks about me and our friendship.
This
was a time where white-black friendships were rare and white males took
exception to interracial couples. Now, my friend and I were not a couple, but
apparently it appeared that way just because we spent time together. I told my
friend his boss and coworkers could think and say whatever they liked about me.
For that matter, people who came into the cafeteria and saw us together could
also think what they liked. I told him, “You are my friend. I value our friendship
and want it to continue. If it makes you uncomfortable, I certainly understand.”
My
friend and I went back to the way things were, but my opinion of his professor
and coworkers took a huge hit. I’d never seen them as bigoted racists before,
but I certainly did from that point on. When I left my position at the UW, I
lost track of my friend, but found him again decades later on Facebook. We don’t
chat much, but I’m always pleased when I see his name on my computer screen.
Later
on, I went to work for the Seattle Department of Parks and Recreation. I met
many more black people there and always treated them with respect and
consideration. There were some I genuinely liked and got to know fairly well.
In one case, a woman with whom I worked was diagnosed with cancer. I deeply
mourned her passing.
There
was one young woman in the department who did make me very angry. I can’t
remember if it was during the Watts riots or what had happened. She would go on
for an entire coffee break about how awful everything was. If I’d made all the
same comments she did, replacing the word “white” with the word “black,” she
most likely would have reported me to human resources or physically attacked
me. I knew she was very angry and kept my mouth shut. This was the first time I
became personally aware of black anger and the need for some kind of change.
A
couple of decades ago, a mixed-race couple moved into the house next door. Over
the years I’ve gotten to know them. The husband may be black and the wife white,
but they are just like any other married couple I know. I’ve welcomed their two
children and watched the father interact with them through my front window. He
is, without any doubt on my part, the best father I’ve ever witnessed.
We’ve
never discussed race or whether or not they’ve had to talk to their children about
how to act if they are stopped by the police. I’ve never asked if they’ve had
any difficulties in our community. I believe I’ve never brought any of this up
in our discussions because I don’t see the color…I see a set of wonderful
parents who are also great neighbors.
Finally,
I have family in Tennessee. I’ve only made three, maybe four, visits there, but
not once have I encountered any racist comments or seen any family members act
in such a way as to be offensive to anyone because of skin color. I very much
like and appreciate that.
Instances
of black people, or people of any color, being treated and killed as the three
in my opening paragraph were saddens me. The fact the peaceful protests are
highjacked by human beings and turned into events that are the exact opposite
of the overall goal also saddens me. I feel as though there’s nothing I can
actually do to make any improvements aside from what I’ve always done. Treat
every single person that enters or is part of my life with respect and
consideration for each individual rather than that person’s color.
I’m not exactly happy with this post. It‘s such an
important topic and while I feel a need to write something, I don’t feel it’s
particularly helpful. I just wish each and every single person in the entire
world would take a step back and remember the “Golden Rule.” I’m sure if
everyone treated everyone else exactly how they’d like to be treated, there
wouldn’t be any George Floyds, Ahmaud Arberys and Breonna Taylors. It doesn’t
seem like too terribly much to desire.