From Not Racist to Antiracist: Part 1

Part 1: The Early Years

I am a woman with white privilege. I have the privilege of living my life not conscious of my skin color. I grew up in the 50’s in a small country town in western Massachusetts where there were few people of color. I knew that certain words were demeaning to various cultural groups and didn’t use those words to put down others, though I heard them used occasionally on the playground and on the school bus. No one paid attention when these egregious words were used, not the teachers, not the bus drivers.

            It is an emotionally charged time now when there is still racial disparity and indifference to the problems of racism in our world. I hope that my Blog will be an inspiration for ways to act. Because I am a white woman writing about racial injustice, I know that some may say that I lack the insight of personal experience of what it means to be black. Therefore, what could I have to say? The very fact that I have a website with Blogs and have leisure time to write and think, that I have the education to be able to do these things may be interpreted as showing off my white privilege: “Look what I did!” However, you interpret them, I hope my words will motivate white people to listen to black leaders, take action, call out racism, speak out against injustice, and to become antiracist instead of “not a racist.”    

These are my stories. My parents and I went to the Unitarian Church from the time I was in junior high. My Sunday School teacher was a black man, my first experience with face to face interaction with someone other than white people. Because of him and the minister of our church, I became an antiracist. I had been non-racist, passively knowing and believing that people of color deserve equality and justice, but after learning about Freedom Riders and the Civil Rights Movement I was driven to become antiracist, taking action and calling out racist behavior.

            Our minister was a Freedom Rider. The Freedom Riders were men and women, integrated black and white people who joined in bus rides through the southern states of Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, and others. They deliberately seated black people at the front of the bus, unheard of in those days. They sat at lunch counters and bus terminals in integrated groups, disregarding the standards of that time. Black women and men used rest rooms identified as “White Only.” White Freedom Riders used rest rooms labeled “Black Only.” For their efforts to make a peaceful statement against injustice, black people and white people alike were brutally beaten. Their buses were set on fire and burned. Ku Klux Klan members burned crosses in their yards and broke windows at their homes. They conducted real and mock lynching’s of black people.  

            In church in the late 50’s and early 60’s I listened to sermons about the Civil Rights Movement and watched the slides of carnage brought back and shared by the Freedom Riders in our church, our white minister and members of the congregation who went with him to the south to ride the busses and sit at lunch counters. I was horrified, outraged, and angered that black people did not have their constitutional rights simply because of the color of their skin. I was infuriated that black children went to schools without running water, books, and heat, that their parents were in jobs of service and not allowed to apply to many colleges or be educated for other careers, that poverty was rampant in black neighborhoods. 

            During my senior year of high school, I had my first opportunity to act. I signed a petition distributed by my church that said the undersigned would promise to sell any house they owned or might ever own to any person, regardless of race. At that time, most neighborhoods were divided, all white or all black with very few exceptions. I tried to get my friends from school to sign the petition, but they said their parents would “kill them” if they signed anything like that. I argued with them, but their parents ruled. Fortunately, I had a liberal-minded boyfriend who enthusiastically agreed to sign. One of the largest newspapers in western Massachusetts published our petition with all who signed on a two-page spread. We were delighted. My boyfriend’s parents were not. “If people began selling their homes to Negros,” his parents said, “The value of homes in the area would go down because no one would want to live next to coloreds.”

            This same year my church youth group of about 20 high school students, the LRY, Liberal Religious Youth, made a trip to Washington DC where we marched in front of the White House with cardboard signs reading, “LRY for Civil Rights.” We carried the same signs in a public park where the rest rooms and drinking fountains were marked, “Black Only,” and “White Only.” We made a show of drinking out of the “Black Only” fountains. Onlookers called us ugly names and threatened to tell the police. Our chaperones refused our pleas to let us use the “Black Only” restrooms. They said they didn’t want us to get beaten up by racist white folks.

            During my freshman year of college, sororities were the building blocks for socializing, for developing long-lasting friendships, study-groups, and an opportunity to automatically belong and be important to a larger group of women once you pledged. It was a dilemma for me on many different levels to decide to “go sorority” or not. My best friend and roommate joined, and I wanted to be with her. The feeling of belonging to a “family” of sisters sounded very appealing. However, there would be weekend commitments to the sorority, a time I needed to catch up with studying for the extra courses I took each semester. And then I found that the sorority did not allow black women, or women of certain religions to join, and they made no allowances in fees for women who were poor. I did not join. In retrospect, even though I stood up for what I believed, for equality for all who wanted to join, I wish I had written a letter to the president of their national organization regarding the unfair ruling that certain women could not pledge. I wish I had made more public my reasons to not pledge a sorority.

            Before I became a graduate student in the early 70’s I had an opportunity to take action for racial justice. Because my husband’s teaching assistantship was not enough money to make ends meet, I took various part-time jobs while taking classes to prepare for graduate school. While I was waitressing at a fancy restaurant in Columbus Ohio, a guest at one of my tables asked me how much money I made per week as a waitress. I told him, and he said that if I came to work for him in his jewelry store, he would double whatever I was making as a waitress. It was the Christmas season, and he said he needed someone to sell jewelry “who was so polite and smiled like you.” I checked around and found it was the biggest jewelry store in town with several branches. I took the job.

            It was fun to help people shopping for a special gift and wanting to splurge on something unique—always very sparkly and something that could be engraved. At the end of the first month, the owner said I was doing so well he promoted me. In my new position I would continue with sales, but also take credit applications. He showed me the form, explained how to fill it out for the customer and then said that if they were “Negro” to put the letter N in the top right hand corner, very small and in pencil. I asked why.

            “We don’t give credit to Negros. So, at the end of each day, we just throw those applications away. We keep a list of these names in alphabetical order at the end of the file, so remember to add the name to that page.”

            “And what if they call to find out about their application?” I asked.

            “We tell them that it is in process. We can look up the name at the end of the file. We tell them that each time they call.”

            “That isn’t fair. Maybe they can pay. Don’t you even look up their credit history, their banks that are on the application?”

            “No, we don’t want to do business with their kind,” he stated.

            “I won’t be doing that—putting an N in the corner I mean.”

            “If you want to keep your job, you will,” he said.

            It was closing time, so I had time to think about what to do next. The next day I started keeping all the credit applications for black people because they were to be thrown out anyway. I kept them for a week and then called the NAACP to explain what was happening at the store. I said I had the applications that the owner would have thrown out during that week. I met with their representative, gave him the applications, and signed a statement about all that I had seen.

            The owner was forced to appear in court and ordered to cease his discrimination of black people on their credit applications. Part of the court order stated that I, as the person who reported this discrimination, could not be fired for reporting. The owner transferred me to another of his stores a distance from the city. I’m sure he hoped I would quit, rather than drive that far. After two months when I didn’t quit, he said he had to lower my salary to minimum wage as there was no written agreement that he would pay me so much, even more than the manager of that store. Because I had fought the fight and could no longer afford to drive so far away for a minimum wage job, I quit. In retrospect, even though I changed the way a business dealt with credit applications for minorities, and I knew the NAACP had agreed to monitor the situation, I wish I had contacted  the NAACP with the end of my story. At that time, I was balancing my own classes, a toddler, and a part-time job. I felt I had run out of time to pursue this challenge.

            I had another eye-opening experience in Columbus during another part-time job. Because I had a teaching certificate, I applied to teach home-bound students in the Columbus Public School System. These students had illnesses or injuries that prevented them from attending school in a classroom. I interviewed with the supervisor of home-bound education in the Columbus schools and got the job.

            “It’s too bad that all the kids on our list are Negros,” she said. “You definitely would not want to be teaching them.”

            “Why not?” I asked feeling surprised.

            “Well,” she said, now squirming in her chair, “You’re white. You’d have to drive into the black neighborhood.”

            “I’m fine with all that,” I replied. “Black children who are on the list deserve home-bound instruction just as much as any other kids.”

            “No other white person, not even a white man, has ever wanted to teach Negro kids in their homes,” she said as she got up as if to dismiss me. “I don’t think it is a good idea.”

            “I don’t think it’s up to you, is it? Is there a rule or a law against a white woman teaching black students in their homes?” I asked, determined not to budge. “Give me a name. I’ll start with one student and see how it goes.”

            She sat down. “Okay, if you insist, but I’m warning you. You’ll be sorry.”

            I parked near the apartment where Damien lived with his mother and two other children. As soon as I got out of the car, a group of young elementary age children, who had been playing on the sidewalk, rushed up to me. They were trying to be helpful saying that I was on the wrong street. They asked if I was lost. I told them,

“I’m going to be Damien’s teacher while he’s getting better after his accident,” I replied with a smile.

            “But you’re white,” they smiled bashfully.

            “Yes, I am,” I replied.

            “No white lady ever come to our street.”

            “I wonder why?” I prompted.

            “Mom say white people don’t like us, and we be careful ‘round them.”

            “Well, I like you. Look at you on that spiffy bike, and you with the cute barrettes in your hair. I like you!” I said, mounting the stairs.

            I was sad to know that a little girl about seven or eight years old had to learn that white people didn’t like her. Damien’s mom answered the door with the same astounded exclamation, “You’re white!”

            Damien did very well with his studies, and his mom became comfortable with my presence. At first, she apologized for what she thought was a very meager home. But she was surprised to hear that I lived in an even smaller space with a small child and husband. We bonded over childcare issues and funny tales of raising kids. I was sad to think that segregation, distrust, and outright racism were preventing not only friendship between races, but also disparity in education and career opportunities.

            And how far have we come since the mid 70’s? Not far enough. Black lives still don’t matter enough. With my white privilege I can do more. I can listen to black leaders, support and volunteer for organizations committed to racial justice. I can read books by black authors and pass them on to others. I can write to my representatives in congress and the senate and local leaders to advocate for racial justice. I can educate myself further regarding the history of racism and find out about local rules, regulations, and budgets that promote the racial divide. I can learn to be a good ally to the Black Lives Matter movement by being there to give comfort and support. As a white person I can act and be responsible for using my voice and my writing to lift the consciousness of other white people to move from “Not a racist” to “Antiracist.”