I have been a liberal for most of my life (except for a brief spin around the political block with Barry Goldwater) but apparently I am not quite liberal enough these days.
I am a privileged, entitled white woman they say. I can’t possibly understand black rage they say. They say black lives matter. Of course, they matter. I say all lives matter. Anyone anywhere matters. Critters matter. Climate change matters. Conservation of our natural resources matter. Social justice matters. I’ve never seen it but honesty in politics and power matter. Freedom matters. Perhaps I am deliberately missing the point but it seems to me we humans have much more in common than all of the shouting would indicate.
At its base, it is what we do with all these issues which really matters.
I have a shocking admission to make. I don’t really know any black people well. I was raised in a segregated town, went to segregated schools and in all of my travels, I was never in close contact with black people. I worked with and loved Native American people and Hispanics. Race was never an issue. I don’t think race would ever be an issue but I cannot speak with whole truth. Of course, I have worked with black professionals. We got along well. I respected them and loved them but we never shared a meal or spent an evening together away from work. I was not on their social level. Doctors rarely have social evenings with nurses.
When I was about three years old there was a black man in our town who drove a horse drawn wagon around picking up salvageable pieces of metal and such. He was the highlight of my day. I used to run to the fence to say Hi to Sherman. He always smiled and waved. I think he liked our small ritual as much as I did. It wasn’t long before I was not allowed to wave to Sherman. The memory still makes me feel angry and hurt. I think it was my introduction to civil wrongs.
As I grew older I had many more reasons to see civil wrong’s. Black men stepped off the sidewalk when white women came by. Black women were not allowed to try on clothes at our prissy little dress shop. Black families were only allowed to live in one small area of town and I remember feeling uneasy when I walked through there. A sense of being intrusive and unwelcome was heavy in the air. When I lived in Philadelphia, I remember being surprised when a black woman pushed me out of the waiting line at a bus stop. I wasn’t angry, just surprised.
When I had my first child, again in Philadelphia, third day post partum depression came along and I was sobbing my heart out. As it happened I was in a ward of five black women and one white woman (me). One of them asked me what was wrong and my naive , stupid reply was “I think y’all hate me because of my accent”. Of course, they gently reassured me and life was fine again. How very kind they were. I’ll never forget that day.
In my heart, I have zero racial issues but maybe it is from the subtle entitlement given to all white folks. Roving groups of young men make me a little fearful but it isn’t about race. Young men rarely have good sense when they travel in packs.
What I really feel is shame and guilt. I have tried, cried, spoken out, voted and done all I knew how to do to make things right. It was never enough but maybe it was something to add to the efforts of other like minded people.
I fervently hope when the tables are turned, and they will be turned as sure as there is life and a dream, karma doesn’t give us back all we white folks have earned. I hope, when all of the world power is brown or black, they will be more humane than we have been. I won’t be around to see it but I hope they remember we weren’t all bad
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