Racist Interrupted

It was my very first day of high school as a 9th grader in Franklin, Tennessee.  And it was the very first day for integration in my county.  The year was 1971.

Neither school was big enough for all the students, so the oddly curious solution was for us to spend half a day at the white school and half a day at the black school.  In the middle of the day we were bused back and forth to switch places.

This plan was insanely inefficient.  For most of us, it meant two lunch periods back to back while this time consuming craziness took place.

After my first lunch, I got on the bus for the black school but unfortunately, all my friends went the first half of the day.  I quickly discovered the students were not evenly divided between black and white.  (Wasn't that the whole point?)  The bus was already packed, standing room only - and I was the only white student on the entire bus.  Wow.

Not knowing what to expect, I found a safe place to stand behind the bus driver who was also black.  I tried to look cool, like I hadn't even noticed the obvious.  Truth was, I was pretty scared.  Isn't it interesting how we often fear what's simply unfamiliar?

The only other school I had ever attended had just two black students in the entire school - Georgia, who was in my class, and her brother who was in another, also alone.  As I looked across the mass of unfamiliar black faces on the bus, I couldn't help but imagine that Georgia must have felt the very same way I did in that moment.  No wonder she never said a word and always looked so scared.  As I look back now, I'm regretful I didn't do more to make her comfortable.  She must have been miserable in our all white school.  My hope and prayer is that her experience somehow strengthened her and did not fill her heart with hatred and bitterness.  It's easy to see how it could do either.

Gripping the pole behind the driver, I steadied my feet best I could as we began our journey to the part of town I had only heard about.  My blond hair was long and straight and the girls around me were absolutely fascinated with it.  As a matter of fact, I was pretty fascinated with theirs as well.  How did they get it to grow in that perfectly round ball?  

All of a sudden, without asking, a group of girls began running their fingers through my hair.  They squealed, "Come feel this!  Feel it!"  Well, I didn't like it one bit.  This had to stop.  (My personal bubble is quite large.)

When I'd had enough, I flipped my head around and immediately felt my hair getting jerked and pulled in all directions.  Oh my word, I'm being attacked!  It turned into quite a ruckus - kids yelling and laughing while my hair was yanked out by the handfuls.  Everything was a complete blur as my head was violently pulled back and forth, back and forth. It was incredibly painful.  I screamed for help but couldn't imagine who would come to my rescue.

Suddenly all the violence stopped but not the laughing.  I grabbed my head and slowly turned to face my attackers, only to discover no one had even touched me.  What?  Apparently, when I twirled my head around to stop them from feeling my hair, I had gotten it stuck in the bus driver's fan!  It had gotten whipped into a massive ball of knots.  Fortunately, one of the nice girls helped to carefully untangle my hair from the fan, but I was left with an enormous rat's nest in the back of my head.  It was humiliating but I was also a little ashamed of the conclusion I had jumped to so quickly. 

As I tried to regain some kind of dignity, which was near impossible under the circumstances, I straightened my short little skirt, pulled up my knee socks, patted down my hair best I could, and marched into the black school for the first time, which I couldn't help but notice was behind a tall, metal fence.  Was this to keep people in or out?  (I later learned it was both.)  

The place was shocking.  I could see right away that the black school wasn't nearly as nice as the white school.  But how did this happen?  Didn't the same people pay for both?  It was filthy and needed lots of repair.  It didn't seem right, that's for sure.

As the year went on, I felt like I was seeing the world for the first time through someone else's eyes, and much of it was troubling.  Many things were clearly not fair or equal.  And even though there were uncertain, new experiences during that first year of high school in an integrated school (or schools) it taught me some lessons I will never forget, and quite frankly, some lessons I needed to learn.

As I have listened to the news over the past week I can't help but remember those experiences and be saddened by them.  I am overwhelmed by the tremendous responsibility we have to influence the children we serve at Blue Monarch so their world will be better than the one we have inherited.  We have a priceless opportunity that we must not waste.    

A few years ago, we had a little boy at Blue Monarch whose father was involved in the Aryan Nation. This man had passed his terrible prejudices along to his son, who did not hesitate to repeat his father's racial slurs out loud. Even the child's mother wore Aryan Nation tattoos on her chest.

But you know what happened over their time at Blue Monarch?  This little boy learned that we are all equal, that God loves each of us the same, and by the time he walked out our door, this sweet child no longer feared or hated people of color.  Even his mother had a total change of heart and perspective.

In this day and time, when it's well beyond 1971 but we're still hearing daily news about racism, there is no way to know how differently this little boy might have turned out if he had not learned this critical lesson at an early age and been exposed to a different perspective from people he learned to trust.  He may always be challenged through his ongoing exposure to people who feel otherwise, but I have to wonder...is it possible that a future hate crime was perhaps stopped in its tracks because a little boy and his mother had the opportunity to come to Blue Monarch?  

We realize we may not be able to fix racism, but I'm grateful we have a chance to chip away at it - even if it's through the eyes of one child at a time.  May we never forget the massive importance of that priceless opportunity.

    
But the one who hates his brother is in the darkness and walks in the darkness, and does not know where he is going because the darkness has blinded his eyes.  1 John 2:11