I hopped off the last step of the long yellow school bus, making sure my new black patent leather shoes made a loud tap so others would look down at my feet. Although we were beyond poor, Mother made sure I had the proper attire for today’s outing. The dress code was spelled out in the field trip permission slip, declaring this as a day to wear our “Sunday best.” Mother always said that even though we didn’t have much in the way of material things, we did have running water and a bar of soap. This was her way of instilling a level of pride in our appearance and how we presented ourselves in public. Just because we weren’t rich, didn’t mean we had to look poor.
Along with my classmates, I began walking down the sidewalk toward our destination. It was exciting to be visiting the city for the first time! The buildings were tall and I finally made the connection to the word “skyscraper,” as surely there were a few that either reached, or came close to Heaven. Our class was going to a performance by the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. I don’t think I’d ever heard of an orchestra until the planning of this trip, but I was excited nonetheless. As a matter of fact, Mother said she wished she was going.
As I walked, the melody of my new lilac corduroys made my friends giggle. They teased me a bit, but I didn’t care. They were the perfect pants to wear with my pretty new blouse. It was lilac, of course, with magenta and royal blue stripes. What made the blouse extra special were the ruffled collar and sleeve cuffs, and shiny pearl buttons. Mother also bought me a new raincoat for the occasion. It was nice enough to be worn as a dress coat, which is exactly the point she made to the cashier at the department store. It was rubbery on the outside, in the most amazing shade of cotton candy pink. The lining was my favorite part, with a grey background and multi-colored hearts sprinkled from top to bottom. I made sure not to zip my coat so the wind would blow it open to reveal the hearts.
As we got closer to the concert hall, a reception line of busses were pulled up to the curb, waiting for their riders. As I passed one of the busses in line, a pretty girl with thick black braids and lots of barrettes poked her head out of a window. She appeared to be around my age, maybe eight or nine. Her skin was light brown, kind of like my friend Chris’s. Chris Glaspie was one of my best friends in class, along with Mikey Linson. I played with both boys after school, as we lived in neighboring subdivisions. I looked up at the girl and said a quiet hello. She curled her upper lip in a look of disgust and shouted, “Honkey! Honkey! Honk, honk!”
I didn’t understand her reply, so I smiled and continued walking with my class. It didn’t seem anyone else found her remarks significant, so I wrote it off as unexplained behavior. Eventually, we reached the target location, checked in, and enjoyed the concert. Overall, it was a fabulous day.
I was raised in a rural suburb of Detroit, Michigan. Most of the residents were of Polish or Irish descent. I, myself, am a mix of Sicilian, German, French, and English. Despite our underlying lineage, the residents of my hometown looked pretty similar. Of course there were differences in hair and eye color, but that’s about it. My friend Chris and his sister Vanessa were the only people with brown skin. Their parents had white skin, but I never really noticed. We were just friends. We played together on recess with the rest of our friends, ate lunch together, and shared secrets. I never asked Mother why Chris’s skin was different from mine, because I only saw him, not his package.
Eventually, I moved to a new town, having lost touch with Chris and the rest of my friends. My new middle school didn’t have any students with brown skin, nor did my high school. Honestly, I didn’t think anything about race, culture, or diversity growing up. I was cushioned in my little suburban world; a little suburban white girl.
Around my twentieth birthday, I applied for a position at an optical chain housed within an inner city mall. Little suburban white girl didn’t know what inner city was, and only focused on, “I’m going to work in the mall!” I had to take the busy freeway to get there, not a route I’d ever taken before. I noticed the litter scattered on the road, along with increasing instances of graffiti as I approached the mall. It was very different than the clean roads I was used to driving on. Attempting to read the colorful words on cement overpasses, I had great difficulty deciphering the language.
I found many different cultures at the mall where I worked, and it was fun to learn new things. All of my new co-workers were very helpful and friendly as I became acclimated in my new position. I even enjoyed flirting with the guy who worked at the sunglass store around the corner. His name was Lamar, and he asked me out daily. One day, while chatting, he asked if I knew Montel. “Montel Williams?” I asked, thinking of the talk show host, and the only Montel I’d ever heard of. “Shit, no, Montel Jordan,” he replied, exasperated. After that day, Lamar glanced the other way as I passed his store.
Amy, one of my co-workers, was close to my age. At nineteen, she was almost six feet tall, had a long slender body and a beautiful swan-like neck. Amy reminded me of the African women featured in National Geographic. Her bone structure was perfect, a photographer’s dream. We talked about her boyfriend, and her aspirations of becoming a model. She was patient with me as I asked questions like, “Can you get sunburn?” and “How do you do your hair?” I was shocked to know that yes, Amy can get a sunburn, and she only washed her hair once a week so it wouldn’t get brittle and break off. We became friends, and even went to dinner a few times after work.
My other co-workers, Kim and Diane, were both nice too. I hadn’t really had the opportunity to get to know Diane as well as I did Kim and Amy. We worked different shifts and greeted each other in passing. My relationship with Diane took a dramatic turn one day while working the same shift.
I was heading to the one-hour lab with a pair of eyeglass frames in hand. The mall was three stories tall, and the lab was nestled away on the third floor. It was always an interesting walk, as I saw a smorgasbord of culture: Arab, black, Indian, Asian, punk, skater, and even gangs. I never felt threatened or unsafe, not because it was safe, but because I possessed a false sense of security. I didn’t know at the time I hired in that the mall used to close at 4:00pm due to gang violence. There were no gangs in little suburban white girl’s world.
After dropping the frames off and making my way back to my store, I saw five black teenagers gathered in a sitting area. I was able to get a glimpse into the middle of their group and noticed a woman’s purse, the contents dumped and scattered on the brick bench. Immediately, I realized what was happening-they’d stolen the purse and were looking for cash. I didn’t see a security officer nearby, and nobody else seemed concerned with the situation. My conscience screamed that I needed to do something, but I found myself paralyzed.
I rushed back to the store, where Diane asked what was wrong. I began to recount my story, but when I got to the part where I was supposed to tell her the offenders were black, I choked. I found myself desperately searching for a word that was polite for black. I don’t know why this occurred to me, but the fear of being labeled a racist terrified me. Thinking I had the perfect words, I said, “I saw five colored boys rifling through a stolen purse!”
Growing up, Mother taught us that race and skin color was never to be a factor in our treatment others. She’d grown up during the time of forced segregation and the civil rights movement, horrified at the images of black people being treated like animals. Whenever Mother speaks of how Jews or blacks were treated in our history, she tears up and says, “Can you imagine treating another human being how they were treated?” Mother made it clear that we were to look at others and, in her words, “Be color blind.” “A person should be judged solely on their character and actions, not their skin color!” She said this often, and in agitation, as the world continued on in a less that humane manner.
I absorbed this lesson, of that I’m sure, or I would’ve been more curious about my childhood friend Chris, or even the little girl on the school bus. As honorable as Mother’s lesson was, it didn’t prepare me for the situation I found myself in. Growing up in suburbia hadn’t offered any “real world” experience in which to practice my socialization skills with diverse cultures. I found myself floundering for the right words, non-offensive words.
Diane went still, her eyes turning into daggers that pierced my heart. “Don’t ever say that again!” At that point, I still didn’t realize the magnitude of my words. Diane’s face puckered as if she’d been sucking on a lemon. My heart began to bleed. I felt the staggering pain of my words. As awareness of my innocent ignorance set in, her face softened. Realizing my remorse, she offered an olive branch. “I forgive you, Tina.” I almost crumbled in relief at the display of her kindness. Why did I think “black” was so offensive that I needed to find a nicer way to say it? With patience and understanding, Diane explained the historical significance of my word choice, and the pain associated with it.
A few months later, I had the chance to work with both Amy and Diane. They shared a camaraderie that excluded me. They would talk about their families and use phrases I was unaccustomed to hearing. It was somewhat isolating, but I wasn’t offended. As lunchtime approached, the ladies said they were heading upstairs to the ice cream store on the second floor. My mouth began to water as I thought of chocolate chip cookie dough on a waffle cone. Amy said they could bring me something back if I wanted. Of course, I jumped at her offer. Searching through my purse, I discovered I didn’t have any cash to give them for the purchase of my frozen treat.
Being the resourceful person that I am, I pulled out my ATM card and wrote down my pin number. Extending my hand and the plastic card toward my co-workers, I said, “Here, take my card up to the machine and withdrawal $20 from my savings to pay for my ice cream.” Again, I was at a loss as both women jumped back and held their palms out in a gesture that screamed, “Stop!” They looked at each other and frowned. They were not going to take my card. I was taken aback by their resistance to do this task; after all, Diane and Amy were both honest and trustworthy. We didn’t talk about the reason for their reaction; in fact, we didn’t talk much at all after that incident. It became clear that I was completely out of touch with the reality of two black women extracting cash from a white woman’s bank account. In the culture they were raised, my request reeked of a set up. It took me years to comprehend this idea. I am convinced that had I offered my ATM card and the same instructions to two white co-workers, the outcome would’ve been very different.
These combined experiences lit a fire in me. I wanted to understand more about how black people perceived white people, and how they’ve been treated in the world. Did every black person experience prejudice? Was every black man in fear of being beaten or harassed by law enforcement? I also felt an enormous burden to separate myself from the hurts of the past and show how accepting and “color blind” I am. From cashiers at the grocery store to a karaoke DJ, there wasn’t a black person that entered my realm who was safe from me. It came as quite a shock to learn that the people I talked with didn’t want to address racial tension and cultural education. They wanted me to be myself. They didn’t want me to turn into another “whitey” with a guilty conscience; a “whitey” who tried to make up for hundreds of years of abuse and oppression. There wasn’t anything I could say or do to erase history.
There’s no such thing as “color blind.” To go through life this way is irresponsible and breeds willful ignorance. I’ve learned that black is not a dirty word, but a rich culture of beauty and tragedy. I have a social responsibility to become educated about others, no matter how far I have to travel from my comfort zone. I’ve put aside my sheltered upbringing and now seek opportunities to interact and gain knowledge of cultures that are foreign to me. I’ve made sure my children are enrolled in schools where class portraits display a rainbow of color. I will make sure my mother’s words are passed down to the generations that follow.
