That time I was
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When I said, “That’s the price you pay for being a trailblazer,” I intended it as an olive branch. It felt as comforting as sandpaper on a third-degree burn.
The Mosaic Experience conducts workshops to raise consciousness about racism so that we can finally get beyond this ignorant, debilitating mindset.
At the time of this story, a young black woman, her white husband, and their three children lived in Wilmette, Illinois. On the day that she picked up her husband’s shirts at the dry cleaners, a message on their answering machine read: “Mr. _______, your girl picked up your dry cleaning today, please call us.” Cut like a razor.
She and her husband were outraged by the assumption that she was the maid. Another day, another insult. Her husband marched the entire family, including the children, down to the dry cleaner and asked that all employees come to the front of the store, where he introduced his family.
“That’s the price you pay for being a trailblazer,” was my response. Although I intended to be empowering, my words were as comforting as battery acid. My observation was, to her, callous and proof positive that I am “one of them.”
While talking this over with a colleague, an accomplished black woman whose calm, steady presence brings light to the world, she readily admitted her prejudice against all white people. In her shoes, I would be too.
As I agonized for weeks over the hurt that I caused this young woman, I understood the genesis of my callous response. While renovating our old house, my parents rented a wallpaper steamer that, to my four-year-old eyes, was enormous and very scary.
Our house was more chaotic than usual, and no one noticed me. I went next door to my stern Irish Catholic grandmother to say that I was afraid that someone would get hurt. Instead of reassurance and comfort, all she could muster was “Oh, dry up.” Not that I would hold a grudge for seventy years, but, from that day on, she was and is persona non grata.
Being the black wife in a wealthy suburb where the population is 89.7% white and .06% black is to dodge many land mines of personal insult. I saw this regrettable scenario as an accident waiting to happen. Some insults are intentional, while others are well-meaning but hurtful, adding another layer to the sediment of resentment that all blacks must feel. Mine was the latter.
An essay by a black professional on NPR’s Morning Edition told his story of moving to Chicago’s tony North Shore. Anticipating trouble if he came home late at night and they didn’t know he lived and belonged there, he drove his sports car convertible to the police station to introduce himself as new to the community and might come home late one evening. Smart move.
In July 2009, the Cambridge, Massachusetts, police arrested Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates. His door was jammed, and a neighbor reported that he was breaking into his own home. The police officer didn’t think he lived there, despite proof that he did.
Four centuries of genocide against black people creates scar tissue, physical and psychic.
President Trump’s trademark is racism, and tragically, far too many in our country are right there with him. The foreboding worldwide right-wing tilt suggests that more and worse is to come. Although talking about racism is painful, we can’t overcome it until we talk about it enough to neutralize it.
