My son was born into a white American family. We started
relatively poor. I was 17, pregnant and in high school. His father was a
factory worker at a chemical company, 23 and wondering how in the world he was
going to support a wife and a baby. I
went to a free clinic. It was the beginning, I suppose of the American Dream.
As we struggled in a one bedroom apartment, we made major head ways and moved to the fancy living accommodations of a two bedroom where no
longer was my son living in the hallway, outside the bedroom and in-front of the
bathroom. Our furniture became more than plastic crates
and I could buy material to sew curtains for all the windows and life was good.
Before long Jimmy Carter had passed a bill that allowed us
to buy a home with a government subsidized loan. We moved into a white
neighborhood with our starter home that, to us, was going to be our only home.
It was small, compact, but it was ours!
It had rooms the size of my laundry room in my subsequent homes but I
was overjoyed. As another child came along, we were truly feeling God was
looking down on us smiling. We were middle class in our estimation.
My son, by now, was attending a middle class elementary
school with mostly all white children, hardly any black children or any other
minorities that I knew of. He had grown into an excellent student for the most
part. One of his stand out skills, early on, was writing so it was no surprise to
me when he was asked to participate, one weekend in fifth grade in the Governors
Competition for Writing.
As I dropped him off, I remember seeing him walk in a
neighboring school with about one hundred other kids coming from the District
we lived in, all looking like they came from neighborhoods like ours, or
better. I left and picked him back up a few hours later.
As we drove home, I found out that he had won an Honorable
Mention but not placed in the top 3. I was quite surprised he hadn't won or placed because I knew he was by
far the best writer in his grade at his school. I tried not to show any
emotion and asked him what the subject matter was that they had to write about.
My son told me they were asked to write an essay describing
who they would spend a day with if they could with anyone they wanted to alive
or dead in the world. Then they were to explain what would they do, say or ask. For his paper, he told me he had
picked Martin Luther King Jr. I was shocked, here sat a white middle class boy, who, of all the choices in the world picked MLK Jr.
He then went on to tell me the content of his paper. It was
about all the questions he would ask. He wanted to know what it was like to
live in a world where MLK Jr was oppressed, treated with a lack of respect and how
he rose above it. My son wanted to know how difficult it was to confront hate and be so filled with
hope. He was planning on asking him if
he thought things had changed since he died, if black children were treated fairly and
if not, what should be done. And one of the most profound things he said was
that to simply be with him would be an honor.
To quote Representative John Lewis today, on the 50th
Anniversary of MLK Jr being assassinated :
Dr. King taught us to be brave, to be courageous, to be bold. I don't know where America would be, where many of us of color would be, were it not for him.
His legacy was to speak up, stand up. When you see that something isn't right or fair, you have to do something — you have to get in the way. Get into good trouble.
Reflecting back, the paper my son wrote
symbolized to me what racism is not. It showed me that hate is taught to children, it is not innate. My son was willing to listen to the oppressed
and learn from their experiences to be a better human being. I was proud that day of my son. I am certain it played a part in him not being given a placement for his paper but I really couldn't care less. In my mind, he won. Oh, what a better
world we would be if we all just shut up and listened, learned, cared and changed!
