Dear Spike:
Before it gets too far away from me, I’d like to share with you the experience I had last Tuesday – and what I think it means for the world you are inheriting.
Tuesday, of course, was the day in which our country inaugurated a new president. I watched the historic event unfold from the base club at Hill Air Force Base.
There, I sat beside a chaplain named Carl Wright and studied the way he beamed as his new commander in chief took the oath of office and delivered the inaugural address.
“I’m having a hard time believing this is all happening,” he told me. “I just have a deep sense of pride and awe."
He had good reason for those emotions. Thirty years ago, the chaplain was a young enlisted airman, returning home from his first duty assignment overseas, only to confront some of the uglier realities of life back in the land of the free.
As he tells the story, he was outfitted in his dress blues, waiting for a bus outside a military base in Charleston, South Carolina, when his pride was wrenched off its hinges.
The driver pulled up, stepped off the bus, and proceeded to take everyone’s ticket — except for the young black airman standing in the front of the line.
“I was getting worried,” the chaplain remembered. “I knew there were only so many seats on the bus, and I’d spent all of my money on this ticket, so I said, ‘excuse me, sir, are you going to take my ticket?’ ”
The bus driver looked him up and down and then, turning to the white passengers, mocked the young airman for having had the audacity to speak up -- throwing in a few cruel racial epithets for good measure.
With no other way to get home to Washington, D.C., the airman took the verbal assault and, when the driver finally consented to letting him on the bus, took a seat toward the back.
“I cried the entire way home,” he told me.
I’m sure this will sound as ancient history to you. As the television in the corner of the base club replayed images of black man taking on the role of our nation's leader, it seemed as ancient history to me.
But then I thought to ask…
“Chaplain,” I said, “when was the last time you heard that word?”
“That word?”
“The word the bus driver called you.”
“‘Nigger?’ Oh, you know, you hear that word all the time.”
“I don’t mean in music. I don’t mean in movies. I mean directed at you. Like that. Like it was in 1979.”
“Oh, in that way? It’s been a few years.”
I could see him flipping back through a mental calendar before he answered more confidently.
Two years, he said
Two years. That all that separated this man — a decorated officer in the United States Air Force — from the last time he’d been disparaged in that ugly, awful way.
Even on days when the world seems forever changed, you’ll sometimes get reminders that this planet actually turns quite slowly.
You should not ignore those truths. But neither should you allow those momentary darknesses to snuff out the lights of change.
Chaplain Wright told me that he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the day he cried from Charleston to D.C. And he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking of the times, between then and now, in which he’s been treated as a second-class citizen in this land where all men are created equal.
He prefers to recall a day, not long back, when he stepped off the airplane from his most recent overseas duty in Iraq.
“There were people there to greet me, to shake my hand, and I was thanked for my service."
That, he said, is all he ever wanted.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
OF A DREAM
Dear Spike:
Today will come and go for you like any other.
The sun has not imploded. Gravity has not been upended. The sky is still the sky and the land is still the land and the sea is still the sea.
Today is just another day for you. And, in the very grand scheme of things, for all of us.
But it does not feel that way. No, today it feels as though the entire world has changed.
Today, a black man has been elected as our president.
You are still very young, but at some point in the next four years, you will come to understand that there is someone in this nation we call our president. You won't at first understand how he came to be who he came to be. You won't know precisely what he does.
You will simply know him as a photograph. As an image on the television screen. As a name spoken on the radio.
And when you come to this very simple understanding, the man you will know as your president will not look like any of the men that preceded him as the leader of our nation.
But you will not know that this is special.
For you will not know — not for a few more years, at least — our nation's great shame. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we held people in chains and sold them as cattle and kept them as property. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we kept people from voting and sent them to sit in the back of the bus and told them that they were not human enough to eat at our side. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we hung people from trees.
Thank God Almighty that you will not know. Thank God Almighty that when you come to learn these things, you will learn them as history. Ancient as the pyramids, I pray.
You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children of many races, colors and creeds. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children belonging to parents who look like your parents and who do not. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will be learning these things for the first time, too. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will not know that the ascension of a black man into the White House is in any way significant.
For as far as you will know, that is how it always has been.
As you grow you will come to know that our shame is not so ancient, that our wounds are still quite fresh. You will learn that there is still so much work to be done.
You will learn of a dream not yet realized, of a check still not cashed.
Do not be dismayed.
Listen to me, my child: The world can change.
I know that it is so.
Love,
dad
Today will come and go for you like any other.
The sun has not imploded. Gravity has not been upended. The sky is still the sky and the land is still the land and the sea is still the sea.
Today is just another day for you. And, in the very grand scheme of things, for all of us.
But it does not feel that way. No, today it feels as though the entire world has changed.
Today, a black man has been elected as our president.
You are still very young, but at some point in the next four years, you will come to understand that there is someone in this nation we call our president. You won't at first understand how he came to be who he came to be. You won't know precisely what he does.
You will simply know him as a photograph. As an image on the television screen. As a name spoken on the radio.
And when you come to this very simple understanding, the man you will know as your president will not look like any of the men that preceded him as the leader of our nation.
But you will not know that this is special.
For you will not know — not for a few more years, at least — our nation's great shame. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we held people in chains and sold them as cattle and kept them as property. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we kept people from voting and sent them to sit in the back of the bus and told them that they were not human enough to eat at our side. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we hung people from trees.
Thank God Almighty that you will not know. Thank God Almighty that when you come to learn these things, you will learn them as history. Ancient as the pyramids, I pray.
You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children of many races, colors and creeds. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children belonging to parents who look like your parents and who do not. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will be learning these things for the first time, too. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will not know that the ascension of a black man into the White House is in any way significant.
For as far as you will know, that is how it always has been.
As you grow you will come to know that our shame is not so ancient, that our wounds are still quite fresh. You will learn that there is still so much work to be done.
You will learn of a dream not yet realized, of a check still not cashed.
Do not be dismayed.
Listen to me, my child: The world can change.
I know that it is so.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
JUST LIKE YOU
Dear Spike:
A man I knew came home from the war in Iraq just in time for the birth of his son. Except that when the boy came out, he looked remarkably like the man’s best friend — the white man’s black best friend.
“Our baby isn’t going to come out a different color than me, is she?” I asked your mom in jest a few days ago.
“Don’t be silly, honey,” she said, not even looking up from what she was doing. “All your best friends are white, just like you.”
•••
She’s joking (I hope) but she’s also right about that. Most of my closest friends are indeed white, like I am (and I am assuming you will be as well.) For while we live in the most diverse city in the state of Utah, it is still... well... the state of Utah.
There are exactly two exceptions — my friends Sheena and Chhun are Indian and Cambodian, respectively. I know it’s not always easy for them being wheat bread in a white bread bakery. For Sheena, especially, things can be particularly tough.
“Just try finding a date in Utah when you’re brown, overweight and not a Mormon,” she told me once. “You’re more likely to get eaten by a Great White Shark in the Great Salt Lake.”
•••
Sometimes I wonder why they stay here.
Take Monday, for example. Chhun’s car was stolen, then found by the police and towed to the impound lot over on the west side.
When we got to the lot, the man behind the window — a big redneck fellow with a long mustache and buzz cut hair — asked Chhun to sign a document saying he’d inspected the car for damages.
Except Chhun hadn’t even seen the car yet.
The man seemed frustrated as Chhun reread the paper.
“Can’t you speak English?” he demanded.
“Yes, I can,” Chhun replied.
“Well, then sign it.”
“But I haven’t seen my car.”
“You’re going to see the car eventually. Just sign the paper.”
Chhun, who has a bit of a stutter even when he’s not nervous, looked flustered. He looked up at the man, then down at the paper. He looked like a kid who was about to give his lunch money to a schoolyard bully.
•••
My argument wasn’t any more reasonable than Chhun’s had been, but low and behold, the guy behind the window actually listened to me.
“He’s not going to sign something that says he’s seen his car until he’s seen his car,” I said.
“Oh... well...” The man seemed embarrassed. “You know I didn’t mean anything by all that. We can go see the car together.”
Gee, white man to the rescue.
•••
I’m not sure I did Chhun any favors by sticking up for him. It wasn’t really my place to butt in and, in fact, I may have been playing into to the same belittling racial stereotypes as the man behind the window.
I’ve been playing it over in my head. Why don’t I think Chhun can stick up for himself? Did I step in because I discerned that he needed help by reading his body language, or did I step in because I decided he needed help because he’s not white?
Damn.
•••
Race can be funny, intriguing and beautiful. It can also be ignorant, wrathful and ugly.
Most of the time, it won’t be any of those things. Most of the time, when you look at your friends, all you’re going to see is your friends.
But color exists. And sometimes it matters. And sometimes, without even intending to, you’ll find out it matters to you. Ignore that, and you’ll find out that it matters more than you think.
But embrace it, examine it, acknowledge it, and you’ll find out it doesn’t matter at all.
•••
As a matter of fact, that’s the case with pretty much everything we use to separate ourselves from one another.
White and black. Gay and straight. Christian and Jew and Mormon and Muslim.
I’m racking my brain to think of a single time in which any of that might matter.
And I can only think of one: White guy, black best friend, black baby.
And even then, the guy who I heard that story from — the one whose wife got pregnant with another man’s kid while he was away at war — he wasn’t upset that a black man had impregnated his wife. He was upset that his best friend had.
Love,
dad
A man I knew came home from the war in Iraq just in time for the birth of his son. Except that when the boy came out, he looked remarkably like the man’s best friend — the white man’s black best friend.
“Our baby isn’t going to come out a different color than me, is she?” I asked your mom in jest a few days ago.
“Don’t be silly, honey,” she said, not even looking up from what she was doing. “All your best friends are white, just like you.”
•••
She’s joking (I hope) but she’s also right about that. Most of my closest friends are indeed white, like I am (and I am assuming you will be as well.) For while we live in the most diverse city in the state of Utah, it is still... well... the state of Utah.
There are exactly two exceptions — my friends Sheena and Chhun are Indian and Cambodian, respectively. I know it’s not always easy for them being wheat bread in a white bread bakery. For Sheena, especially, things can be particularly tough.
“Just try finding a date in Utah when you’re brown, overweight and not a Mormon,” she told me once. “You’re more likely to get eaten by a Great White Shark in the Great Salt Lake.”
•••
Sometimes I wonder why they stay here.
Take Monday, for example. Chhun’s car was stolen, then found by the police and towed to the impound lot over on the west side.
When we got to the lot, the man behind the window — a big redneck fellow with a long mustache and buzz cut hair — asked Chhun to sign a document saying he’d inspected the car for damages.
Except Chhun hadn’t even seen the car yet.
The man seemed frustrated as Chhun reread the paper.
“Can’t you speak English?” he demanded.
“Yes, I can,” Chhun replied.
“Well, then sign it.”
“But I haven’t seen my car.”
“You’re going to see the car eventually. Just sign the paper.”
Chhun, who has a bit of a stutter even when he’s not nervous, looked flustered. He looked up at the man, then down at the paper. He looked like a kid who was about to give his lunch money to a schoolyard bully.
•••
My argument wasn’t any more reasonable than Chhun’s had been, but low and behold, the guy behind the window actually listened to me.
“He’s not going to sign something that says he’s seen his car until he’s seen his car,” I said.
“Oh... well...” The man seemed embarrassed. “You know I didn’t mean anything by all that. We can go see the car together.”
Gee, white man to the rescue.
•••
I’m not sure I did Chhun any favors by sticking up for him. It wasn’t really my place to butt in and, in fact, I may have been playing into to the same belittling racial stereotypes as the man behind the window.
I’ve been playing it over in my head. Why don’t I think Chhun can stick up for himself? Did I step in because I discerned that he needed help by reading his body language, or did I step in because I decided he needed help because he’s not white?
Damn.
•••
Race can be funny, intriguing and beautiful. It can also be ignorant, wrathful and ugly.
Most of the time, it won’t be any of those things. Most of the time, when you look at your friends, all you’re going to see is your friends.
But color exists. And sometimes it matters. And sometimes, without even intending to, you’ll find out it matters to you. Ignore that, and you’ll find out that it matters more than you think.
But embrace it, examine it, acknowledge it, and you’ll find out it doesn’t matter at all.
•••
As a matter of fact, that’s the case with pretty much everything we use to separate ourselves from one another.
White and black. Gay and straight. Christian and Jew and Mormon and Muslim.
I’m racking my brain to think of a single time in which any of that might matter.
And I can only think of one: White guy, black best friend, black baby.
And even then, the guy who I heard that story from — the one whose wife got pregnant with another man’s kid while he was away at war — he wasn’t upset that a black man had impregnated his wife. He was upset that his best friend had.
Love,
dad
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