The Box: It's Soapy (Rachel's Race Relations)

Take a walk with me, for a moment, down memory lane.  It's mid-May.  I'm wobbling around in physical therapy, being poked and prodded by my knowledgeable (by knowledgeable I really mean "pain-producing") therapist who is twisting me up a like a pretzel for healing purposes.  There is a man on the butcher table next to me who is equally being poked and prodded for very different yet similar reasons; Both of us intent on following doctor's orders while also secretly despising the discomfort experienced at the hands of our clinically-trained punishers. 

At first glance, it would seem that we have absolutely nothing in common... not age, gender, race, context of why we find ourselves in PT in the first place.  At the on-set, we are two perfectly-timed strangers experiencing an instantaneous common-ground at the hands of clinical professionals.   This similarity alone elicits a friendly response from me, and it wasn't an entirely selfless one either.  It was a sort of an oh dear God, please talk to me to lest I cry in pain situation. 

Winning.

Sam (this is not his real name; less out of concern for the innocent, more because I forgot his real name) was kind enough to acquiesce to my desire for friendly banter.  The banter soon became an actual conversation upon the revelation of one fact: Sam is a retired school teacher. 

Sam's history of employment sparked a barrage of questions: How long did you work there? When did you retire? What was teaching like for you? Did you enjoy it? Call me nosey if you must, but I do prefer the kinder, gentler adjective: curious.  This was only the beginning of Sam's interrogation, however.  Eventually, Sam revealed that he was the first African American staff member of this particular high school. 

My synapsis lit up like a Christmas tree at this very moment.  I've yet to experience the honor of being the first white anything.  Thus far in my 36 years of life, the pigmentation of my skin has not yet been a barrier or even a descriptive worth noting.  Why?  Because it has not been an identifier that qualified me as being something or someone "new". 

The cornucopia of genetics that make me Rachel include traces of German, English, Scottish, Irish and Native American descent.  I do not have the warm olive undertones of my father.  Nor do I have the beautiful porcelain underlay of the fairer kind.  I carry the nothing-spectacular pigmentation of the general Caucasian blend complete with residual pock-marks of teenage acne.  Granted, Native American ethnicities have their own special box to check in the demographic sections of most paper work, but for the sake of brevity, I'm freaking white. 

Wait... I'm white?!?

My gender has come up against some fallout in various circles, most notably of the religious and professional sort.  Being a woman has presented its own challenges in society, particularly regarding the art of being an unmarried and childless one.  My capacity for rational thought has been questioned without regard to my actual ability to think.  But this has nothing to do with my skin color.

Economically, I grew up in a family without excess.  The five of us lived in a 999 square foot house which was not large by any means, but it was enough.  We didn't "keep up with the Jones'" which made little difference to me as I didn't know who the hell the "Jones'" were.  I do recall drawing little blue rectangles on the backs of my shoes to make them look like name brand "Keds."  I also remember the overall feel that if the Faded Glory jeans I wore were discovered to be something other than GAP, that I should probably just stick my head in my locker until the bell rang.  But again... nothing to do with race. 

I dug deep into the wrinkles of my brain to recall if being white was ever a glass ceiling I was forced to break through.  For me, it wasn't.  It isn't.  Was I ever the recipient of anger from other ethnicities? Sure, and it's maddening.  Have I ever been discriminated or felt judged because of my skin color?  Yes.  And it sucks; cuts right to the core.  Elicits a general "You don't know me!" from the depths of my Virginian soul. 

But I've never been legally prohibited from participating in life because of my race.  I have not experienced lawmakers generalizing what a group of folks are allowed to do because of my skin.  Not even the Native American part of me... it's not obvious enough.  And I was graced with having the "white" box checked on my birth certificate.  No issue there. 

So I pressed Sam further.  He was a native to the area and grew up in this very community.  He was a contemporary of things I only read about in history books: mainly, segregation.  Here.  Right here where I lived and grew up... segregation ACTUALLY happened.  This man, who was presently folded in half and standing on his head for PT enjoyment, experienced something that I have not... the prohibition of my person because of my skin color.  I. Can't. Even.

Sam did not tell me these things out of anger.  I didn't hear any resentment or blame.  For Sam, it was an existential fact.  He didn't know any different at the time.  It's not that white people were necessarily mean to him... just that, they had their place, and he had his.  It wasn't until integration happened that, for Sam, things got scary.  He shared that some parents did not participate in integration; less because they did not agree with it, more because of fear that their children could come up against aggression by those not sympathetic to the cause. 

Sam's parents?  Sympathetic.  He walked into school that day and was scared to death.  It was new territory.  He recalled some of the white children taunting him, calling him THE word, inviting him to go back to where he belonged... you get the drift.   Sam couldn't get home fast enough those first few weeks.  Luckily, for the Sam, the voices of the few eventually got drowned out by the seeming indifference of the many... and the occasional taunting of those who felt superior held less power over him. 

I would like to take a moment here to point out something important.  As I listened to Sam, not once did he seem to point any fingers.  Not once did Sam seem to blame his experience on anyone.  For Sam, it was the reality of his day and the result of old legislation that had run its course.  I was so enthralled by Sam's story that I forgot about the abuse going at the hands of my physical therapist.  I believe she pulled me apart and put me back together a minimum of three times. 

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Sam would go on to graduate, earn a degree and make it full circle right back to the very school system that once prohibited him from joining his white brothers and sisters.  Now he would be teaching them himself... as the first black full time staff member.  The irony, is that this honor was not necessarily a reality because Sam aimed to be the first black somebody.  The honor was a reality simply because there was no black person who had DONE it before him.  It hadn't been all that long ago that a black person COULD, according to the law books.

Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who heard first hand stories from ancestors about being owned.  Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who not only remember, but LIVED according to the laws that once, quite literally, divided us.  Sure there are those that continue to point fingers.  And there are those for whom this was never their reality, even way back when.  But it doesn't negate the very real fact that there are those for whom this affected.

Sam, oh wonderful Sam, returned to the very community that once told him that Black is sorta whack.  He wasn't angry... he just showed up, followed his passion of teaching young people, happily retired and now found himself still educating "young" people sitting from his new desk known as the "butcher table" in a PT office. 

I share this not because I am interested in pushing any one agenda.  I share this not because I have any interest in pointing fingers or hanging the past over the heads of us white people.  I bring this up because this is a pebble in the stream of our nation's history, whose ripples are still there... whether we like it or not.  Sam was... is... continues to be an amazing teacher, race notwithstanding. 

I'm not suggesting atonement for the sins of the White people either.  What I am advocating for is understanding the bigger picture; Understanding that our history has flaws and injustices and ugly parts that some are still reeling from on many accounts (race, gender, economics, stereotypes, politics, accents, etc).  I long for peace and community and the healing of old wounds... and the realization that not everyone is angry, but many live out their days on the anger of others.  To be the change, I propose being the presence of acknowledgement, of grace and of getting to the nitty gritty reality that we are all humans with baggage.  We are all humans with a story.  We are all humans who generally want the best for our families and friends... and that's a good place to start.  That's a common ground we can all launch from.