Shades Of Black And White

I was raised to be racist, filled with hate and ignorance. I'm not certain what happened, but it didn't turn out the way they wanted it to.

From the time I was very young, about five or six, perhaps even younger, I can recall the jokes. The snickering, snide comments. Then came the irrational fear when the race riots began in 1964. The move in 1966 from my childhood home of ten years occurred because there were actually black people living a few blocks away.

Yes, I was brought up by some fine standards. I think I heard this joke a few hundred times:

"I don't have anything against colored people. In fact, I think everybody should own two or three."

And this was always followed by ugly, sneaky laughter because he thought that was as funny the first time as it was the 387th time. I heard it so much that when I was maybe nine or ten, I thought I might try it out myself. Didn't feel good, it felt slimy and slippery in my mouth; my voice cracked and my face burned and for some reason I couldn't get the laugh right at the end. I just couldn't figure out then why I couldn't tell it as good as he could.

So anyway we moved. I was ten. Moved from a neighborhood and school where blacks and whites lived and learned side by side. Sure there were problems, but it was home, my friends of both colors were there, it was what I had always known and it worked. We moved to a neighborhood and school where everyone was the same color of white. But were we equal? Hell no. I realized later in life that the move introduced me to prejudice outside the home. Until then, I had only witnessed it inside the home. You see we moved to the part of town where the lofty "haves" discriminated against the "have nots". I was a "have not". Oh the irony.






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Maybe you can imagine my ten year old confusion. This was not helped at all when the man who wanted to own a few colored people and the woman who was terrified of them couldn't understand my questions, much less answer them. In fact, they said I was ungrateful and a little stupid not to appreciate and love this wonderful place they had brought us to.

So much confusion and so much to learn. But where was one ten year old, confused white girl growing up in the Midwest in the 60's and 70's going to learn all she needed to know about race and people and the ugly stuff in between?

I went from one world to another and the two couldn't have been more different. One day I'm in a school with a diverse group of kids. Black, white, poor and not so poor. Now I'm in a school where everyone is the same color and the privileged looked down on the rest of us. So confusing.






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Even more confusing was we now drove through the neighborhoods we used to be a part of. It was like there was a line that went through the town. You crossed it to get somewhere and then went back again. When we were inside the line, he treated us to some new comments like:

"There's a stop sign up ahead, everybody lock your doors."

"You know it's hot out today, look at all the porch monkeys hanging out."

"The crops must be ready, I've never seen so many spics and pickle pickers around here."






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Followed by that nasty laugh. I can still hear it in my mind. The man you need for your role model, the man you look up to, the man you adore makes you feel a little sick and ashamed inside. So confusing. And you can't ask questions, because there are no answers.

And so it went. Junior High and High School came and went . Both schools were all white schools in my memory, however looking back through old year books there was one boy a couple of years younger. I wonder what his memories are.

I grew up in a culturally stagnant world. Stuck in one sided views, not just about race, it was one sided everything. The fashion, food, politics,family values and even dreams. We were all boring, stagnant, one sided replicas of each other.

The expectation was to grow up, listen to and believe everything you are told. Don't ask questions, and for crying out loud, don't deviate. Get out of high school, get a job at a factory, marry a nice quite boy who was afraid to deviate, get a little square house that's close by and have babies. Babies you would unquestionably raise exactly the same way you were raised. That nice quite boy would learn over time to tell those same jokes and laugh that same laugh.

I don't know how it happened, but I was a disappointment. To them, not to myself.

So I grew up resisting their expectations. Left home very young and came back, although I continued living by my rules. Each instance against the grain met with an expulsion from the family. Sometimes for a year or two, usually for a few months. The nasty taste of conditional love has lingered in my mouth for as long as I can remember. Looking back I often wonder why it mattered so much, why it hurt and why did I still crave their acceptance.

My rebellion continued for the next decade or so. Each time I went "too far" the conditional love card was played, their way or I was out. I always chose to be out.






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Then I did it, I conformed. I married, not someone they would choose by any means, but I guess close enough as long as I produced grandchildren.

For the next eight years came the endless demands for babies. Finally one came, a boy. Suddenly I was in their good graces, but for a short time. The news of a move to another state meant yet another two year silent punishment from my "family".

As life would have it, a divorce occurred a short time later and there I was starting over. They wanted to help, truly they did. The conditions were simple, if I moved back into their home and played their way. Period.

God, I would have died first. So I became successful in a career, my son struggled from too much time on his own, but we were making it. For nine years we made it.

And Then Life Changed...

He came into my life. He put no conditions on me, and accepted me for who I am, even my faults, fears and vulnerabilities. He celebrated our relationship every day, still does to this day. He was there every step of the way, encouraging and supporting me. He shared his every emotion and thought with me. He gave me everything I needed to make me whole. He made me feel secure, safe and happy. A relationship without conditions. He taught me how to truly love and I felt blessed.

What parent wouldn't want that for their child?

Not mine.

I met my proverbial prince charming, soul mate, life partner. Finally, after 50 years, life was complete for me.

We made plans to bring our lives together. A new home, in a new state. Combining our children, my son and his daughters. Sure it was a big step, huge in fact. The kids would be in different schools making all new friends. I would stay home instead of working endless hours in a demanding career. He would provide for five instead of three. We would all be adjusting to living with new family members.

The certainty was we were doing the right thing. We would be together, giving our children the opportunities a stay at home mom provides, moving out of the city to a small town with good values and a better quality of life. We were making good choices to take care of ourselves and our children.






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The one dark spot, that feeling of impending dread was the moment I would tell them.

Him with his ignorant jokes and comments and her with her fear and disdain. The certainty of rejection yet again. The rejection I felt so many times I had lost count.

The dread was so consuming and intense I chose to tell them nothing at all for quite some time. Then when the move was near, I told them what truly mattered. That I had meant "the one", that I was insanely happy and couldn't wait to begin my life with him. The opportunity for them to celebrate my happiness didn't occur, however the interrogations began. The demands to do this the "right way" and bring him to them for inspection and approval.

I answered each question, fielded the demands and continually assured them I was happy and wasn't that what they wanted most of all for me? I thought once it was established my happiness was ultimately most important, perhaps the rest would be easier to accept. Yes, I know, we all have foolish hopes during stressful times.

Then one day came the direct question that required a direct answer. This came from her, over the phone on the other side of the country: "I don't understand all this, what is the problem? Is he black or something?"

And so I took a deep breath and answered her question.

When I answered her question, my heart was painfully aware our relationship was forever changed. So many times in the past when I endured her rejection, I always knew it would be for a season, never permanent. This was different.

The statements and questions that followed were almost comical.

"You're kidding.......Shirl, please tell me you are kidding."

Then the question that will remain in my mind forever.

""Well, how black is he? Dark black or light skinned?"

How black is he?? Like maybe he could pass?? I replied in defense and yes I admit it, retaliation: "It's the kind of black that doesn't wash off. " Still rebellious and defiant.

You can imagine her reaction.

I felt shame then. Shame to have come from someone capable of thinking in those terms. It was during that time I came to understand the unexplained, confused emotion I felt growing up. Shame. I was ashamed of the ugly behavior of those I should have looked up to. How did I know to feel that as a child? How was I able to see the wrong without being taught first that it was wrong?






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The real ugliness was yet to come.

He called a few days later. Began by telling me that I was a disappointment and how ashamed they were of me. The irony almost made me laugh out loud. He told me it wasn't an issue of my happiness because it would never work. And finally the statement that to this day makes me laugh and cry at the same time:

""You know it's one thing to have a black boy friend, but quite another to have a black husband. You don't know what you are getting into."

I was speechless and frozen.

Not only is he a racist, but a hypocritical one at that. Like this was an experiment I had to get out of my system and then get on with my life. Like I'm a child going through a "phase" that will surely pass. Like it's OK, as long as it's not permanent, so the relatives and neighbors won't find out. You know, the people who's feelings really matter.

To this day I can't recall the remainder of that conversation. I do remember sharing that the disappointment and shame was mutually felt. We hung up with him asking me to reconsider.

That is the last time we spoke.






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Now it is my son's turn in this family of conditions and hate to experience the rejection of being cast aside. I prepared him as best I could about life. I must say I am successful at raising a color blind child.

He understands that others in the world have racial prejudice and has observed it in small doses, often on his visits to his grand parents up north.

In the home the two of us shared for nine years across the country from my family and their narrow views, there were no lines drawn. Our lives intersected diverse differences of race, religion, social status, color, and sexual preference, without issue or question. We believe it's the fabric of the person inside that determines who they are and whether they should be accepted in our lives.

The move to a new state no doubt caused some apprehension in his mind as it would any thirteen year old, new friends, new school and so on. Certainly between that and normal teenage angst, he was brimming with emotion. Needing pity, however, hadn't occurred to him.

On his fourteenth birthday several weeks following our move, he received their phone call. Rather than wishing him well, they relayed their pity to him, informing him of his horrific situation and how difficult his life would be, "you know, under the circumstances."

Confusion was his first reaction, then upon realizing the message delivered, that burst of indignation when faced with an injustice. As I recall the conversation ended abruptly and awkwardly.






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And then, like me, he was cast aside. The grandchild they treasured, spoiled and doted on. The grandchild they demanded from me all those years and finally were blessed with. The grandchild who's pictures were everywhere in their home. Are those pictures still there alongside mine, or are those memories also cast aside?

The hurt I have felt from them has hardened and become very dull over the years. Now the hurt I feel for my son, this is a pain I feel deeply. Partly because I know first hand how he must feel and also because as a mother, I was unable to protect him from this pain.

But like his mother, this young man is strong and is surviving and thriving in this difficult world.

Here we are two plus years later. My wonderful son is becoming a wonderful man. I now have two beautiful daughters, nine and ten years old whose own mother, ironically, tossed them away. A coincidence they wound up with me? I don't think so.

And I am with my prince charming, my best friend forever. The man I am certain I loved as much in a past life as I do in this one and will love just as much in the next life.

So where do I go from here? Do I carry this heavy load called my past on my back forever? Let it weigh me down, slow me up and cast it's shadow on our happiness? Do I allow it to live rent free in my mind where if not closely guarded, it will spread and infect our lives like a sickness?

In the past, when I committed some perceived sin and was put out, it was me who offered the peace treaty. I made that first contact, demonstrated some type of remorse, that while insincere, pacified the situation enough to re-establish myself into the family. Until the next time. Then the tedious pattern would repeat itself. Conditional love at it's best.

But the past issues didn't involve my life partner. The past issues weren't about racism and the ugliness that surrounds it. I believe in life we all have to stand for something. Throughout my childhood I lived surrounded by racism and at some level I always knew it was wrong. But a child I was never the less and taking a stand on morals wasn't something I was equipped to do. Now I can.

So I made a decision. I found happiness, found my best friend, my anchor in a very tough world. If the two people who gave me life will deny me this, then so be it. They chose hate filled, ignorant beliefs over their child's happiness. If that is what they choose to stand for, truly the choice is theirs. But I am a big girl now who gets to make her own decisions and it's an easy one to make.






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As time goes on though it's all the gray areas that cloud the way of what was a black and white decision. This brings on doubts and hard to answer questions. It brings lies and hypocrisies to the surface. These gray areas I struggle to control, and they continue to affect my life. It brings on many debates both within my own mind and with my husband. It's part of that baggage, the heavy load I speak of. And I want to share it with you.