I was not raised to be a racist, . . .

 

. . . but - I am white.

In my capacity as an employee of my local county public school system, I recently had a mother inform me that her daughter (who is black) had told her that two girls (who are white) said to her daughter that they "couldn't be her friend because she is black."  The mother told me she had already contacted the school about this issue.  I determined the names of the two white girls and let the principal know as well.  I honestly had no idea how this incident should be handled.

So, why would these white girls say such a thing?  How could they have possibly come to this way of thinking at such a young age?  I mean, kindergarten and 1st grade kids?

~    ~    ~

About 60 years ago my family lived in a small town in southern Maryland - I was in the 1st grade.  The school I was attending was Great Mills Elementary School, an old school that was built in the late 1920's.  

I have just a few memories of my time there, which was just for the 1st grade - we moved from the area before I went into the 2nd grade.  

I remember the school building was white on the outside and the class rooms had high ceilings.  Dark brown wooden boards made up the floor.

The newly constructed Great Mills Elementary School - 1928

A fairly recent image - it closed as a public school in 1980

I believe my 1st grade teacher was Mrs. Ridgel.

I remember the principal of the school was an older lady - Ms Greenwell - that I am sure of - why I am so sure will be clear in a moment.

Ms Greenwell - back row, center, 1928-1929 school year

I have two very strong memories from my time in the 1st grade - memories that have haunted me for much of my adult life.  That's right, I carry my regrets for a very, very long time.

Back in the mid 60's many neighborhoods, and therefor many schools, were racially segregated.  Great Mills Elementary was no different.
I distinctly remember that we had one little black girl that began attending my 1st grade class.  I know firsthand how difficult it is being the new kid in class because, since my Dad was in the Navy, we moved often, sometimes during the school year.  But I cannot imagine how difficult it would be as the new black kid in an all white class in the mid 1960's.

I distinctly remember, one day at school, Mrs Ridgel called me and a couple other boys in from recess and read us the riot act.  She severely chastised us for calling the little black girl "chocolate bar".  She said "I don't care if Ms. Greenwell is green, you better be nothing but nice and respectful to everyone who looks different from you.  Do you understand?"

I have no memory of how I felt immediately after that experience.  I just remember having the experience.

Then came spring, probably just a few weeks before school let out for the summer.  We had a "May Day" celebration on the playground.  All the parents were invited to attend, but I can't remember whether or not mine were there.  What I do remember very well was that all of us students gathered in a large circle around the Maypole.  

I distinctly remember at one point during the celebration that us kids were to join hands with the students on both sides of us.  And I remember very well that I was standing right next to the little black girl. 

I refused to hold her hand.

As she was standing at my left side I remember very well how she timidly reached out her right hand toward me.  I remember very well, me standing there pretending that I didn't see her.  I remember very well the several dozen students in this large circle of kids, all holding hands, and the circle being broken only between me and the little black girl.

I have no memory of how I felt immediately after that experience.  I just remember having the experience.

As I have aged, my ability to experience empathy, compassion, shame and guilt has greatly increased, as well as my desire for justice and my hatred of injustice. 

 

In my 30's, when I contemplated my horrible actions from that day in May, I felt a "twinge" of regret and guilt.  

Now, in my mid 60's, I am overwhelmed as I contemplate how I likely contributed to the many anxieties of the little black girl.

If a time machine were ever invented and I found myself holding a ticket for the ride, I can think of many places and times past that I would like to visit, but if the ticket was good for only one ride there is no question - I would go back to the first grade, that warm, sunny day in May of 1964.  I would look over and smile at the little black girl, and sincerely tell her how sorry I have been for how I treated her, and I would grab her hand and never let go.

bob

r.u.reasonable@gmail.com