Here we are in the middle of February, Black History Month. There is so much to do for the cause of justice and equality across our land.
Over the last month or so, Shoun and I have talked to two agencies that develop films or distribute them. They both have wanted to know our history and involvement with the Black farmer movement. While Shoun has his own personal narrative, I have mine as well. People are oftentimes surprised to find out that my commitment to the movement goes back to 1994. It is still a curiosity, and perhaps more perhaps, that a white man has been involved with the Black farmer movement for that long, and in a variety of roles, expert witness, advocate, researcher, speaker, mentor to students, and now the documentary.
Beyond that, my personal journey has been to deconstruct family life, racist upbringing, Jim Crow south, and all.
People oftentimes ask me how did I come to this place. I wonder myself. All of us have journeys that lead to work against racism and for justice. Most of us do not just fall out of some tree and land where we are. We have influences along the way. Here are some of mine.
Growing up poor, and in a single parent family after the death of my father, there was an instinct buried in there somewhere for the marginalized. Add to that my mother's mental health issues and hospitalizations, and that shaped me toward kids and folks who experience that shame and all, those who feel, in the words of today, "otherized" and shamed.
There is the story of my family having a Black woman who took care of us and cooked and all while my parents worked. Her name was Cora. I wish I could talk to her family, find out more about them, and thank them for her life. There's more to that story, but will save that for later.
My father was a major influence on me in many and contradictory ways. On the one hand, one of his friends was a Black man by the name of Charlie. I'll never know if they were friends in the friend sense of the word or if the relationship was one of convenience as they both worked for the same wealthy guy. At least I know that on occasion Charlie would come to the house and he and my father would sit and drink tea on the front porch. On the other hand, were the words that came out of my father when he watched an all Black television program, "No kid of mine will ever go to school with no n****rs."
In high school I fell under the influence of Dr. Robert Lee Washington, my first and only Black teacher. In the preparatory days toward integration, Black teachers and kids came over to my white high school and some white teachers went over to Westside High School, a Black school only a few blocks from the white school. The mother of one of my younger brother's friends taught there. I had all of my science classes with him. He had more confidence in my abilities in science than I did. He even invited me to become his lab assistant and with it came a white lab coat. On one occasion, one of my friends walked by me and under his breath said, "N****r lover." There was a price for associating with a Black teacher.
A side theme here is that Dr. Washington often played his saxophone in my younger brother's band that played around East Texas. One night I went to hear them rehearse, and there sat Dr. Washington. What a cool moment. He was living out how to connect across races and generations by just playing his sax.
Then, there is the grocery store event that is frozen in my mind. While my older brother was delivering bread to the local store, I worked there, stocking, checking out, bagging, and the like. On one occasion, a Black woman wanted to speak to the manager. I approached him and said, "Mr. ........, that lady wants to talk to you. " "That's not a lady," he said. "Well, that woman wants to talk to you." "That's not a woman. That's a n****r." And he went off to speak to her with a smile on his face.
The final pivotal event happened at church. Our small town church was holding a "gospel meeting" and we were invited to invite our friends. I took it seriously. I invited the preacher and his family from the Black church of Christ there in town. I still recall the shock on the white men's faces when the Black preacher and some of his church people showed up. They were quickly ushered to the back row. After a few minutes, there was noise from the back of the church building. The men had brought out an old white church pew that was in class room and placed it up front, to the left of the pulpit along the wall. The Black brothers and sisters were invited to sit there. In a house of God, segregated. I was embarrassed, and embarrassed for them.
My denomination and my church in particular are still not good at social justice notions. We'll feed to poor, cloth the folks who need clothing and all, but we won't talk about racism or Jean Botham's murder or the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, or Breonna Taylor. Did I say that we are a predominantly white church?
There are longer stories about the Black farmer movement and my involvement. We'll hold that for another day.
For today, we'll just leave it here, that all of us have in some ways been touched by the hand of God. We tell our stories in ways that honor the movement of God, or we continue to try to figure it all out. Maybe both.
So, for me, for now, in the middle of Black History Month, my life has been shaped by a lot of things that have much to do with the marginalized and much to do with how we treat people whose skin is a different color than ours.
At each of those events from the past, there was a voice inside that said, "That's not right. That's just not right." With my father, the grocery store manager, the friend who insulted me, or the church leaders, something said, "That's not right."
What are your stories that have shaped you toward doing good in the world? What have been those times of the whisper of 'that's just not right?"
Very interested to hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment