Growing
up in New York state, I seldom saw a person of color, but my Lebanese family probably
qualified as the official immigrants in the city. We were darker skinned than people
with last names like Anderson and Clark.
We did our best to fit in – we loved potato salad and fried
chicken, but we ate food our “American” friends couldn’t pronounce – kibbee,
tabooley and fataya.
Our
grandparents spoke Arabic to each other instead of English, even though the
first order of business my grandfather performed at his store each and every
morning was to post the American flag.
When my family moved to Louisiana, I was in middle school
and definitely the outsider. Trying to fit into the established culture of
Louisiana in the late 1960s wasn’t easy.
I spoke with a pronounced Northern accent and, worse than
any other social mistake, I was a “Yankee.” The prejudice toward people
different than those who grew up in that town was subtle but it was there.
It
was in the way elderly people of color deferred to the white people. It was in
the way older whites spoke to people of color, the superior tone in their
voices conveying a flawed belief that they were better because of the lightness
of their skin.
In the aisles of the Winn Dixie, I heard quiet talk of
the Ku Klux Klan, and whispers of Klan meetings in our Louisiana town.
But I came to see black people differently through a
classmate, Gerald. He was smart, funny and had a constant smile. He was the
first friend I had who was not white, and he made me see that just because
people are a different color on the outside doesn’t mean we’re different on the
inside.
But he still couldn’t come to our houses, nor we to his, and
that wall was one we didn’t think we could ever tear down because prejudice was
part of the Southern fabric of life in those days.
Not
only that, but people were scared. No one wanted a cross burned in their yard,
and there were whispered stories of families who’d had that happen because they
were supportive of civil rights.
The
Confederate flag was flown openly and proudly and no one questioned why we flew
the flag of slavery and prejudice at the same level as the American flag that
stood for equality and freedom.
That’s because the Confederate flag – like offensive
bumper stickers and racist and homosexual jokes at parties – are seen and heard
so often that society becomes desensitized to just how hurtful and damaging
those signs are.
But the time for overlooking is over. The heart-breaking
and horrible hate crime that took place in Charleston S.C. is a wake-up call to
the undercurrents of prejudice in this country.
A despicable
white man sat down in a historic African-American church and listened to members
talk about the word of God for over an hour.
Then he pulled out a gun and killed them, face to face,
in cold blood.
The word “monster” doesn’t come close. Evil, twisted and
doomed to hell are more appropriate. He won’t get the “mentally ill” or “terrorist”
pass from me. I won’t repeat his name because to do so would give him even more
publicity.
The names I will repeat, with respect, sadness and sorrow
are those who lost their lives that day: Depayne Middleton Doctor, Cynthia Hurd, Susie
Jackson, Ethel Lance, the Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, the Rev. Dr.
Daniel Simmons Sr., Sharonda Coleman-Singleton and Myra Thompson.
We can help them rest in peace by no longer ignoring subtle
prejudices. Take down those Confederate flags, and scrape them off truck
windows.
Stop
judging a person by the color of their skin. Don’t listen to the racial jokes
or look the other way when you see injustice. Stop excusing cruel behavior
because they’re “good ole boys.”
And remember what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said: “The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression
and cruelty of the bad people, but the silence over that by the good people.”
No comments:
Post a Comment