|Marching with StudentsUnite in Selma; MLK weekend|
So now, I'm awake. I'm thinking about it, talking about it - asking everyone I can to wake up with me and start some real conversations. And boy am I feeling righteous. I'm on some kind of mission - I fill my tanks at the Center for Human and Civil Rights and I blog about it with you: "Hey world! I'm uncomfortable, and I want to do more!"... I want to know how to be better and I'm not afraid to make some mistakes along the way so long as I keep marching. I've found student groups I can help, I've encouraged young people of color to express themselves positively in an artistic forum and offered my assistance in getting them started. I've spoken at churches and schools and MLK events.
In short, I'm feeling empowered. I've got hope and I see change on the horizon.
And then I met THEM. The ACTUAL racists. Oh wait. You see, I'd been using that clever word: systemic. A clever word because when you fight a system, you don't actually have to fight a person. But one night in Selma, Alabama, I ran smack dab into two probable survivors of Bloody Sunday. And by survivors, I mean they were likely there (they are old enough now) and they were most likely on the wrong side of the bridge.
What does a racist look like? Well, these two were probably making themselves easy to spot. They sat outside a diner, smoking unfiltered Pall Malls, wearing camouflage jackets and pants. And... oh yeah, they were white males. In Selma, AL. Over the age of 65. And they asked me, like any good local would, with almost no suspicion in their voices, what I was doing here. Where did I come from? I told them about the march that had just happened, how Selma filmmakers were honoring the town with a concert and free screenings of the movie.
Without hesitation, Old Racist #1 turns to me and says: "You won't get me into that theater full of N*** unless I got a machine gun."
And the phrase "I can't breathe" drifted into my head. Oh my God. Ava is right. And the kids of StudentsUnite, who during the march kept pulling me aside and saying - "No one is talking about the REAL problems"... they were also right. Because while the true survivors of Bloody Sunday still honor us with their breath today, so too do the antagonists still live and breathe and hate.
My awakening is complete. And I'm done talking. Well, no, that's not entirely true. If I was talking before, now I want to shout. But more so I'm ready to ACT. To take action.
I spoke a moment longer with those old men. I foolishly attempted to change their minds. In the course of our dialogue in which I managed heroically not to say out loud that I was relieved they would probably die soon anyway, I heard some actual information. These men are racists, yes. They are incorrectly attributing misbehaviors and social difficulties to race. But they are also frustrated with those same systemic issues: the welfare state, poverty, criminalized behavior.
What I wanted to do wasn't change their minds - they have the same issues I do. What I wanted to do was change their hearts. Maybe that would be my biggest dream for the movie Selma - that it could change a person's heart. Because that's what art can do, right?
So I'll hope that a movie can change a man's heart, because I truly don't know how. And in the meantime, I've got work to do, fighting the system. At least now I have a better picture of what that means, and WHO I'm up against.
Good 4 you , and thankfully those haters (and all those like them) will pass soon,. Then moving forward we can all live in a world with mutual respect, understanding & compassion!
Proud of you but in many ways the old white man in Selma is as much a vcitm of his era as black folk were. He was enslaved in the head. King gets at that in his speech in Montgomery. Find the book by Paul Harvey, Moses Jesus and the Trickster. Good read. Also Taylor Branch's The King Years. You are a beautiful young woman. All the best
When my son was about three years old we visited a neighbor who was an old, died-in-the-wool, southern, stereotyped man. Overalls with no shirt, old tire in the yard. dead car in the driveway, and three generations living in a smallish house. The Braves were in a good run and as my son played with little cars on the floor the neighbor and I spoke of neighborly things. He brought up the game from last night in which the black pitcher had made an error. My neighbor began to say something like, "Good game but that nig....." He stopped himself and said, "Oh, I shouldn't be talking that way in front of the boy now, should I?" He knew better. He knew how he had been raised and probably knew that he would never change personally yet was clear enough to want not to pass it on. I did not expect that. My own prejudices about the stereotype that fit him sat in front of me. I am 68 years old and it is certain that things are better. It is also certain that there is a way to go, and open dialog is the major tool needed for continuing the cure.
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