Tag Archives: African-American

“Love alone is life…”

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Years ago, when I was a teenager maybe, I remember seeing a Star Trek episode that showed a man who was half-black and half-white in a struggle with another man who was half-black and half-white – they were enemies because of their color – and I remember looking at them, thinking, “But… they’re BOTH half-black and half-white… what’s the issue here?” And at the end of the episode we finally see that the reason they’re enemies is because one of them is white on the right side of his body, and the other is white on the left side of his body, and… yeah… I remember thinking how absolutely ridiculous it all was for them to hate each other just because they were colored differently on different sides. But it’s absolutely no more ridiculous than hating someone just because they’re all ONE color, and that color is different than mine.

The summer after I graduated from high school – which was about ten years after the Watts Riots –  I traveled with my dad to California. Dad had grown up in Los Angeles, and he wanted to revisit his old neighborhood and see his childhood home once again. As we drove the streets to his old home, I noticed that we were the only white faces in a several-mile radius.

Dad pulled up in front of a little house, and his face lit up – “This was my home!” he said, getting out of the car. I followed him to the front door, where an African-American woman wearing a house-dress and a really surprised look on her face, appeared. Dad explained that he’d grown up in this house and asked if he could come in and take a look around and go out into the backyard where he’d played as a child. The woman smiled graciously and opened her door for us and allowed us into her home. I followed Dad through the house and out into the backyard where there was still the avocado tree he remembered from his childhood. He looked around, said it seemed smaller than he’d remembered it, and started talking about the happy years he’d spent in this yard as a child. He went back through the house, shook the woman’s hand and thanked her for letting him re-visit his old home. Still looking kind of surprised to find these friendly white people traipsing through her house, she smiled back at dad, and told him he was welcome and it was no problem at all.

A block or so later Dad pulled into a gas station to fill the tank up, and a black attendant came out to help us (this was in the days before people filled up their own cars with gas). He had that same surprised look on his face as the woman in Dad’s old house. He smiled, and filled up our tank for us, and, as we were ready to leave, said in a friendly way, a big smile on his face, “Come back again!”

Every time I think of this trip through that neighborhood in Los Angeles I start grinning. I’m pretty sure we were the only white people in years who’d come nonchalantly driving through that section of Los Angeles. I remember the surprised hospitality of the gas station attendant and the woman living in Dad’s old house, and it fills me up with a kind of joy. I remember my dad – totally oblivious to the fact that he was in a part of Los Angeles that most white people might find threatening – happily traveling down “Memory Lane”, shaking hands with the woman in his old house, greeting the gas station attendant with an open, natural smile – and it makes me really proud to be his daughter.

I am, likewise, proud to be my mother’s daughter. When I was a little girl – maybe eight or so – Mom took my little brothers and me shopping at the local mall. As we were looking at clothes a young African-American family walked by, also shopping. A large middle-aged white man standing near us turned to Mom and said something like, “Those people should stay in their own part of town.” My mom looked up at him, puzzled – she didn’t know what he was talking about at first. He pointed to the African-American family and repeated what he’d said. When my mom finally understood what he was talking about her face turned red with indignation. She looked up at him from her height of 5’2″ and, her voice shaking with emotion, said, “That family has as much right to be here as you or me! We are all God’s children!” The white man realized then that he’d picked the wrong person to share his racism with, and sort of stepped back and disappeared from the store.

I’m really grateful to have been raised by parents for whom  the color of peoples’ skin was a  non-issue, and kindness towards everyone was considered natural and normal.

Thou to whose power our hope we give,
Free us from human strife.
Fed by Thy love divine we live,
For Love alone is Life;
And life most sweet, as heart to heart
speaks kindly when we meet and part.
– Mary Baker Eddy

We Are Family

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I had an experience a few years ago that has stayed with me. I was at a local Starbucks – drinking cocoa and working on some stuff at one of the little tables there when a pair of young policemen came in and sat at the table next to mine. I – being who I am – couldn’t help but listen into their conversation. I expected them to talk about their work – busts they’d made, “bad guys” they’d caught. But they began to talk about their wives – meeting and courtship and marriage. Then one of them told an hilarious story about a trip he’d taken to Alaska – I started chuckling at this point and they both looked over at me. I explained that I was really enjoying their conversation – they grinned at me and carried on. I realized as I listened to these guys that I’d been carrying around some prejudices about law enforcement types – and that these fine fellows didn’t fit the stereotypes I’d maybe built up for police officers. It was eye-opening for me.

I was really blest as I was growing-up to be raised by parents who took a very dim view of prejudice. There weren’t many African-Americans in my community when I was a child,. but I do remember one time when Mom and my brothers and I were walking through a Sears store at the local mall, and a young black family with small children walked by. A white man standing near us turned to my mom and said, “Those people should stay in their own place.” My mom – I am proud to say – was trembling with anger at his words. She told the white man in no uncertain terms that that little family had as much right to be there as anyone else and that we were all God’s children.

I think I’ve shared before the story of a trip I took down to Los Angeles with my dad back in 1975 – only a few years after the Watts race riots. Dad had decided to return to his old neighborhood and check out the home he’d grown up in, and soon we found ourselves driving through an area of LA that was very similar to Watts. I noticed this. Dad did not. And even if he had noticed, he wouldn’t have noticed – if you know what I mean. Dad is one of those people who doesn’t take much note of differences in skin color. He pulled up next to his childhood home, and without hesitation walked up to the door and knocked. A black woman opened the door to us and seemed a little surprised to find these white people standing on her stoop. Dad explained that he’d like to check out his childhood home, and Ruby opened the door wide to us, and let us in. Dad glanced around the home and then walked out the back door and into the yard he’d played in as a young boy. I remember him looking around the yard, commenting on the avocado tree growing there, and mentioning how much bigger the yard had seemed when he was growing up. Then he came back inside the house, shook Ruby’s hand, and thanked her for letting us in. On the way out of the neighborhood we stopped at a gas station to get gas, and the black attendant there seemed as surprised to see us as Ruby had been. After he’d filled up our gas tank for us he thanked us for coming, and said, “Come back again!”

When I think about those policemen at the Starbucks and Ruby and the gas station attendant in Los Angeles, it occurs to me that there’s not really all that much difference between them. Ruby’s home was full of pictures of her children – it was obvious her family was important to her – and the policemen’s stories were full of anecdotes about the people in their lives whom they loved. Ruby and the policemen and the gas station attendant had all been friendly and kind to me. All of them had a sense of humor and knew how to laugh.

Humanity walks on a common ground.  I think almost all of us have people we love and care about in our lives. We all laugh. We all grieve. I think most of us want to do right by each other.

It might be helpful to humanity to remember our common ground – to see that whether we’re black or white or red or yellow we are all the children of Love. It might be useful to try to see each other as loving parents might see their offspring – to see each other through the eyes of God, Love, Life.

With one Father, even God, the whole family of man would be brethren; and with one Mind and that God, or good, the brotherhood of man would consist of Love and Truth, and have unity of Principle and spiritual power which constitute divine Science.
– Mary Baker Eddy