Last week I wrote about where I'm from. It was a series of beautiful memories, all of which were real and true.
Today I was thinking about myself as an aspiring antiracist teacher. I keep turning the phrase over in my head, wondering what, exactly it means, and what I need to do to reach that goal. One part of learning to be antiracist is exploring your own identity, hence the poem.
I used to think that I grew up in a time and place that was free from race. But that is just not true. I grew up in a town where I could name (and probably still could today) all of the Black families in town. I knew who they were and who they were related to. I can still tell you the name of the only Jewish student in my grade, and I remember that when a Jewish family moved in on my street some neighborhood kids drew on their garage doors with soap and egged their house. I didn't understand why. Because they were different, I guess? I went to a public elementary school where every classroom had a decorated Christmas tree in December, and made Easter baskets in the spring, and we never thought to question it. I saw stories on the news about the black and brown people living 40 minutes away in the Bronx, and I learned that they were different and scary. Even in high school, I remember looking at my Black friend's (yes, singular) skin, and wondering if it was different from mine somehow, and also assuming that her only choice for a prom date was the Black boy who had moved in the year before. I never even thought to ask if she liked him.
And, at least one time, I was more than just complicit.
When I was in third grade, I did not feel like I was privileged in any sense of the word. Our family didn't have a lot of money. My clothes were clean, but they were never cool, and I was always kind of a rumpled mess. We were poor, although I never really knew it, since it seemed like a lot of kids were in the same boat. I sat in the back of my third grade classroom, next to a girl named Samantha, who was Black. What I most remember about her was her hair. Now I know that it was natural. Then, I just thought it was big. And when she put her head down on her desk, it came over onto my desk too, and that bothered me. (Of course, as a kid, I never asked, or even wondered why she always had her head down). So, I asked her to move. But it kept happening. Finally one day, I told her to move, and she was frustrated by that, and I think she may have said, "Or what?"
And I replied with a phrase that I had heard boys and big kids use, but which I honestly didn't really understand. "Meet me on the bus."
I don't really know what I expected to happen. I had never been in a fight before, and never have since. When I sat down next to Samantha on the bus that afternoon, her sixth grade brother and his friend immediately started chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" And then, next thing I knew, she was hitting me. I never hit back. Instead I started to cry, and the bus driver broke it up. The story, in my mind and in my family became about how the "bad girl" beat me up.
The moment I remember most of all, and which fills me with shame, was when we were sitting in the principal's office the next morning. I had never been to the principal's office before. I was what I would now call a "young" third grader. I was immature, but I was a rule-follower. In my family, I was known for being unable to tell even a small lie.
But when the principal asked what happened, that's exactly what I did. I lied. I said that I didn't know why she started hitting me. When she said that I instigated the whole thing, I denied it. I never admitted to saying, "Meet me on the bus."
I never doubted that the principal would believe me, and I was right.
I know that it wasn't malicious on my part. I was a kid who got in over my head, and I was afraid to admit it. But I wonder how that affected Samantha? How did she feel when she was telling the truth and the principal didn't believe her? I certainly never gave that a thought.
When I think of white privilege, that is the first story that comes to my mind. I don't know if the principal believed me because I was white, or if there was any repercussion at all for Samantha. Maybe he felt that he had given us a talking to and it was over. That's not the point. The point is that I, who was a terrible liar, expected him to believe me. And whether I knew it or not, I expected him to believe me because she was poor and black, and I was white.
Samantha moved away sometime that year, before coming back in eighth grade. When I saw her I remembered our history and tried to avoid her. One day in math class, she looked at me, half smiled, and said, "Hey! Didn't I beat you up once?" I must have turned twenty shades of red, but I admitted that she had. She laughed, and we became friendly after that until she moved away again. Not friends, but friendly. I never apologized, though. I wish I had.
So, how does this affect my journey now? I don't know, but I think it's important to acknowledge and realize that what felt to me like a race-free society was not. It's just that my race and my culture were so prevalent that it felt like the default. I'm sure it didn't feel like it was race-free to Samantha or others who were not in the majority.
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