I remember the day as if it were yesterday . . . the day the Racist in me died!
The earth did not shake. The walls did not split. The moon did not turn to blood. In fact, no one sitting around me detected the powerful shift in my soul. On the surface, NOTHING changed! What took place inside me was a different story.
I was born in 1953, raised in an ultra-conservative Christian home and influenced by centuries old perspectives that demanded segregation and differentiation based solely on skin color. Use of the “N” word was a natural part of my upbringing in the great state of Texas and necessary separation of the “races” was the rule. Living as a Racist was the established, endorsed and expected ideology. And yet . . . somewhere deep in the canyons of my soul, I knew something was not right. I knew that I was not right!
My great grandmother and grandmother owned and ran a “Rummage Store” in my small hometown in the Panhandle of Texas. For those of you unfamiliar with a “Rummage Store”, it was what is known now as a consignment store. Suffice to say that the Rummage Store of which I speak was not as classy as most of today’s consignment stores. The store was typically located in a dark, dank Spartan building filled with tables of clothes, shoes and home items stacked and tagged for browsing and buying. There was a distinct smell in the store – a not unpleasant, dusty smell that permeated everything there. I spent most of my “growing up” summers in that small West Texas town working to make sense of the obvious separation that characterized my upbringing.
Two things stand out in my mind about those formative years. First, the only customers to darken the doors of the “Rummage Store” were people of color from “the other side of the tracks” and the occasional itinerant farm working family of Mexican descent. It didn’t matter who walked through those doors, they were greeted by the matriarchs of my family as if they were long lost friends; however, the friendliness exchanged in that building ceased once outside in the “real world.” It was almost as if the “friends” with whom we interacted inside turned alien on the street. The second thing that stands out is the clear division between people in public places. I will always remember the “Colored” designation for restrooms, drinking fountains, waiting areas in medical clinics, etc. These distinctions, although a part of my “cultural indoctrination,” did not make sense to me. Every time I inquired about these illogical separations, I received answers that told me that that was just the way things were and that I would do better if I refrained from asking. As much as I fought against this injustice internally, its tenets seeped into the crevices of my soul and subtly, insidiously colored my perspectives, words and actions. This continued until that day . . .
It was the Spring of 1973, my sophomore year at Hardin-Simmons University. I was a conflicted “preacher boy” working to reconcile my switch from Bible as a major to Sociology. As I took sociology classes and was exposed to thoughts and perspectives that were counter to my cultural indoctrination, the almost forgotten internal conflicts of my childhood re-surfaced. I found myself face-to-face with the Racists in me . . . and I was ashamed.
Back in the 70’s there was a traveling group of young adult Christians – the Jeremiah People – who performed music and short dramatic “skits” intended to challenge the Evangelical Christian Establishment of the day into examining archaic spiritual perspectives and practices and then embracing change.
It seems that on that fateful day, I went to one of those “performances” because I was drawn to the somewhat iconoclastic stances they presented. I recall that the troupe consisted of about six or seven white members and one African American female. Near the end of the performance as the strains of the final song rang out, the members of the group came off the stage and began filtering in among the audience. Typically, I attended such events with friends but on that day, I had gone alone. As a result no one stood beside me. As the group descended the stage, something told me that the African American female would likely take up her place beside me; therefore, I was not surprised when she found my row, walked toward me, reached out and took my hand. I’m not sure whether she felt it but a kind of pulsating electrical current ran through my body the moment our hands touched.
I closed my eyes, continued to sing and in that moment felt the Racist in me die. In that split second I became profoundly aware that the God that I love loves EVERYONE equally . . . EQUALLY! In that split second the bigotry, hatred, fear, prejudice and . . . yes . . . shame, disintegrated and I found myself being filled with an awareness that replaced my blindness. The Racist was replaced with a new me. I don’t recall much after the program was over. I do remember turning toward my new friend and hearing the words, “I love you brother” and then she turned and walked away. I sat for a long, long time contemplating what had happened. To this day, I am not completely sure what took place but I do know that the shift was pronounced and permanent.
As with any deeply ingrained ideology or perspective, that old Racist works to reassert himself and influence my beliefs, perspectives and actions. When that does occur, I purposefully and mindfully re-visit that day in my life – the Day the Racist In Me Died – and reconnect with the eternal truths downloaded into my soul. Then, I determine to live more meaningfully in that light.
I can only hope that one day, the Racist in all of us will die.
Peace, my friends.
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