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Red and Yellow, Black and White... One of my earliest memories of a black person was sitting in the sunshine, braiding my blonde baby fine hair into corn-rows. It was 1964, I was 6 years old, and our totally white church was situated in the middle of a predominantly black neighborhood in Atlanta. My mother decided she would invite the folks living around our church to come worship with us. The lady that my Mom was visiting had a daughter my age. She was fascinated by my white blonde hair. I remember sitting in the sun, close to this little girl, and feeling her fingers braiding my hair against my scalp. We chattered about dolls and boys while my Mom visited with her mother. My memories of that day are as warm as the sun that lit the day. My Mom was a little different than the other Moms. In the summer of 1964, my Mom would invite black people to our white church. It wasn’t appreciated. I remember my Mom getting tense and upset during church service, but I didn’t understand what was happening. After church, when everyone left, my Mom went to the pastor and said that Jesus Christ told all men and women to come to him, not just white people. I remember her apologizing to the black lady with tears running down her face, and I remember her being really sad on the way home. When we got home, Mom gathered my brothers and I around her, and told us she wasn’t a trouble maker for bringing our black friends to church, that God had laid on her heart that she was to witness and bring people to her church. She sang to us “Jesus loves the little children,” and reminded us that Jesus loved all the children – red and yellow, black and white – and told us that there was no difference between us. I will never forget her saying that as human beings, our skin was like a space suit, and it was colored different colors, but underneath we were all the same. When we die, we leave the space suit behind, and we are all the same in God’s eyes. We lived in a white neighborhood. We had no neighbors of different colors. My Mom’s friends in East Lake rarely came to visit us, unless they were working with my Mom, cleaning our house. As the years progressed, finally a black family moved onto our street. My Mom was thrilled, and invited them over for coffee. Our neighbors were not amused. My Mom would get the cold shoulder if she was lucky, otherwise, everyone felt compelled to ask her what on earth she was doing, allowing her children to play with the black children. Of course, my mom took this as an opportunity to explain that Jesus loved the little children, red and yellow, black and white… but the neighbors weren’t swayed. In 7th grade, a black girl started attending my school. I felt sorry for her, because no one would eat with her or be friends with her, so I did, because Mom said there was no difference between us, that Jesus loved all the little children, red and yellow, black and white. As more black families moved in, more white families moved out. During the 70’s recession, my father decided to build a house in Fayette County; I was dismayed because there was nothing here but a Dairy Queen and a one screen movie theatre playing old (by Decatur’s standards) movies. My Mom was dismayed because there were mostly white faces to be found. Her black friends would rarely come down to Fayetteville, because the rumor was they had to be out of Fayette County by dark. Dad hired our friend Bo to do the concrete work on the new house, and every evening escorted him out of Fayette County. Dad came home to tell my mother how wrong it was for someone to be afraid of being somewhere due to the locals not being friendly. We moved into our new house the summer I graduated from high school. After being down here for a year, I did the opposite of most whites in the late 70’s – I fled back to the city, and enjoyed my diverse friendships. In the late 80’s, I moved back with my husband and child due to the excellent schools and to be close to my family. The black friends I had were from work. I hired Tish for a temporary position right before I went out on maternity leave; she was brought in to help convert a mailing list over to a database. She was so skilled that I hired her permanent. She became one of my most dependable workers, who could do anything that I asked, and improved my work group with her knowledge and helpfulness. Along my path as a manager, I hired many more black people; not because they were black, but because they were the best people for the job. They were skilled and competent, and they did a wonderful job for me. I didn’t see this as an extension of what my mother did when I was a child, but I suspect that my outlook was definitely shaped by her example. As I continued my journey through adulthood, Tish became a closer friend, and I had other friends who were minorities, too. I didn’t think about whether they were black or white, all I knew them as were as my friends. They came to my house on occasion, they were introduced to my family, and my parents always remarked on what wonderful people they were. My Dad was especially taken by Susan, who worked her way through Georgia Tech, and was as beautiful a woman that you had ever set eyes on. To this day, my Dad continues to ask about her, wanting to know how she is faring. That they were black was of no consequence to my parents; they still counted their Decatur friends as some of their closest. Through my friendships, I came to understand why so many black people were angry still, why people of color were wary of white people, and how prejudice still was alive and well in Atlanta. I saw it happen, I saw how my friends faces would close and become hardened, sometimes even toward me, because of my color. I had to face some of my own prejudices that I hadn’t even realized I had, but I appreciated (although shamed) having my eyes opened to what I was doing in ignorance. These lessons were learned at the knee of not only African Americans, but Muslims, Indians, and a rather interesting Australian. Talking with people of diverse backgrounds, I learned so much about how we all work together on this Earth, and how we all needed to co-exist. My friend Tish died suddenly two years ago. I miss her friendship; I often forget, and think to call her, only to realize that she’s no longer here with us. As this political season runs to the final vote, I feel her presence quite a bit, especially when faced with prejudice. In all my years, I haven’t seen the prejudice that I’m seeing this year in the political race. I feel the weight of all my friendships bearing down on me, especially when I ignore or try to rationalize prejudice that is happening in my presence. To back up a bit, let me tell you a little more about my larger family. We are West Virginians; Hillbilly proud, as they say. We have our own strong opinions, you have your opinions, and if they are not the same as mine, well, you’re just wrong… My Dad’s family reunions are always a political rally, with half the brothers republican, the other half democrats, and the kids a mix of both and independents -- all strong willed, all pro-military (most are retired military). It got to the point that most of the women just stayed away from the men, because they would all get bull necked, red faced, and start each sentence with “Now, SON, you don’t know what you’re talking about…” The men just loved the debates, to the point that they would debate late into the night, sometimes shouting, pounding the table, and cries of “Now, Son!” ringing from wherever they were gathered, until hotel management would shoo them away to their rooms, and then the next day, all would be joking and joshing with each other, until after dinner, when the debates would begin again. I tend to be more middle of the road, leaning more toward left when it comes to taking care of the sick, children and old people, leaning toward the right fiscally, all of which drives my Dad, uncles, brothers, and cousins crazy. They never know which way I am going to lean, but it exasperates all of them, democratic, republican and independents alike. I always vote my conscience, and it never makes anybody happy but me. In 2004, I heard from my friends about a speech given at the Democratic Convention by a young man with a funny name: Barack Obama. I ended up catching small bits of it, and found his speech on the internet and read it. How powerful his speech was, and I was moved by this young man, who was raised with one foot on the white side and one foot on the black side. I thought he was fascinating and intelligent. I’ve read his books, followed his career, and talked about him with all my friends – whatever the color of their skin. My family? Not so much. If questioned, I would say I hadn’t decided yet, taking the chicken way out. When pressed, I would say it was between McCain and Obama… and ignored the flack from family. Actually, I would run from the flack. Finally, this summer, when it was obvious McCain would be the Republican nominee, I made my choice publicly to my immediate family, knowing that the Republicans would howl (including my Dad and brothers). That I expected, but something happened this summer that has wrenched my soul. At the reunion, I stayed away from the men’s gathering. My favorite Uncle, a lifelong democrat who served in Vietnam, sidled up to me and said he heard I was voting for Obama, and I said, yep, aren’t you? No, he said, as he sidled away from me back to the men. I stood there, stunned. What? I walked into the house, still stunned, and came across another of my Uncles, another lifelong democrat. “Shurree, I can’t believe you’re voting for a N*****.” I stood there with my mouth hanging open for a good 30 seconds, just immobilized. Finally, I said “but… but… you’re a die-hard Democrat!” “I can’t do it,” he said, “I voted for Hillary, but I can’t vote for a black man.” Without thinking, I said “but his mother is white – he’s mixed!” I still cannot believe that came out of my mouth. I walked away to a quiet part of the house, and just sat there for a few minutes, my face burning. I was ashamed. Ashamed of myself for not fighting back. Ashamed of my family. I felt ashamed, as if all my black friends were there, staring at me, wondering how I could just let it go? How could they be so prejudiced? Of course, if you asked them, they would say “even if he was white, I wouldn’t vote for him because of …” and they would say something about him not being a US citizen, being a secret Muslim, having pals who were domestic terrorists, something along the lines of which we have all seen or heard. A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a Youtube video of a speech that made me ashamed of myself for not speaking out. You can watch it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QIGJTHdH50. As I watched, I felt Tish’s presence, and as I listened to Trumka, I felt moved to say something, to do something. I realized that only a white person can give these speeches. If anyone of any other color gave this speech, it would be reduced to sour grapes or playing the race card. The reason why Trumka’s speech was so electrifying is because he is white… and he was talking to white people. He wasn’t playing a race card, he was throwing the entire deck. I have been forming this article in my mind for weeks. I have played with it, messed with it, and rewrote it. I’ve been appalled, sickened, and ashamed. I have spoken with the children, because I know they are merely parroting what they’ve heard. I try to use their natural empathy for others to let them see how it would feel to be talked to like that. But to their parents? No, for the most part, I have stood silent, or just said “You’re wrong… That’s been proved false… You need to check Politifact or Snopes…” and other idioms that kept me out of the fray. I’ve played it safe. I’ve played nice. I haven’t fought back. Until now. So, Tish, this is for you. I hope you’re listening and watching over me. To the Democrats who are voting for McCain: You may say you have black friends that you work with, go to school with, play softball with, eat dinner with, but you are failing the one test that would prove that you’re not prejudiced. You might as well tell your coworkers and friends to get to the colored section of the bus, restaurant, office, ball park, or church. You should turn your water hoses on them, clearing them of your neighborhood. Why not call them the names you call them in front of your children? Why not? That is what you are thinking. You don’t even take the time to read and learn about what Barack stands for. You know all you need to know by looking at his skin. I can’t stand silent, because silence means that I agree with you. I do not. It is 2008. Your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren either go or will go to school with children of different colors. Your words at home POISON your children, and make them look at their buddies with different skin color, and make them think that they are better than them. They hear your comments about the Asian-Indians-Hispanics-Blacks. Your children hear you say disparaging things about the minorities, whether it be that they are taking the back-breaking jobs that we don’t want, or taking over the Dairy Queen/fast food/dry cleaner/nail salon/convenience store, or getting educated and taking your job because they know more than you. They are working HARDER than you because it is expected, because anything less affirms the things that you say about them. Red and Yellow, Black and White, they are precious in his sight… By the time my grandson is my age, he will be in the minority in this country. I hope to Jesus that because of the 2008 election, he will be treated with honor and integrity. I hope that the majority doesn’t treat him as we have treated them when they were the minority. It is 2008, and a young man, from mixed parentage, who worked hard in school to get the scholarships and loans to help him work his way through college; who took a low paying job because he wanted to help his community, the citizens of his state, to be able to afford to give their children the basic necessities of life – this young man, who believes that every person in the United States of America deserves the unfettered right to the pursuit of happiness and the freedoms granted us by the US Constitution – this young man, I am proud to say, I will vote to be the 44th president of the United States. God bless America and God bless Barack Obama. 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