Somehow I got it into my big head, at a very early age, that my skin color could be a trap. A trap that would confine me to question only certain ideas, listen only to certain music, read only certain books, aspire to be like only certain people (in certain positions), and acknowledge only certain connections with people I encountered along my journey. A trap like that would overwhelm every aspect of my life and leave me always doing what I thought was expected of me versus what I actually wanted to do. It seemed to me, that when I found myself in a box (stereotypically speaking), the safest way out was to follow my heart. Besides, I reasoned, faith was the foundation of Martin's dream. Before I can question another person's heart, maybe I should take the first step. I should be the one to reach out, even if that meant leaving the safety and comfort of my group and going alone. Those words look simple on paper. In reality, they involve the constant swaying back and forth between belief and doubt, with which I am all to familiar.
As far back as I can remember, I was looking forward to how awesome my America would be once we got over this "race" thing. That was a comforting way to look at the many situations where my reality did not match up to the promises laid out in my first, favorite book: The Bible. I had the large print version, complete with illustrations and captions, and I knew my way around in it. The stories were captivating to a young mind and seemed to be saying that the future was bright, regardless of any current obstacles. Well, not exactly in those words, but I could read between the lines. Adam and Eve, Cain and Able, Noah, Abraham and Isaac, and Jesus himself had managed some pretty long odds and come out okay. Moreover, they did not have the shining example I did. It was in the songs from Sunday school: Jesus loves the little children, This little light of mine, and Jesus loves me; just to name a few. The overall message I received was good things were on the horizon. How could a kid go wrong with all this love from a higher power?
There were a few things that seemed out of place in my world. A few things made very little sense. I knew that most of my school friends went to church and prayed just like I did, so why was it such a stretch for us to attend the same church. When I extended an invitation, guess what happened? They came. Even though they were much lighter than everyone else at our church, they were not stopped at the door. We had a great time! When they returned the favor, I was slightly darker than most, but we had just as much fun. Apparently, the world just needed a few brave people to start down a new path. We were not the first and surely would not be the last, but we were there. In 2012, there are two groups still answering the same question: Those that think things are moving too fast and those that think things are not moving fast enough. I think they are both right!
The next issue was a little more troubling (but probably only in my mind). Around 4th and 5th grade, I went to these meetings of a group called The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). In the late 1970's (a tumultuous time), a group from our church attended a series of meetings for both the Urban League and the NAACP. In my head, I was already attending school with children of differing ethnic backgrounds and many of them were my friends, so to attend a meeting which seemed to limit itself to a single group was a step backward. The meetings, as I remember them today, involved mostly singing and praying. Since some of the songs were the same songs we sang in church, this seemed redundant.
From what I could make out, there seemed to be some doubts about whether we (the children) would be able to continue to go to the schools we were already attending. There was talk of meetings that had taken place and more meetings to come. They sounded like important meetings, but I was glad I would not be attending.
For me, this was the very trap I had set out to avoid. None of my cub scout buddies were attending any such meetings (that I was aware of). My teammates from sports were not. What would they think, if I told them I was at a meeting of the NAACP? It seemed that my life was divided into school, where this dreamworld existed, and after school, where we all returned to our separate reality.
On MLK Day 2012, I am reminded that many of the changes the NAACP was concerned about, actually occurred. It just happened so slowly that we didn't take notice. It was not until years later, that I realized the main organizer of the meetings I had attended (a school teacher named Mrs. Clara Luper), was a very important part of my being able to attend the same schools as my fellow cub scouts and sports teammates. I now know how history looks, when you are in it: blurry and confusing. The same events that I was ashamed to say that I had ever attended, I look back on today with a sense of pride (even though I didn't really understand or appreciate them at the time).
I was in such a hurry to enjoy the promises of the future and so pained by any discussion of the past, that I failed to fully appreciate the work that made my reality possible. But I was not the only one missing the moment. In fact, as I look back now, it was always the times when I was least certain about my future and most uncomfortable about my past, that I failed to take full advantage of my present. Sound familiar! That was (and is) the American story we are re-living today!
Fifteen years ago, I had a job that allowed me to travel all over the United States. I think about 250 days a year were spent in this exercise. In my daily routine, I would drive to the houses of people I had never met before, meet them for the very first time, and help them work through the claim process. For the most part, this went off without a hitch. From small towns like Andalusia, AL and Hattiesburg, MS, where history told me that a "brown man" might have a difficult time, my experience was the exact opposite. It was often the small town farmer, who insisted that I have coffee and invited me stay for breakfast. In Moline, IL and Seattle,WA, I scheduled appointments and met with clients in their homes, like there was a basic level of trust that we both acknowledged. In Wichita, KS and Scottsbluff, NE., the only animosity I found was when the conversation drifted to sports. Apparently, my Sooners are not as popular in Jayhawk country, Wildcat alley, or Huskerville. The few times that my thoughts turned to "race", when I was out on the road, I ended my days thinking I am living Martin's dream.
Not all was well on the western front, of course. There was a time when a car came barreling down the street behind my car, in a residential neighborhood. The driver whipped his car around mine and blocked my path at the intersection. He jumped out, pointing and yelling, " I saw you taking pictures of my home and I called the police". Of course, I greeted him with the biggest smile. Part of me thinking, I could probably take this guy and the other part thinking, I am sure this misunderstanding will be resolved quickly. While I was impressed by the take charge spirit with which Mr. Oblivious had accosted me. My level of respect went downhill from there. Since Mr. Oblivious was not deterred by the presence of a company shirt and badge (not to mention the car magnets), we waited on the police to arrive. I explained that I was an insurance adjuster working a claim, at the home next door, and that was the end of that. I was off to my next appointment, feeling certain that Mr. Oblivious was not a customer of my company.
There was another time, a man removed my ladder, while I was inspecting and measuring his neighbor's roof. When I finally noticed him on the ground, he explained that "I should not be at his neighbor's home when they are out". From my new lofty perch, I could soon see the police cruiser coming down the street. It seems this safety conscience neighbor was convinced that I had chosen to break into his neighbors home, Santa Claus style (by going down the chimney, I assume). The presence of my clipboard, tape measure, and graph paper notwithstanding; it was an error anyone could have made. Again, I greeted him with a big smile. Inside I was thinking, "Really! I am breaking into a home, from the roof, in broad daylight, in a clearly identifiable company car. Really!"
Incidents like those were few and far between, which is why they were more funny than intimidating. Having worked literally thousands of claims, all over the U.S., I can report that the America I experienced is one that I am proud to know (and one that Martin would have loved). While television may paint a different picture of life in 2012, year after year my friends (of all stripes) prove that Martin's Dream is at least a partial reality. On this MLK Day 2012, I know that Martin Luther King Jr. would have been tickled, if he were riding shotgun on my travels. In the times when things were less than ideal, it was as likely to be my lack of faith in people, as the other way around. Time and again, when I have believed people were what and who they professed to be, my faith was rewarded. Friendships that have refused to acknowledge or accept some arbitrary color line and more importantly, friends who bought the beer sometimes. I realize that is not every person's story, but I also know that sometimes our perception becomes the reality. I am looking forward, with great anticipation, to a day when my story is so common that it does not warrant writing. Who knows, having read this diatribe, you may be thinking that day is today!
