My Friend With A Darker Skin! -- Blog Post - 2

 

This week while walking in my neighborhood I spotted a yard sign depicting a young black woman with an afro, with the message Black Lives Matter. Nearby stood a Little Free Library, a project done by a local girl scout troop. A page in the window explains these girl scouts created the Library “in response to our Nation’s issues with racism.” “This little Free Library is dedicated to providing you with books from diverse voices.” Thank You Neighbors!

    I am Caucasian, of the white race, a definition  based on skin color. An obvious distinction only in comparison to other skin colors. Skin color associated with race, ranges from black to brown, to white to red with many subtle variations. In the United States before the European immigration the red skin peoples now referred to as Native American dominated the landscape. People have immigrated from all over the world to live and raise families here since that time.  Some came voluntarily, for opportunity and a better life. Many came in chains, slaves forced to work large plantations that required great manual labor to produce crops like cotton and tobacco.

    I developed a friendship with a person with darker skin only in the last few years.  Brianna and I met over coffee with mutual friends. As we talked over time we got to know each other better, shared about our childhoods growing up. Something about her shares triggered empathy that became this poem. 

Time Alone!

Time alone, wasn’t
In my growing up,
Filled to overflowing
Sisters, brothers, cousins
 In need of  roof and bed,
Elbows and knees
Banging
Off walls and
Each other;

Parents always going 
To work,
Never knew if
Dad would come home;
The news 
Always telling 
Of
Ammo plants 
Blowing up;

Brother looked out,
Cause the place had to be neat,
When father & mother
 Stopped briefly
To parent, 
Before 
The second job
To make ends meet;

The respite
For the girl 
I was,
Woman to be,
To visit grandparents,
Where I sat alone
On a board
Grandpa nailed
To a limb
In a great oak tree,
Reading a book,
In peace;

I look back
From under 
Graying temples, 
A mother, widow,
Mathematician
Who survived a
Successful career;

Now a grandmother,
Walking grandchildren
Through learning days,
Who sometimes ask;
“Why Grandma,
Do you hug trees?”

I tell them,
“For the same 
Reason child,
I hug thee!”

Although our lives differed in many respects the emotional landscape of our childhoods shared similarities. In my house five children lived with mother and father. Three sisters shared one bedroom my older brother and I shared another.  For many years we had only one bathroom. Time alone for me occurred rarely. I lost myself in books. Our short street lined with large silver maple trees provided shade even in the dog days of August. In my first book of poetry I wrote “poem/ an expressive/ flow of words,/ that stirs,/ a visceral/ remembrance;/ that is,/ shared experience.”*  A poem works when words trigger an emotional response in the reader. My friend with a darker skin by sharing her lived experience brought forth in me an emotional response that became the poem. I related to her as a fellow human. The poem’s details come from her life, but anxiety, worry seemed to dominate our house too. I watched my diabetic father each morning give himself a shot of insulin at the breakfast table. Something he literally needed to live. My mother woke me several times in the middle of the night to help her when father’s sugar level dropped taking him toward coma and death. Pop I called him would be rolling around in the bed uncontrollably,  I would hold him still while mother poked syrup in his mouth with a spoon until his sugar level returned to normal. Mom had lost her mother at age six, her anxiety frequently spilled over into anger as she worried incessantly. Would her husband our father come home today? Assigned to be my father’s hunting and fishing buddy, I received the unspoken message as a boy, that I was responsible for seeing that he came home. 

Hunting gave me time alone, Pop would go off in one direction I another. Time to be with myself, walking slowly under, around trees that covered the steep ridges and hills of Brown County, Indiana. Forests filled with oak, hickory, tulip poplar, maple and beech.  I communed, drew comfort from the trees as I searched their limbs for squirrels. Quiet would take over as I listened closely to the sounds of the forest: birds singing, woodpeckers hammering away on a hollow tree, the cry of a hawk, the swish of a limb as a squirrel jumped from one tree to the next.  

Notice the poem doesn’t mention color at all. I graduated in 1968 from High School, grew up in a small city with only a minor minority of blacks. My high school graduating class had seven hundred seniors, a serious scan from the podium at graduation would have revealed only a few black faces under blue caps with gold tassels looking back. I had one class with a black my senior year, Mark the only black on the basketball team. I played football. No blacks played on the football team when I played. I didn’t know Mark well. Mark sat the bench mostly, when he did get into a game enthusiastic classmates stood, cheered calling his name. When he scored the cheering doubled. 

Rather than overt, racism seemed natural, a commonality, something living in the air we breathed; an assumption based on stereotypes, frequently heard in jokes, comments and stock phrases.  The “n” word certainly saw common usage in my youth such as “n….. work,” meaning hard, physical, unskilled labor. Still I couldn’t recall ever hearing one of my parents use the word. My oldest sister verified my memory. Our father never talked much about his childhood… only an occasional amusing story. Hardly ever spoke about his father who died at fifty. During a midlife crisis I began digging into the family history. My aunt Margaret shared some of her childhood memories. She informed me that grandfather had suffered from the disease of alcoholism a compulsion to drink which eventually killed him. My sister recalled a black woman living across the street had befriended grandmother as she struggled to cope with grandfather’s disease and raise her children. 

Brianna, my friend with a darker skin had only recently suffered a severe illness which had left her in paralysis temporarily. Joining us for coffee to frequently contemplate and discuss the spiritual journey we all share in life evidently helped facilitate her recovery. I am blessed with many friends, each with unique features and gifts. Besides having darker skin, Brianna graduated in mathematics, same as the black women portrayed in the movie Hidden Figures. Brianna had a successful career in a large corporation that makes heavy equipment before she retired. She’s intelligent, witty and dedicated to her family.

                   

As the yard sign says, Black Lives Matter. Democracy works best when everyone has a stake in seeing that the government works for the betterment of all. Currently we live in crisis; Covid 19 plus failed, divisive leadership. As an ancient Chinese proverb states, crisis creates opportunity. We The People have an opportunity to stand up for equality, move this country forward toward “A More Perfect Union.” In this November election we can vote to heal this nation, improve racial equality by honoring our common humanity. We can ignore the divide and conquer strategies of a minor minority party, focus on leadership that seeks to Unite this country, embrace the spirit of the Declaration of Independence which poetically expresses the truth that all citizens have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Amen!

Thank you for joining me! Be well!  May Peace be Yours!

Ps:  The Other Signs: “We Need Farmers”—So True -- They feed us. And — “In This House….” Highlights our best human qualities.

*A Journey In the Human Dilemma! Living a Koan — collected poetry and prose.