Once upon a
time someone accused me of being prejudiced.
I had recently graduated from
college and was teaching Spanish and English Literature at an inner city public
high school. It was not an easy year, but I learned a lot working with students
from every race and ethnic background. Paradoxically, most of what I learned
came from the problem students, and I had two of them in my Study Hall.
For thirty minutes every
afternoon those two arrived in my classroom with no intention of studying. One
student was black, the other was white, and both had reputations which meant that both spent a good portion of their
high school career either suspended or in detention. Together, they were
Trouble.
One day I walked into the room
after the bell rang and announced, “All right people. Let’s settle down and
open your books.”
All of a sudden, the black
student stood up so quickly that his chair scooted back and hit the wall with a
crash.
“What do you mean by people?” he demanded. “Are you talking
to the black people in here?”
Outwardly I remained calm;
inwardly I was stunned. The class, which up until that moment had been filled
with the noise of 17 students settling in their desks, was now deathly silent.
Nothing had prepared me for this, but as I looked at that student standing
defiantly in the aisle, as I heard the white student snicker, I instinctively
knew that I would not, could not
allow him to pull me down that rabbit hole. So I calmly told him to either sit
down or go talk to the principal.
He chose to go talk to the
principal. And on the way to the office he ranted to everyone he met how I had
singled him out because he was black.
Now, no one took him seriously.
Not the principal and not the students in that Study Hall. Still, as unfounded
as his accusations were, the words had been hurled into the air to scatter like
confetti and that bothered me.
It bothered me that he labeled
me in such a despicable manner and that nothing I could ever do or say was
going to convince him otherwise. He had taken the very essence of who I was –
the ideals and beliefs upon which I stood and taught – and reduced everything
to the color of my skin. And the color of his. How could I defend myself from
what he chose to believe about me?
The fact is I couldn’t. He
believed what he believed. The only thing I could do was continue to teach my
students with love and example. I would not let him change who I was and, most
importantly, not allow him to change how I saw others.
A few months later I had an
opportunity to address this issue when I overheard some of my students in the
hallway laughing at another teacher's quirky character trait. When class began
I drew a blob-like design in the middle of a large piece of paper and went
around the room asking everyone what they saw. Some students saw a circle, some
a black hole, while others said it was a planet or a man’s profile. I asked
every student in that room and not one single person – not one! – said they saw
the piece of paper.
When I pointed this out to them
they became quiet. They had been laughing at the very same teacher who stayed
after school to help them with their homework and who checked on them when they
were absent. Some of the students looked embarrassed, but just as I had refused
to let the actions of one student define all others, I wanted my little lesson
to be a reminder not to reduce the whole of a person to one, limiting label.
The school year ended and I
never saw that black student again. I don’t know what happened to him, but I often
think of him. I wish I could invite him over for dinner, or introduce him to my
sons and watch them play basketball together in the driveway. I wish he could
meet Sister Gaudiosa who has stayed with us over summers and Christmas
vacations – a nun from Tanzania who is a sister to me in every way but blood.
These past few months, as my
husband and I watched the horrific events unfold in Dallas and Milwaukee, as
images of angry protestors marched across our television screen, as two
presidential nominees continue to accuse one another of being racist, I often
think back to my first year of teaching.
If there was one thing I learned that year it was this: people are
people and ultimately – in all the ways that matter – we are more alike than we
are different. It sounds so simple, but if we can embrace that one fundamental
truth and see Christ’s presence in others, then it’s impossible to go to a
place where you can’t see past someone’s race, ethnicity, or religion.
Change is not easy. We can fight
racism in the courts, condemn it from the pulpits or broadcast its effects in
the news, but ultimately it’s up to each and every individual to decide on
whether to include or to exclude, to respect or to resist, to accept or to
condemn. It may seem terribly elusive, but to see a change we have to be
the change.
Think of it as a Revolution of
One in which we all play a part.
