You know, most people hate the fact that they’re getting older.  I, on the other hand, love it because it gives me experiences I can share with my kids at school.  It also means that I have lived through some amazing times and some not so amazing times. I think I get this from my dad who loved telling stories about things that had happened during his lifetime; the depression, swing music, gangsters in Chicago, the price of a movie when he was a kid (5 cents).  And because he had lived through these times, he was able to talk about them from a very personal point of view, not through the eyes of a history book.

And so, as I watch what is unfolding in this country today in terms of race, I am reliving my history in a way.  I was reading an email I received from one of our state representatives this morning and as he is my age, he was sharing a story that happened on his 8th birthday that had to do with a friend who happened to be African American.  It got me thinking of how my life was shaped by my experiences as a young person in regards to people of other races and cultures.

My first hint is in the form of a picture my parents took when my dad was stationed in Hawaii of me and a couple of my little friends.  I would have been between three and four.  One of these friends was of Polynesian descent and the other was Japanese.  These were the kids in my neighborhood and in the picture, we all have our arms around each other.  Zip ahead about three years and now we’re living in Biloxi, Mississippi and the year is 1965.  I’m sure you can see where I’m going here.  It didn’t occur to me that I attended an all while school as I was only 6 years old.  It wasn’t until I was talking to my kids one day about Martin Luther King and singing songs that it occurred to me that I did not go to school with anyone of color.  I teared up as I looked around at the diversity in my classroom that day. For me, however, this “lack of color” continued throughout my years when we moved to Colorado later.  A new suburban white school, and I don’t remember anyone of color. My parents didn’t talk about it and again, it didn’t occur to me that something or someone was missing.

It wasn’t until we moved to Kentucky that I began to regularly go to school with some  people of color, more as I went through Jr. High and High School.  I spent a lot of time in band and there just wasn’t a lot of diversity there.  However in high school, there was this one girl who played with me in the clarinet section and we became friends.  We had a couple of classes together and we would just get together and talk.  She eventually invited me to come to her house sometime.  So I checked with my parents.  And this is the first time in my life that I remember hearing that some people were DIFFERENT.  When I asked my mom, who then asked if my friend was black (I think her name gave mom a hint), she tried very rationally to explain to me that that would very awkward.  You see, what if in hanging out with her, I would meet some black boys?  And what if one of those black boys should ask me out?  I would have to say no, of course and that could just be a very awkward situation, so it was just best that I decline the invitation.

It’s hard to explain my reaction, even to this day.  Sure, I had read about the civil rights movement in history books and had seen parts of it on TV as a little kid.  But I couldn’t for the life of me understand why someone would feel this way.  I was angry. This girl was my friend.  We laughed together, rode on the band bus to contests together, saw each other in class.  But I declined her invitation and we eventually drifted apart and I have no idea what happened to her.  As I paid more attention, the older I got, the more I saw how my parents stereotyped people of other cultures and backgrounds.  Some comments were uttered in whispers as if they knew it was wrong but had to say something anyway.  There was some fear there obviously as I don’t think my parents ever hung out with anyone different from them and so they really had no point of reference.  Even when my mom visited us here in Lincoln about fifteen years ago, one of here first questions was, “where is the black neighborhood?” as though they had been condemned to live in their own section of town.

I tell you this because before that experience, I don’t think I paid attention at all.  People were people.  But once the difference was brought to my attention that’s all I could think about.  People were different colors.  And that makes me sad because I can’t change that now.  So as I watch my kids at school where again, very few are children of color, I’m very aware of their presence and I want so badly to make sure that they feel loved, included and know that my high expectations for my students means ALL students.  I just wish that my experience didn’t make me so aware of the obvious outside differences,  so I’m working hard to get to know these kids from the inside out instead.  And maybe one day, they will learn to do the same.