Last night, as my husband and I sat watching CNN's "Black in America" series, I became quite emotional during one of the segments. It was when the discussion was about Black boys in school and the low expectations set for them. All of a sudden, I was back in high school, on Chicago's West Side, listening to a teacher tell me that I did not need to go to college because I would make a much "better maid." Her suggestion was that I learn to sew, clean, cook, and take care of children. That was her only option for my life. During my four years in high school, which was not integrated at that time, I never had one single teacher tell me that I could write well, speak well, spell, complete mathmatical equations well (and if they had on that one I would have known they were lying), nothing. Meet me after the fold....
But this is not about me, it's about my friends, Ilene, Bobby, MaddiAnn, Dorie Lynn, Eric, Warren - my friends while growing up on the mean streets of West Side Chicago. I roam those streets now with you in this diary, because I realize the pain and anguish that we suffered as kids, without ever knowing where it was coming from, or what we had done to deserve it. There were no psychologists to help us, no social workers who cared for us, no doctors to heal our wounds. We were out there, alone and fighting a battle we didn't start, and definitely would not win! The battles, my friends, consisted of always being made to feel "less than;" the white teachers who came to work everyday and offered us nothing; Black teachers who came to work everyday and did as much as they could to help us; principals who could not or would not see what was going on right under their noses; and finally, our parents who were working two and sometimes three jobs to feed us, clothe us, and keep a roof over our heads. Little did we know that the world they wanted us to live in, and the world we actually lived in were two different, and not so subtle, places.
We had our churches, our neighborhood hangouts, our schools, our fun and games on the streets during the summer. We had all of that. But we also had places that we could not go, people who showed their feelings about us everyday. And most times those feelings were not positive. We worshiped, we learned, we played, we sang, we danced, and we partied. But all within the confines of our own safe, little community. Our community was great, we thought, so we didn't need any other community. But there were numerous signs that told us we would never be what we wanted, live where we wanted, shop where we wanted, swim where we wanted, and finally, that those communities didn't want us!
When we went to downtown Chicago, the Loop, to shop, we couldn't try on clothes in the store. We were watched while we shopped, as white kids walked out of the stores with more merchandise than sometimes they could carry, to sell later. We were told we couldn't get served at the counter of Walgreen's or the Five and Dime. We had to go upstairs to the balcony at the movies and bring our own popcorn, because we couldn't sit on the first floor, or purchase popcorn in the movie lobby. We couldn't try on shoes in the shoe store. And finally, as I look back now, all of these things began to weigh on us. It was not very subtle, and we began to live more in our community and rarely venture out. It was safer, warmer, and more inclusive. We shared only with each other. We rarely let others into our clique. When we hurt, we told only each other with the bravado of youth, "I bet they won't do it again. We'll kick their butts." While all the time being frightened that something worse could have happened to us. But we slogged along, always maintaining contact with each other. Always knowing where each of us was. Never apart from each other for very long.
But life has a way of working out the details. Suddenly, life began to take over. My friends all moved away to other parts of town or out of town completely. Two passed away (Ilene and Bobby) from what we would call now stress related diseases. The others of us went on to try to make not only our parents proud, but make each other proud. We all eventually went on to college and began to live lives that we earned. But we have never forgotten Ilene and Bobby, they were our first deaths in a group that literally grew up together. We found out that they both had heart disease and high blood pressure. But when we thought about it and talked about it, we all decided that it was because we had tried so hard to live in a country and city that did not really want us there and made that clear everyday. Life is hard when you know you are not wanted. Life is hard when others make it impossible for you to achieve. Life is hard when you have no successes which bolster your confidence and help get one foot in front of the other. Life is hard when you can't look around and see success in the eyes and faces of those who live around you. Life is hard! Feelings that are internalized eventually do damage. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally. Your psyche never recovers from being told by everyone that you are not "good enough." And you either become successful, just to show them, or you become violent, again, just to show them.
As I watched the CNN special, I wondered about those children who have no one to tell them that they will be alright. That they are good enough. That to get an education makes you proud and sellable. That to take care of your children and be a parent makes you, and them, healthy, both mentally and emotionally. That to be a real man does not mean you drop babies everywhere and take care of none. That responsibility is not just a word. That they are children and grandchildren of people who fought the battle for them so they could win. That they are loved!
My friends and I all shared one thing - we knew that our community was there for us, even during the darkest times in this country's history. Our community cared for us, kept us warm, fed us, schooled us, loved us, shielded and protected us. But when we stepped out of that community, we felt naked. Unprotected. Uncared for. Unsafe. And we were!
I thought about those children, and it became clear to me that their needs, as Black boys especially, but girls too, are not being met. Not by their community, school, or church, and sometimes not even by their families. I'm sure they are doing what they can, but clearly it is not enough. An educational system that tells you constantly you are not good enough, will eventually make believers out of the very people they say they are trying to educate and help. We build a lot of prisons, but we don't take care of our schools. We imprison a lot of children, but we don't spend money educating them. It saddens me. It appalls me. It frightens me. It angers me.
We can all sit back and shake our heads, and wonder what the hell they want anyway. Or we can offer a hand to those kids, and kids like them everywhere. Just to let them know that they are not alone. They are loved!
This diary wasn't written to scold or cajole. It was written to give you a view into a world many of you may not be aware of. It was written because I am afraid for children everywhere who have so few chances and choices. Who have so few mentors. Who have so little!