First, I want to say that I was initially responding to a diary entitled "[Updated] A Pictoral History of Racism in the United States is Everything." My response was sooooooo long that other responders suggested that I make this a diary. Second, I have written diaries before that were moderately well received, just not ever rec'd. I can live with that. DKos members are smart, meticulous, and helpful, but above all, intuitive. They know it when they see it. They know how to call it out. And most times, they do. They called me out. They made me do something that I was afraid to do again, write another diary. I had just about given up writing until I came to this place.
Follow me into the past where 20/20 vision is not always a good thing......
I have a lot to say about racism in this country that I love. But I won't say it all here, so exhale! My beloved grandparents lived during a time when it was acceptable to make Black people step off the sidewalk so that whites could pass, it was acceptable to not speak until you were specifically spoken to, it was acceptable to hang your head, to shuffle, to whisper when you spoke. I remember these times and sometimes I cry for my grandparents, and other folks who lived it, wept over it, and got up the next day and did the same thing all over again.
Everytime I see pictures from a time that we all hoped had passed, I am sickened and angered. Man's inhumanity to man. It always floors me. My sainted grandfather, who was a Pullman Porter, and who grew up in the South when danger was ever-present, would tell me stories of how it was in Shreveport when he was a little boy. My beloved grandmother's youngest brother was lynched in 1921, and she never got over it. I could not believe that people could be so cruel and unfeeling about other people. But I began to see it myself as I grew up in 1950's and 1960's Chicago.
The way people treated us when we went into stores, walked on the sidewalk, talked with each other, and just generally lived our lives. I began to think of myself as less than. Less than all the white people my grandmother worked for....less than all the white people who worked in stores downtown....less than, less than, less than! The times that I spent downtown Chicago trying to buy clothes and being disrespected, watching my grandparents be disrespected, and living with that, made my life miserable.
Growing up under racism was agony (but I am NOT complaining)until my grandmother told me that I was better than they, because I had people around me who loved me, cared for me, and took care of me. They were my family. She told me that as much as white people would pay her to cater parties, clean their homes, and take care of their children, it was never enough because their homes were cold places that housed cold people. As a young girl, that made me feel better. But I also did not understand that I was never going to grow up to be Doris Day or Laraine Day (actresses from my era). Never! I also was not going to grow up to be Perry Mason's Della Street!(my life was ruined!). My family, as my grandmother said, were filled with people who cared, people who lived their lives with dignity and love, honesty and truthfulness, and, yes, daily acts of racist behavior, day in and day out. But they never falterd. They never failed. They loved us until we got so tired of it, then they laughed and started all over again. My aunts, cousins, uncles, grandparents, even extended - read not relatives - were always there for me.
I have wonderful memories of spending quiet weekends with my two aunts who never married, but had each other, in their one room apartment. Their thing was tea parties. They pulled out the china, linen napkins, and manners. They taught me the importance of having standards. They set them and expected me to rise to them. I hope I did. Even though I was po' (which is beyond poor) as a church mouse, my family always was there for me. We had so little that I remember lunch as butter and sugar sandwiches. But we cut the crust off the bread, made tea, pulled out the china and napkins, and had lunch. I didn't know we were so po' until I couldn't afford to buy a yellow skirt and yellow sweater to match for the first day of my high school years. I couldn't afford to buy the yellow shoes at Chandler's on State Street. Then I knew.
But as I grew up, it became clear that whatever I put into my life, I would get out of it. I began to understand some of the racial issues that were happening and then I began to get involved. I learned so much about myself and others (especially white people) during those turbulent times. I would not trade the 40 stitches in my head for anything. It was a lesson learned and I am grateful for it.
But by that time, it made no difference. I was already on a path that I thought would make a difference. I think I did.
At this point, anyone who says that our President isn't being treated differently and being disrespected because he is Black, is not looking, and if they are looking, they are not seeing. Everywhere there are signs, both literally and figuratively. But I don't think he should get down and dirty with that fight now. We have to carry that banner for him. I do everyday. I have his back and I know that others do too.
We just need to make sure that we call out the racists wherever and whenever we see them or hear them.
Call those bitches out, make them say it, and make sure they know we know what their game plan is. Make sure they know we are not playing that game. Make sure they know we have our own game and they can either play with us, or take their crap and go home. Either way, we win!