As Black History Month draws to a close, I read with sadness, and more than just a little embarrassment, about yet another "misguided" attempt by a school (this time in my home city of Indianapolis) to celebrate. It seems the good people at Park Tudor, a pricey private school here in Indy, where, by the way, of it's 950 students only 67 are African American, decided to serve fried chicken at their Black History Month lunch. The "misstep", as school officials are calling it, brings to mind my own Black History Month experience in elementary school.
The most powerful lesson I ever learned about America’s history of discrimination and hatred toward African Americans I learned in my all-white Catholic elementary school. As Black History Month draws to a close, I want to honor that experience. I grew up in rural Indiana in the late 70’s and 80’s. Our county was largely working and middle class, made up mostly of farming families or families whose income was derived from the GM or Delco-Remy plants in neighboring counties. People were hard-working. People were Christian. And, people were white. I remember at some point when I was very young an African American man moved into town. He was the only African-American that lived in our county through at least my college years.
I attended a small Catholic elementary school. In fact, our class sizes were so small that we doubled up grades: first and second grade had one teacher, third and fourth another and fifth and sixth another. Our school community was like a family. Our parents all knew one another, we socialized outside of school and we all shared common values and beliefs. We were about 99.99% Catholic, with an occasional student who just could not behave in the public schools thrown in. (Behavior in our school was not a problem. If you attended Catholic schools, you understand.) We were taught by lay people, not nuns. And, looking back, I have to say that, for the most part, they were some of the most exceptional human beings I have ever encountered; extremely dedicated educators with a strong bent toward instilling in us a moral compass as well as academic accomplishment. And, most exceptionally, they all thought outside of the box. From simple reading lessons, to city-wide choral concerts, to planning children’s masses everything we did was engaging and exciting. Learning was fun.
So, when my sister and I showed up for school one February day in our third and fourth grade years, I was, well, excited to see that each teacher was at the door handing out arm bands to certain students. I had no idea what the arm bands were for. I just knew I wanted one. I was an over-achiever by nature, destined to graduate from St. John’s not just with the highest GPA in my class, but the highest GPA since the schools inception. I knew whatever the arm bands were for, I would make sure that “Team Arm Band” was a shining success! I was so happy when I got that arm band. And, yes, I have to admit, I was even happier that my sister did not. I walked to my seat, my arm band proudly displayed on my arm, looking around for the rest of my group. I didn’t have to wait long. Our teacher entered and immediately had us move our desks, so that those of us with arm bands were all seated together in one group, everyone else in another. This was unusual, because we usually sat in groups with our own grades, but, it didn’t faze me. We did have the arm bands. Then we had our pledge, prayer, and morning milk. Here is where I first got the idea there might be a problem. It was my day to go get milk, but I got passed over. When the two kids (without arm bands) came back and handed out milk, according to their list, none of us with arm bands got any. I tried to protest. The teacher announced that there was not enough milk, and we were to,”Move on.” We began lessons. The teacher asked a question. As was my habit, I raised my hand. She called on someone without an arm band. This continued for a while until she asked a question for which only I had the answer. My hand was the only one in the air, so I thought; “Now she’ll have to call on me!” But, instead, she just said, “Nobody? That’s disappointing!” and gave the answer herself. I was beside myself. The next question I could no longer contain myself and shouted out the answer. That was a mistake. (It would have been a mistake on any day, actually, as you don’t speak without being called on at school.) I was raked over the coals for that and called a know-it-all. We had all heard our teacher come down on us before for infractions like talking out of turn. But, we were not accustomed to being ridiculed, nor were we accustomed to the look of disgust that she was giving us, often for no reason it seemed. I was just watching the clock, waiting for recess and a little escape. But, there was to be none. When we got to the playground, a huge square had been drawn out on it. Those of us with arm bands were expected to stay within that square. My sister decided she’d had enough, and she entered the square to play with me. (We may have fought like cats and dogs, but neither of us ever let anyone else get away with hurting the other.) In those days, parent volunteers did recess duty. One of the mothers came over and told her she needed to stick with her “own kind”. She responded that she was. She was sent inside for the rest of recess. A few other kids, seeing what my sister had done, tried the same and were also sent inside. I was even more miserable. But, I felt a growing bond with the people in the square with me. Some of the girls were crying, and the boys were holding their hands and telling them not to let “them” see you cry. We kept saying that we’d be all right, because we’d be together. (I think some of us were harboring fantasies of what our parents were going to do to the teachers once they found out, but seeing mothers reinforce this blatant mal-treatment was so dispiriting.) At lunch we were at the end of the line. Mrs. Bowen, the kindly lunch lady, did not have a smile for us. We took our trays and headed to the cafeteria in the basement with everyone else. But, we weren’t to eat with everyone else. Instead we were sent into the kitchen to eat around a table by ourselves. When we went out for our second recess, the situation was much the same. Again, we older children comforted the younger children. This time, more of the students without arm bands were crossing the lines, clearly upset by our situation. Each time they were sent inside. My sister and I were both crying. The older students in our group were becoming particularly angry, especially the boys. I remember feeling a little frightened at how angry they were at our teachers, but also feeling so sad, like the teachers had broken something (at the time I didn’t have the sophistication to call it trust) and it could never be fixed. But, the thing that really sticks with me is the bathroom. They took us in a group to use the bathrooms in the basement. But, in the afternoon, during lessons, I had to use the toilet. I raised my hand to ask permission, as was required, but the teacher would not acknowledge me. I was certain I was going to have an accident. I began to cry. I kept my hand in the air as my tears turned to sobs. Finally, the teacher said, in a disgusted voice, “What is it, Jennifer?” I told her I had to use the restroom. She told me to just go, again in a disgusted manner. I got up and ran from the room. But I could not make it to the bathroom in the basement. So I used the bathroom right across from our classroom. When I came out she was waiting for me, with the door to our classroom open. She told me that I was not to use that bathroom. That was for students without arm bands only. I broke. I was sobbing. Why, I begged? What did we do? Nothing, she replied. Those are just the rules.
With about two hours left in the day, the whole school was called to the basement. Many of our parents were there. Our principal thanked everyone for participating in what she knew was a difficult day. She asked those of us with arm bands to talk about our day, what happened, how we were treated – by teachers, parent-volunteers and other students – and how we were feeling. At first we did not talk. At first I’m not sure we trusted we could. But then the relief that it was over flooded us and we began to share our experiences, and our feelings – our pain, our anger, our sense of betrayal. What we could not verbalize you could feel just under the surface, vibrating. Then she asked the students without arm bands to comment on how they had felt all day. Again and again they talked about their anger, their frustration, their sadness and their guilt. Our teacher then asked us to imagine, those of us with arm bands, that the way were had been treated that day was not because of an arm band that we could remove whenever we wanted, but because of the color of our skin. She told us that the history of African Americans in America is one of discrimination and hatred for no reason other than the fact that they do not look “the same”. And, she told us that we would be learning more about that in the weeks to come, and she hoped that we would keep our ears and hearts open. She assured us that prejudice and discrimination were alive and all around us today, but that by being aware of it, we could make a difference and change the way people think and act. It all starts with changing the way you think and act.
I have never forgotten this most powerful lesson. I am thankful for my Catholic school for making equality and morality a part of our lesson plans. And, I am thankful for our parents for having the courage to believe that this would be a lesson that would serve us so well over the years. My parents had exposed me to what the world could be like for people who did not look like me. We had traveled to small Southern towns that still had segregated bathrooms. But, living in an all-white community, never having met any African Americans, let alone shared any personal experiences, I had no idea what the African American experience was or is. The arm band experiment taught me two valuable lessons. First, I STILL have no idea what it is like to be an African American in America. (I got to take my arm band off!!) I will NEVER know what it is like to live with hatred or discrimination like that just because of the color of my skin, and it would be insulting for me to pretend otherwise. But, second, and just as important, I can empathize. I can LISTEN to anyone who is hurting when they want to tell me how and why, and I can try to help make a difference.