For Miss Kathy, with Love;
It's been a year since I met Miss Kathy. Miss Kathy was an elderly woman who used to eat lunch in my office everyday. Miss Kathy worked down the hall in my building, helping others find jobs and achieve their dreams.
Sitting at the front desk, it was my job to keep unauthorized personnel from entering our facility. I met Miss Kathy shortly after being hired, and was informed by my coworker not to stop her when she came in, as she only came to use the lunch room and was cleared by our Dept. Head for it.
Every day Miss Kathy would come in, say hi and visit with me, then go about her lunch break. One day she asked if I could let her know when it was 12:45, so she would have time to get back to her office and start her shift. She was embarrassed to say that she was unprepared; she had forgotten her watch at home that morning. Of course I had no problem doing such a small task, and we got in the habit of her announcing whether or not she brought her watch on her way in.
We chatted about mundane things, like the weather, activity down the street; we also chatted about less mundane things, like how she was feeling, how her family was doing, how her battle with cancer was going.
When I had first met her, I thought she was a little too thin, she moved a little too slow, and walked as though every step pained her. I had broached the subject of her health one day, to find out that she had gone through cancer treatment in the past, that it was back, and that it was eating away at her.
Miss Kathy always had a sweet smile, a kind word, and courage for tomorrow. I tear up thinking about her, though I only ever saw her on her lunch break.
One day, Miss Kathy stopped coming in. I didn't see her, didn't hear from her, and when I inquired from one of her colleagues after her well being, I learned that she had taken a turn for the worse. A week or so after, Miss Kathy returned, like a breeze of warm air on a cold day, lighting up my lunch hour once more with her determined cheerfulness.
She was slower than before, she winced with each step, but she continued on in her own air of grace and beauty, and I was glad to see her. A few weeks after her reappearance, she disappeared again. My coworker who first introduced her to me didn't know what her status was, and her colleague didn't make an appearance, so I could not interrogate him and demand answers for her absence.
So I dwelled on it; each lunch became something I greeted with a mixture of hope and dread. Hope I would see her, dread I would not. Dread that the worst had happened.
After about a month, I came to the conclusion that Miss Kathy would not be coming back. Her colleague was nowhere to be found; my coworker had not heard from anyone, and together we were left in the dark, with little but hope to light our wait.
An elderly woman fighting cancer has a good excuse not to come to work, with ailing health, medical appointments and her own fight for survival, I prayed that she was well, that whatever the cause for her absence, it was not the worst case scenario.
I held this hope in my heart, until the day I came to see Miss Kathy's colleague in my coworkers office. I entered the office with trepidation; my coworker turned to me and said "I think you need to sit down..." and I knew.
"Miss Kathy is dead." I stated, my voice sounding hollow and strange to my ears.
"You knew?!" was my coworkers outraged response.
"Two people in somber silence, tear stains on their cheeks. There was only one possibility." I said, my own eyes welling with tears. We were silent together, contemplating in our minds the ways that Miss Kathy brought joy to our lives, however small the smiles; suffering our own loss of this strong, sweet, and gentle woman. After a time, Miss Kathy's former colleague took his leave, and my coworker and I remained.
My coworker explained how Miss Kathy had passed a week or two prior; her funeral services had been held, and Miss Kathys' colleagues, too full of grief to remember us had only just roused from their own stupor to pass along the message. There was sparse attendance at the services, a few family members, her coworkers and a few others from church - but too many empty chairs to honor such a beautiful soul. We were left with our grief, and thoughtfully a program from the service, showing her before the cancer struck, when she was full of life and vigor.
My reminiscing with my coworker was interrupted by another coworker of ours. He was invited to sit, so he could hear the bad news. He had worked in our office longer than, had known Miss Kathy longer than I, and had spent quite some time visiting with her himself.
"I'm sorry to break the news to you," my coworker told him gently, "but Miss Kathy has passed on." He gave us both a blank look. Taking that as confusion, we both began describing her; "Soft voiced... older woman... short hair... came by every day for lunch... sweetheart with a southern accent...worked down the hall..." his blank stare continued.
"Black gal?" My coworker finally said.
"Ohhhh that Kathy!" He said. "That's too bad. She was really nice." was his response.
Rage and sorrow battled for control in my body. To this day, I cannot think of that moment with anything but horror. The only person from outside our office to come and eat in our lunch room; the only outsider permitted beyond my border, a daily visitor only remembered for the color of her skin.
Miss Kathy was a lot of things to me, to my coworker, to her clients, her family and friends. The idea that a detailed description of her provides no recollection without adding the color of her skin is abhorrent to me. The idea that Miss Kathy could be remembered by anyone as little more than "that black gal" is the distillation of what is wrong in the way humans perceive one another.
To be so much, and reduced to so little. To spend a lifetime helping others and to be remembered so poorly in return is a grave injustice.
Why is it, in the new millennium, race comes before everything else? I once read that race is the first thing people notice when seeing someone, even at a distance. It boggles my mind that this is the first thing people pay attention to. The first, last and to some extent only thing that stands out about a person is the color of their skin; not the fire, spirit, beauty and compassion of their soul.
I have always been uneasy with the idea that people need labels to categorize others. The Blacks, the Jews, the Mexicans, the Gays, the Asians, the Poor. We are all people; we are all human beings, born to grow and die. Between these points of life, we should be celebrated for who we are on the inside, not what we look like on the outside. We should be remembered for our deeds, our words, our dreams, and our actions - anything less is a disservice to ourselves and those around us.
I hate that you can't talk about someone who isn't Caucasian without saying the race of the person first. I want to gag when I read a book and everyone simply is, until they introduce someone of a different race; "she was Asian, with almond shaped eyes, full lips and a small, athletic physique." I can't read a comic book without the superhero who is black having that as part of their name "the Black Panther!" I can't watch the news without seeing "a young Black man was killed today" or open my petitions without "end police brutality against Black men" and it just boggles my mind. These are people first; these should be people first. By categorizing them as the color of their skin first, it's taking away from their personhood. It is saying that they are not a person; they are a BLACK person, an ASIAN person, a HISPANIC person but it is always the color of their skin that defines the person they are.
Rarely do you hear someone who is Caucasian being called Caucasian, they are simply a person, unless the color of their skin is described first, and it's anything but white.
When I see "#Blacklivesmatter" I can't help but be saddened by it - ALL LIVES MATTER.
Anyone who uses the color of someone's skin to describe them, before describing who that person is, is propagating the belief that race comes first. They are subtly undermining the idea that race doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter to me, it shouldn't matter to you, and it shouldn't matter to anyone else.
As long as the world continues to say "that black gal" then the world will continue to think that way. The world will continue in the unspoken belief that you are a man or a woman, unless you are an Asian man or a Black woman.
Organization's defined by the color of the skin, or the ancestry of those they serve do a disservice far greater than the benefits they may bring. They highlight the differences that are most superficial in our society - they take away from the personhood of those they seek to protect and label them.
It would be nice to think that these labels are equivalent to "more than a person," but in the eyes of the public, it's effect seems to detract, rather than enhance who that person is. And it makes sense - we are greater than our pigments. We should be treating each other as people, not black people, not brown people, not white people, just people. The intent is good and wholesome, but the path to hell is paved in good intentions and it just separates us from each other to use these labels. It's just too easy to define someone by the color of their skin.
As most of you know, the easy way is seldom the right way. If it takes you effort to look beneath the surface, then exert yourself; work up a sweat, it's good for you, it's good for the world and it's good for your soul.
Miss Kathy deserved better than to be remembered simply as "that black gal." She had the physical stature of Sophia from the Golden Girls, a warm smile and a soft voice. She had a kind heart, a sharp mind, an outgoing and generous nature; a wonderful fashion sense, and brought joy into the lives of those she touched.
On the heels of that, I invite you, dear reader who got this far, to share what you thought of Miss Kathy when you read this. Did the image in your mind reorient itself upon discovery that she was Black? Do you believe that defining someone by the color of their skin is acceptable?
Do you, like me, cringe whenever race is presented before a person's humanity, or when you see it on a form and think "wth? why does anyone need to know what 'race' I am?"
When you look at another person, it shouldn't be Black first; human second.
