There has been much discussion of late, both in the blogs and in the TradMed of the impact of the Obama Presidency on race relations in America. We are all Americans, which means we are eternal optimists. In our heart of hearts, we want to believe that having our first African-American president is a giant leap for mankind.
Well, okay, maybe not so much. We are experiencing the ongoing, not-so-dog-whistle racism of the Birthers, and then there was the tragi-comedy of the Professor Gates incident. But perhaps these actions represent extremist movements or the institutionalized racism sometimes found in established venues, like law enforcement. Regular day-to-day individual Americans don’t go down that road anymore. I made a comment in a recent diary about the rise and fall of racism in our country and a fellow poster suggested I turn the notion into a diary. Follow me over the fold, if you dare, while I relate three episodes from my own narrative that suggests something quite to the contrary.
Before I begin, I should point out that I chose my user name based on my passion for horses in general and the Thoroughbred breed in particular. I mention this because I received quite a surprise a few weeks ago when a poster pointed out that "Thoroughbred" has quite a different connote in the GLBT world:
http://www.dailykos.com/...
(My thanks to those who contributed to my education!)
This is not a digression, it is my love for all things equine that have led me to experiencing some (but by no means all) of the worst episodes of bigotry in my life. For some reason, in the region of the nation in which I lived at the time (and still do), you simply don't see African-Americans very often. Unless they are the grooms or stable hands. My life's ambition was to enter a world that had no idea what to make of me - so they automatically disliked me. To me it is doubly tragic, as these magnificent creatures - mentioned with love and awe in the Bible and the Koran - are virtually color blind. They care not for the ethnicity of their companion, but only for the quality of the horsemanship.
My love affair with horses began with my earliest memories, perhaps at 3 years old. It never faded as some childhood obsessions do. It increased. This was in central Indiana in the early ‘70's, and the city was not exactly a bastion of liberalism. At least behind closed doors. There were several establishments where Persons of Color were distinctly unwelcome - no "Whites Only" signs, mind you. No covenants to sign. Merely an unspoken, but nonetheless loudly shouted, "No N*ggas Need Be Here". A Gentleman’s Agreement, if you will.
One such place was the only riding academy within practical distance of my parent’s home. I nagged. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. I bargained. (I declined to throw a tantrum, since the results of that would have been an @ss-kicking so severe it would have been brought to the attention of a modern-day DCFS worker - if not Amnesty International)
Finally, at age 11, after having explained for the umteenth time about the Silent Agreement, my mother, completely exasperated said,
Okay - You call and ask if they let Negroes ride and if they do I’ll take you over there
.
So there I was. Telephone book in lap, one sweaty hand on the rotary dial phone, staging my very own Rosa Parks moment. I dialed. It rang. A voice answered.
"Do you let Negroes ride at your barn?"
The young white male voice sputtered, but eventually got out "Yeah, sure."
"I’ll be there in 10 minutes"
True to her word, my mom took me to the barn, signed all the liability waivers and I was given a temporary membership card. And the rest of the afternoon was golden. They put me up on a buckskin Quarterhorse, and I was cantering within 1/2 hour. It was the most blissful moment in a stress-filled childhood.
Flash forward two weeks. School started again, and I was delighted to learn that my lab partner also was horse-mad. When I mentioned that I was a member of the Stable she looked a little surprised, but it didn’t stop us from setting up an immediate riding date.
Well, that ride didn’t happen. My mother being otherwise engaged, my Aunt took me to the barn and knowing the reputation of the place, decided to stay to watch. What she saw was me getting literally yanked off the back of a horse by a middle-aged white woman and told that I was no member there. So I got to watch my friend ride and at every circle of the arena she would stop to let me pat her horse. My aunt later told me she’d never seen anything so heartbreaking.
When my mother was told, the little 4'-11" firebrand of a civil rights advocate burst into action. I never knew exactly what she did, but I do know she called the Mayor (Now the senior Senator from Indiana). I don’t know what pressure was brought to bear, but the next thing I knew was, I was re-issued a membership card and enrolled in riding classes. Nirvana!
The barn owner, the lady who dragged me off the horse? Didn’t say a word to me directly for another year. If she needed to tell me to do something in the arena, she would address her remarks to whatever horse I was riding. After watching me successfully complete a small hunters course a year later she grudgingly admitted:
You got talent.
Bring it forward 30 years. That hole "life" thing kind of got in the way of my riding, but I finally got back into horses. Then this happened
http://www.dailykos.com/...
You don't have to read the whole diary. Suffice to say that a case of mistaken identity in a stable led to a hilarious conclusion. Or not.
The perfect teachable moment, no? Teachers, really, really good teachers have to be patient. They have to be forgiving. They have to be loyal. They have to love unconditionally and impartially.
I’ve moved on from that barn to another and yet another (trainers move around and ya gotta go where the horse is, ya know?) My dressage coach has just recently parked her two horses at a new barn - a facility that gives the phrase "sybaritic" a whole new meaning. The absolute ne plus ultra of luxury (more for the owners than for the horses, IMHO).
The horsey world is small. Stay in it long enough, and you’ll always see the same people. I went for a lesson on Sunday, and ran square into one of the trainers from my old barn. I’ve never been a favorite of hers, although I’ve never been anything but perfectly polite and professional with her. She was standing with the mother of one of the younger students - a nice woman with an even nicer little girl. I walked over to renew acquaintances. The trainer gave a double-take and demanded:
What are YOU doing here?
(Emphasis most emphatically NOT mine).
She didn’t like me, not for who I am. But for what I am. How far have we come? Not very. Teachable? Perhaps. But I fear I am an inadequate instructor.
At The Closed Gate of Justice (1922)
- James D. Corrothers -
To be a Negro in a day like this
Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,
Betrayed, like him whose woe dimmed eyes gave bliss
Still must one succor those who brought one low,
To be a Negro in a day like this
To be a Negro in a day like this
Demands rare patience - patience that can wait
In utter darkness. ‘Tis the path to miss,
and knock, Unheeded, at an iron gate,
To be a Negro in a day like this.
To be a Negro in a day like this
Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag
Which is to us white freedom’s emphasis.
Ah! One must love when Truth and Justice lag,
To be a Negro in a day like this
To be a Negro in a day like this -
Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?
Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst,
But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon
"Merely a Negro" - in a day like this!