Ouch! These lunches with my "friend" are becoming increasingly painful. At our last outing he pronounced that I don't like black people. He didn't say hate, at least I don't think so. By then I was too shocked.
I'm still stunned by his words, so excuse me if I can't quote them verbatim. The point was clear enough, though. It was such a surreal moment. It all started when I questioned him about an earlier remark he made several days before proclaiming that his wife wouldn't be hired for a job because she was black.
His dim view of her employment prospects seemed bizarre. Seconds earlier he and I had escaped from a room-packed meeting with government and industry managers, many of whom were black males and females.
My aim was simple. I would illustrate an attitude shift in him that I was noticing. He's been more negative lately about social issues. I've written about my lunches with Ron before. We have great, realistic talks recognizing that this nation's social, cultural, and racial issues are extremely intricate and are not susceptible to speedy improvements. But that sad, measured attitude was one thing; this beast growing in Ron seemed to be a horse of a different color altogether. One viewpoint allows for the prospect of hope; the other doesn't.
Imagine my surprise to have the tables turned on me. Was he sincere? Or was it a good ploy to deflect attention from him? You know -- a good offense is the best defense. I acknowledged that I certainly harbored my (fair?) share of prejudices and often had to fight off the black-white stereotypes foisted upon us over the years. But did that mean I didn't like black people as a whole? All black people? As an entire group, as a bunch of folk? Did it mean that I did not...did not.....what? Care about them? Want to hear their story? Want to know them?
Immediately I thought about my earlier article recounting another lunch with Ron about what we, as parents, teach our children about race. I love my friend Ron, but boy do I worry about his message to his son and daughter about white people.
You see, he didn't merely say I didn't like black people. He thought that I was probably better than a lot of whites. He said or implied (remember I'm still shell shocked and can't recall precise words, just the felt meaning) that whites don't like blacks. If he felt that way about me, his friend, how much slack could he give to any other white person walking into his life? If I conveyed a similar message to my offspring, I know the word that would fit me.
Maybe his pronouncement doesn't sound so strange or damning to you. We know all too well the root causes behind white-black disparities in social, economic and political conditions across this country. It sounded devastating to me for two big reasons, one of which is admittedly elitist.
Ron is a solid, well-educated middle class citizen (some might say upper-middle class) and my bias is that such people are a bit more balanced in their world view. [Isn't "education" supposed to be our salvation?] It's not like we should see only a bed of roses, but when we notice thorns on the beautiful flower, we can avoid or remove them to make that part of the shoot safe to the touch.
Second, and most critical in my eyes, is how can we possess such an attitude and ever hope for or believe in a better future? How can we ever trust one other enough to recognize the thorns and work to pluck them away? Once thorns are gone, the coast is clear. Some would say that is naive. Thorns were there before, they were terrible, and we must never, ever forget them. But once we've spotted and destroy them, there's at least one part of the stem that's OK. Why wouldn't we move up and onward, seeking and erasing any other thorns in our path?
I'm reminded of the phrase popularized by Bobbie Kennedy when he spoke of his brother, JFK: "Some men see things as they are and say why. I dream things that never were and say why not."
Ah, would that we were always wise enough to know when to forgive, when to forget, when to work, and when to move on.
Maybe Ron was having a bad day. He and I work in a pressure-packed operation. It often muddles my brain even more than it already is. Perhaps that was what was going on with him?
How's your day? How's your attitude? Have you seen any thorns lately? Did you pull them off? Or did you let them remain to cause pain to another unsuspecting passerby?
Or, to paraphrase JFK's eulogy, did you think only of what was or what could be?
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Fred W. Apelquist, III. M.Ed.
Approximately 800 words.
© 1996