Desegregation through the eyes of a white child

Why didn’t the white kids try harder to become friends with black children?

It was the mid 1960s and colored folks as they were called were going to school with us white kids. I remember the first day and then every day for the next year just as if it happened yesterday.

I don’t like to tell this story. I don’t like that it’s a part of my history. I don’t like remembering it. The Examiner.com has asked us to write about Black History Month and this is the painful story that comes to my mind when I think of such an event. My memories are ugly and the only reason I’m telling you is so you’ll know how the little white kids felt who carried no hatred for the black children. What did it feel like for those of us who would love to have them over for supper, a sleep over, a day in the park, or call them and chat for awhile. That would be forbidden.  Some of us were told not to sit by them, play with them, or become their friends.

Do you wonder why the white kids never made a difference? Most of us were scared out of our minds that our father’s would kill us. My father had forbidden me to speak with a black person and I was never to invite them to my home. This would scar me more than any child abuse ever could. This would cause me to leave the South when I was sixteen and see if the whole world was dysfunctional. This was a horrible childhood for anyone and I hope it never gets repeated.

Most stories circulating about desegregation are told from the black side of the issue. You can read about how badly the black children were treated as they took their places in history. It is heart breaking to hear of how the black children bravely took their seats and set a course to better all of us. For me, it was a terrifying minute-by-minute journey to change a hatred that no one was ready to change.

I was eight years old and in third grade when the first black students came to our school in the Piedmont of North Carolina. It was 1966-67 and I was raised in a highly toxic environment of racial tension. My father did not like anyone who wasn’t white. He didn’t like the Jews, the blacks, the Indians, and whoever else was any combination that existed outside his measure.

My mother pleaded with him to stop drinking and thinking so negatively about others. Dad was a WW2 veteran who was never the same when he returned from the war. He could not put to past the memories or experiences the war had worn on his spirit and body. He tried to drink the pain away.

He went on thinking that way his whole life. He went right out that door every day to work and left behind the stresses that squeeze life right out of a home. My father was a successful businessman, a moonshine expert, a generous man with his money to many a cause, a drunk, a very smart man, and an extreme racist.

I was scared to death to get the first black student in my school. I was not scared for the black child but was mortified for myself. I was not afraid of them but was afraid of my father. He drilled me every day about everything they did or said. I had to lie to him cause I saw nothing out of the ordinary happening.

They ate like us, played like us, were just as smart, and their clothes looked just as pretty. My husband ask me how I lived through a childhood saturated in racism but didn’t turn out that way. I pondered that question for several of my grown years and decided my refusal to be a racist was fashioned from compassion. I loved one little black girl that came to our school. Sometimes chemistry between friends just happens. I was drawn to this little girl and paid a good bit of attention to her.

I watched as she was teased, spat upon, tricked in to falling out of her chair, shoved around, and talked about negatively. The look on her face was something I  will never forget for the rest of my life.  I had never seen a child suffer like that. I had never seen another person shamed in to such misery. How did she cope?

My husband did not grow up in the South. His father was a career Navy man. Their family lived on Navy bases. The Navy employed people from every race and my husband had no idea about prejudice until his father retired. Upon retirement, his father moved the family to the South where there were grandparents and cousins waiting to welcome them home. My husband was in his late teens and the whole desegregation was no longer a major issue in schools. I think he is lucky.

By the time all us kids had gone from third grade and being eight years old to being 16, we had become friends behind the backs of our parents. Sadly though we still couldn’t invite them to our home. Today, forty plus years later, I live in a neighborhood populated with people from all walks of life. We smile and wave and our children play together.

In conclusion, I'd like to say that the South and America has just as far to go on equality as we've come thus far. When whites describe a version of their Black History Month, I'm sure it falls to deaf ears on those who still live the struggles of black history and heritage. They have lost as much as they have gained. Blacks used to own more businesses and the black community supported those efforts. Today, they feel as though their dollar supports mostly white issues. They still are hoping their children get better educated and have the same dollars spent on schools in predominately black neighborhoods.

We still need to wake up and be honest. You as a white person may feel you are equal and noble in your efforts but it's a foolish thing to be complacent in your evaluation of equal rights. Equal rights are not equal rights until a black child can take a dream and make it happen. They are not free until every black child desires to become a business owner, doctor, lawyer, or any proud profession gained through the individual's talents and abilities. They or any child is not free until everyone can stand on their own achievements. You are not free when a handout is key to your survival.  

 ( I was mostly raised in a loving environment by my grandmother and an aunt and uncle. I stayed with them every chance I got.  Their love and understanding was key to my success as a person. My father and mother loved me in their way. My father gave to more causes than anyone I know and helped just as many people as his prejudice hurt. He did not like to see another man, woman, or child suffer. He was loved. But his prejudice and drinking were not pleasant and I do not condone that part of his life. He has passed away now along with my mom. I do not mean to dishonor the good my father did but I do mean to help change any prejudice that may have blackened our family name. ) 

I welcome your questions about this period of my life. I’ll be open and honest. I hope this spreads some light on why some of us white kids were unable to be more help when the schools were desegregated. Do you understand it?

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Thank you for reading my story. I must apologize for any grammar errors. I am a story teller and not a writer. Anna