When the Black kids jumped in, all the other White mothers pulled their kids out.

My story takes place in the summer of 1951 in Austin, a Chicago community where my grandparents lived. It’s the story of my very first interracial experience. Maybe it’s what inspired me to work for racial justice later in life.

When Grandma and Grandpa moved there in the mid 1940’s, Austin was still almost exclusively White. But when Black families started moving in, many White residents fled westward to the suburbs. That’s where I grew up, in a town where over 99% of the population was of European descent.

On this particular summer day, my mom put me into some kind of child restraint device — I think it was a blue canvas chair that hung on the car’s front passenger seat — and drove the 20 miles to visit her parents in Austin.

The table fan in their apartment gave little relief from the oppressive heat of Chicago’s summer, so we spent the afternoon at the neighborhood swimming pool in a little park right next to the train tracks. I was 2½ years old.

We must have gone there when I was older too, because I have very vivid memories of playing in the water while the train roared by and looking up at the embankment to count the cars. The following events, however, happened when I was too young to remember them. I’m recounting here the story as my mom told it to me.

At first everything was peaceful. The pool was filled with happy (White) children laughing, splashing, and doing all the things kids do in a swimming pool. I was sitting in the shallow end, where the water was just up to my armpits, looking all cool and cute.

I don’t know what Chicago’s pool policies were in 1951. Racial segregation in public places became illegal in 1954, but some cities had already made efforts to integrate swimming pools years before that. Chicago may have been one of them.

Whether or not it was legal, on this day several Black families came together to the little neighborhood pool to swim. Mom said the adults looked really nervous, but the kids just ran ahead and jumped into the water.

Then all hell broke loose. The horrified White parents snatched their children out of the pool, as if the water had suddenly become boiling hot. The way Mom told it, you’ve never seen dozens of adults move so fast and with such collective purpose.

Within minutes, all the White kids were standing in the grass, looking very confused, while their parents hovered protectively over them.

All of them, that is, except me. I continued to sit in the shallow end of the pool, where the water was just up to my armpits, surrounded now by happy Black children who were shouting, splashing, and doing all the swimming pool things.

My mother — God bless her beautiful soul — stood near me with her arms crossed and her expression resolute. And I stayed in the water and played until it was time to go home.

I won’t write about why White people feared being in a swimming pool with Black people, because the stupidity is too infuriating. This is a story about my mom standing up for what’s right, and I want to keep the focus on her. Wikipedia has a good article if you want more information.

Every time Mom told me this story, I asked what the other White parents said to her. She always claimed she didn’t remember, but here’s what I imagine: a White woman shouted, “Your child is marked for life!” and my mom shouted back, “I hope so.”

I also try to imagine what those Black parents must have been feeling. I doubt I would have the courage to do what they did. How devastating to have to weigh your desire to take your kids swimming against your fear for their lives.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I’m the kind of person who assigns big meaning to events whenever possible. I like to think that on a summer day in a swimming pool when I was very young, I was inoculated against some of the more toxic strains of racism.

Or maybe it was more like a baptism — I was dunked into water filled with laughing Black children and thereby welcomed into the human race.

Although I was too little to recognize it at the time, my mom’s refusal to pull me out of the pool was an act of fierce resistance. She always thought of herself as timid and insecure, and I think that prevented her from recognizing her own strength.

I came to see it clearly though. Throughout her life, my mother intentionally sought out friendships with people of diverse backgrounds. She served her community and promoted the oneness of humanity until six days before she died at age 93.

Now that she lives in the world of spirit, I call on her to help me stand against injustice. Sometimes, when I’m the only White girl in the therapy pool at the Senior Center, I imagine she’s smiling.

Photo by Ben Vloon on Unsplash

I’ve been to Israel three times on pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa. The most recent trip was in 2004 with my husband, our son, and my 79-year-old mother. Even though I’d been in the Tel Aviv airport before and knew what to expect, I was still intimidated by the young soldiers who seemed to be everywhere, carrying rifles slung casually over their shoulders.

At the Customs checkpoint, I handed my passport to an agent, who took his time examining every page. He verified my name and birthdate, compared my photo to my face, then started with the questions.

Agent: “What is your purpose for coming to Israel?”

Me: “I’m making a pilgrimage to the Baha’i World Center in Haifa.”

Agent: “What locations will you be visiting while you’re in Israel?”

Me: “Haifa and Akka.”

Agent: “What will you do at these locations?”

Me: “Visit Baha’i shrines and holy places.”

Agent: “How long will you be staying in Israel?”

Me: “Ten days.”

There may have been more questions that I’ve since forgotten. I tried to monitor my tone, but I’m sure a note of defensiveness crept in. Did I look like a criminal?

Did my 79-YEAR-OLD MOTHER look like a criminal? Then I reminded myself that this was Israel after all, a foreign country where soldiers walked the streets with rifles.

Things are different here. We’re accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. We can go where we want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume we could be criminals.

Oh, wait. Let me try that again.

I’m accustomed to a certain level of freedom in the U.S. I can go where I want without being questioned or regarded with suspicion. People in authority don’t assume I could be a criminal. Because I’m White.

. . .

Now our scene is set in a very White town on a barrier island in Florida. We’re at the end of a bridge connecting this town to a racially diverse city on the mainland.

My friend F.G. is on his way to an art studio on the beach, where he teaches drawing and drumming.

F.G. is a tall, slim Black man in his 70s. He hands his driver’s license to the police officer who stopped his car before it left the bridge. The cop took his time examining the license. He verified F.G.’s name and birthdate, checked his car title and insurance, then started with the questions.

Officer: “Where are you headed, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “To the art studio on Main Street.”

Officer: “And why are you going there?”

F.G.: “To teach my art class.”

Officer: “Will you be going anywhere else on the island?”

F.G.: “No sir.”

Officer: “About when do you think you’ll be heading back home, Mr. G?”

F.G.: “Well that depends on whether or not I decide to stay in town for dinner.”

Officer: “Now don’t try to get smart with me. I asked you a simple question.”

F.G.: “5:30. I’ll be heading home around 5:30.”

Officer: “Well thank you so much for your cooperation, Mr. G. I’ll be looking out for you. Have a nice day now.”

F. G.: “You too, sir.”

And my friend F.G. now has to go about his day, teach his class, and interact with his students as if everything is fine. “If I let it get to me,” he told me once, “I’d be angry all the time. That stress would kill me. I have to let it go.”

It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like to experience this in my own country — to have a person in authority challenge my right to be somewhere, to have to defend that right, to have to choose, based on how much energy I have that day, whether to be deferential, ignore the indignity, or stand up for my rights (which could end up with me being jailed, or roughed up, or worse).

Yet this is the reality for countless Black men and women, day in and day out, all over this country. I wold be grateful to hear what my readers and their organizations are doing to address this. Do you know of any successful initiatives?

Photo by Micky Fritzsche on Unsplash

In my last post I wrote about what it might mean when White people say “I don’t see color.”

In this post I want to talk about another thing we often say and give you some examples of how Black folks might respond.

I don’t see you as Black

There’s only one interpretation I can think of for that statement:

I believe the negative stereotypes about Black people, but you’re not like them. You don’t act the way I expect Black people to act. You’re an exception.

I wouldn’t even know where to go from there. It’s just bad. Try not to say it.

Following are conversations I heard in three different workshops on racial healing. I always took detailed notes and sometimes made recordings, so the dialogue is reproduced here fairly accurately.

Conversation #1

A White woman gave a long speech about how she was free of all prejudice. Then she looked at a Black woman and said, “For example, I don’t see you as Black.”

“What do you see me as?” asked the Black woman.

“I just see you as Lakisha.”

“And if you had to describe my physical appearance, what would you say?”

“Well,” said the White woman, “I’d say you were medium height, middle-age, with very curly hair.”

“You wouldn’t mention my brown skin?” asked Lakisha.

“Heavens no!”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean you were . . . “ And that’s where she stopped talking.

Lakisha finally said, “If you don’t see me as Black, then you don’t see me at all.”

Conversation #2

White woman: “I don’t like all this emphasis on differences. We’ll never get past racism if we put so much focus on that. We should be talking about all the ways we’re the same.” Then, looking at the Black woman seated next to her, she said, “You and I are more alike than different. When I look at you, I see another human being. I don’t see you as Black.”

Black woman: “What do you mean by that?”

White woman: “Just what I said — you and I are alike.”

Black woman: “You mean I’m like you?”

Ww: “Yes! Exactly!”

Bw: “So how do I get other White people to treat me the same way they treat you?”

Ww: “Well . . . it’s just that . . . “

Bw: “Or do you mean you’re like me?

Ww: “Not that so much . . . “

Bw: “Why not? Why doesn’t it work both ways?”

And that’s where the conversation ended, because the White woman started crying.

Conversation #3

Susan, who’s White, said to Alan, whom she’s known for many years, “To me, you’re just my friend Alan. I forget that you’re Black all the time.”

Alan said, “What about all these incidents we just been discussing — things that happen to me on a daily basis because I’m Black. Do you forget that too?”

“Oh no, of course I don’t,” said Susan.

“Why do you think I experience racism constantly?” he asked.

“Well, because you’re Black,” she answered. Then, “Okay, I get your point. I guess I can see you as Black, but I don’t have to like it.”

“I love being Black,” said Alan.

End of conversation.

Do you see how problematic this is? No matter how we spin it, if we who are White aren’t able to see Black people in their full reality — not only the beauty of their color, but also their experiences — then we’re useless as allies. If we claim we want to do the work of dismantling racist systems and building just communities, we have to see everything.

Does “I don’t see you as White” mean the same thing?

In 1968, during my sophomore year in college, I had a Black roommate. She was from the South Side of Chicago and had been active in the Civil Rights Movement there. She and her friends held a Black Sisters gathering regularly in our dorm room to talk about the changes they wanted to see on campus and how they would go about making their demands.

I came from a 99.98% white suburb of Chicago, and I heard things in that dorm room I’d never heard before. Often they were angry. They talked about Black Power and used unfamiliar words for White people. The first time this happened, I sat on the floor in the corner (my bed, desk, and chair were occupied by Black women) and tried not to look shocked.

During the second Black Sisters gathering, I asked, “Would you be more comfortable if I left the room? I can go study in the lounge.”

One student asked, “Are you uncomfortable with us?”

I said, “No, but I don’t know how you feel about having a White person listening to everything you’re saying.”

“You stay here,” she said. “We don’t think of you as White.”

I was not insulted; I was grateful. The education I received sitting with those powerful young women has served me throughout my life. Some of the things they said were really difficult to hear, so I got to practice facing my fragility. When I said something stupid — which happened quite often — one of them would say, “Well that was stupid.” If I talked too much, they told me to shut up and listen. It was a tough start to my race education, but I wouldn’t change anything. They were among my first teachers and I honor them.

I would love to hear about your experiences. Have you said dumb things in a conversation about race? What happened? What did you learn?

Photo by Emily Rose: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-blind-fold-2893996/

As you may have figured out by now, I spend a lot of time thinking about race. Specifically I think about my racial conditioning as a White woman and how I can replace it with truth. I find it helpful to look at the things we White people commonly say and their underlying assumptions. Two of the most predictable are “I don’t see color” and “I don’t see you as Black.”

Let’s examine these statements and try to uncover what we really mean when we say them. We’ll look at the first one in this post and the second one in the next.

I Don’t See Color

I’ve come up with three different things White people might be trying to say when we speak those words.

• God doesn’t see color, so I shouldn’t see it either. Color doesn’t matter. We’re all the same on the inside.

I do believe that God sees us as colorless souls. But we are dual-natured beings, both spiritual and material, at least as long as we’re living in this world. Bodies have skin, which have color, and our society has assigned meaning and hierarchy to those colors. We are given or refused advantages based on color. We experience oppression or entitlement based on color. We have to be able to see these differences if we hope to work for justice.

Try this experiment: extend your arm straight out in front of your face, with your thumb up and at eye level. Close your right eye. What’s behind your thumb? Now, keeping your arm perfectly still, open your right eye and close your left. What’s behind your thumb now?

What you see behind your thumb is different, depending on your literal point of view. Nothing else changed. My bookshelf is directly behind my thumb, and my printer is directly behind my thumb. Both views are true, even though the objects are 18” apart.

So let’s say that one is your spiritual eye and the other your material eye. When you look at a person through your spiritual eye, you don’t see color; you see another human soul who is just like you. However when you look at her through your material eye, you see the color of her skin, as well as what that color means. It’s not dichotomous; one does not cancel out the other.

So we don’t see color and we do see color, both at the same time. Besides, if you believe in God, then you must believe She/He made humans colorful on purpose.

• I look at you and I truly can’t distinguish your color at all.

I assume this one could be true if you have a certain kind of color blindness. But if your eyes perceive color normally, it’s more likely a statement designed to convince someone you’re not racist. I grew up thinking that if I noticed dark skin color, that automatically meant I was racist. It seems to me that younger generations have moved beyond this idea. Let’s hope it dies out with us old people.

• I do see your color, but I don’t let it influence how I think of you. I treat everyone the same.

This is a worthy goal, but in our current society it’s not possible. Anyone who thinks they’re free of color/race bias can go here for a reality check. https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/takeatest.html

This is Harvard’s Implicit (as in unconscious) Association Test, and it will mess with your mind. There are 15 different tests — I recommend the Race IAT and the Skin-tone IAT for our purposes. Once you’ve been sufficiently humbled, you might want to try some of the others.

When I took the Race test several years ago, my results surprised me. Here’s the test description:

“Race (‘Black — White’ IAT). This IAT requires the ability to distinguish faces of European and African origin. It indicates that most Americans have an automatic preference for white over black.”

My results show “a strong automatic preference for Black people compared to White people.” Only 2% of all respondents have this preference. (I made a screen shot of my report and I keep it on my phone, just in case I ever have to prove that I’m not making it up.)

I was thrilled! I finally had official proof that I’d succeeded in overcoming all my racist attitudes. The following day I reported my score to a dear Black male friend, who knows me very well.

“I’m in the TOP two percent!” I boasted. I wouldn’t have said this to anyone else, Black or White. It can come off all wrong. In fact, I’ve told only a few people about my results. Up till now, that is.

“The top?” he asked.

“Yep! Top two percent, that’s me.” (If we could use emojis on Medium, I would place a face-palm here.)

When he finally stopped laughing, he said, “I don’t think that’s the goal Phyllis. I believe the ideal would be to show no preference for one over the other.”

Ego is a tricky devil. Mine got crushed when I took some of the other tests.

What could we say instead?

The best I’ve come up with so far is “I notice and appreciate differences of color and I’m working hard to overcome my unconscious racial biases.”

What would you say?

Photo by pawel szvmanski on Unsplash

A few years ago, a beloved friend died suddenly, leaving a gaping hole in my life and my heart. He was seriously ill, and we all knew his time on earth was limited. But no one expected it to happen so soon.

I flew to San Diego for his memorial service and burial, where I was surrounded by others who loved him. For three days we shared grief and stories of how this exceptional person had touched our lives. At the end of our last evening together, I checked in to a hotel that had shuttle service to the airport, so I could catch an early morning flight back home.

These events, although not directly related to my story, are important because they tell you something about my emotional state that night. By the time I’d gotten settled in my room, I was exhausted from crying. I felt vulnerable, fragile, and raw. All I wanted to do was sleep, only sleep would not come.

As I sat on the bed, trying to get my bearings, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and suddenly I was starving. I figured as long as I wasn’t going to get any sleep, I might as well get some food. It was near midnight, but this was San Diego. There had to be someplace to eat nearby.

I went to the front desk, rang the bell, and waited a long time for the night clerk. When he finally showed up, he told me there was only one restaurant still open this time of night. It was a seafood place on the bay front, about six blocks away. He offered to call me a cab.

“No thanks,” I said, “I’ll just walk. I need the fresh air anyway.”

“I don’t advise you to walk alone at night in this area,” said the clerk. “Let me call you a cab.”

“No thanks,” I repeated. “I’ll be fine.” I wasn’t being brave and I wasn’t naive. I was just utterly depleted and not thinking clearly. I went out the door and headed for the restaurant, which I could see among the lights on the marina.

I was walking briskly, thinking about the crab cakes I would soon be enjoying, when a group of men come around a corner and toward me on the sidewalk. They were White and young. I could tell they were drunk by their voices and movements.

My throat constricted, and for a moment I froze. Then I looked around frantically for anything that might offer safety. On the opposite corner I saw a lone Black man standing by a bench that was partially hidden in the trees. I didn’t know what he was doing there and I didn’t care; I knew he would protect me. I ran across the street and straight to where the man stood.

“Could you please help me?” I asked him. “I’m afraid of those guys and I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ma’am, what are you doing walking around out here by yourself at night?” he asked. “You’re not safe.”

“Yes, I can see that now,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ve just been to a funeral, and I have a flight really early tomorrow morning, and I haven’t eaten anything all day, and that’s the only restaurant where I can get some food.” I was jittery and babbling at that point. I was pretty sure I had narrowly escaped danger. “Can I stay here by you until they’ve gone?”

“Let’s not stand around here,” he said. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the restaurant.”

And that’s what he did. I don’t remember if I asked his name or what we talked about. Maybe I told him my friend had died and my heart was broken. He walked me to the door of the restaurant and made me promise I would take a cab back to the hotel. The White men were long gone by the time I returned.

So why did I write about this experience? Because some of my White sisters have never heard a story like this one, and I want them to know it’s possible to reverse what we’ve been taught.

Here’s the thing: this fear we have of Black men is based not on actual experience, but on the lies we’ve been told. When we don’t have any actual experiences, we have no real evidence to disprove the lies, so we’re stuck with our racist conditioning.

But when we build relationships with many honest, kind, caring Black men, then that’s what we come to expect. That’s what I’ve come to expect anyway. I’ve been teased, threatened, bullied, and harassed by White boys and men since elementary school. I have never — not once — experienced any of those things from Black men. So where else would I go for safety?

Yes, I know there are other considerations, including different reasons why Black men are polite to White woman. I also know some of you are thinking my decision to walk alone at night was stupid. I’ll agree with that before you even say it. Then there’s the reality that many women feel unsafe with men, regardless of their color. And there’s the fact that they were drunk. It’s also true that there are plenty of kind, caring White men who would never hurt anyone. All of those are valid points, but they’re not the point of my story.

The point of my story is that even though we’ve been trained to be afraid, we have the power to turn that around.

The one thing I will add is that I possibly put that Black man in danger by walking with him. I went to him for protection without ever considering how it might look and what could happen to him as a result. That’s my White privilege. Does the fact that I was frightened of a group of White men make it okay?

I realize I’m taking a risk by sharing my experience here. I’m okay with that, as long as the story can be used to start a conversation or can help someone see things from a different perspective.

Photo by Ross Findon on Unsplash

I’d have to overcome my fear first

I was already angry at the driver of the car behind me. He’d been tailgating me for several blocks, hanging just a few feet behind my bumper, regardless of how fast I was going. And I am not a slow driver by any means. We were on a three-lane street, so he could have passed me if he wanted to. Clearly he had some reason for trying to intimidate me.

The light turned red just as I got to a busy intersection, and the guy nearly hit me before screeching to a stop. There was a long wait. The cross-street was a major highway, and I had plenty of time to watch him and his passenger in my rearview mirror. They were both White men, probably in their 30’s. They drank frequently from cans that could have contained soda  – or maybe something else.

Then they started gesturing and laughing, and I looked to see what they were pointing at. On the corner, a young Black teenage boy was waving a sign shaped like a huge arrow. It said something about pizza, I think. It was hard to read, because the young man was dancing and spinning, tossing the sign in the air. His moves were pretty impressive. He twirled the sign over his head and swung it around his body like a drum major. But the big arrow was much harder to handle than a baton, and it kept clunking him on the head. The overall effect was more comical than graceful.

I looked back at my mirror and watched the two men poking each other, rolling their eyes, and clutching their bellies. Out of nowhere, a rage came over me so fast it brought tears to my eyes.

This wave of anger settled as an intense ache in my jaw and neck. I tried to talk myself down, telling myself maybe they were simply appreciating the boy’s highly entertaining performance.

But then he executed an imperfect spin and the sign hit him in the face. He bent over, clearly in pain. I watched the mens’ laughter turn ugly. They sneered. Their expressions oozed contempt. Ridicule. Condescension. I felt it as clearly as if they were sitting in my back seat.

For a brief moment, I saw the boy on the corner as my son. And I wanted to hurt those men.

What would that look like though? Did I really think I would confront them if we were standing face to face? My jaw ached. I tried to bypass my emotion and listen to my rational mind.

You have an opportunity here to do that thing you’re always talking about  –  recognize that you’re being triggered, raise yourself up to a place of nobility, and choose a higher-self response. Rewrite the story you’re telling yourself. They are obviously suffering from a spiritual disease, and you could send them some healing compassion. They’re not actually hurting anyone but themselves.

I really tried to pull this off, but at that point I didn’t care about a spiritual response.

When the light turned green, the driver gunned his engine and swerved around me. Then he turned abruptly into a parking lot. What if they were going to harass the boy? Or threaten him? Almost everyone walking on the sidewalk was Black; surely the two men weren’t brave enough -   or stupid enough  -  to try that.

But they might. I should pull over and go back there. I should protect him.

Now my heart was pounding. I wanted to believe I was only afraid for the boy, but truthfully, I was also afraid for myself. The thought of confronting two young, possibly drunk, White men terrified me. I’ve been frightened by White men in the past. It’s something you don’t forget.

So I said a prayer for the boy and I kept driving. I’m a woman. I’m not young. I couldn’t have done anything anyway. But I know if that boy had really been my son, nothing could have kept me from going to him.

A Black male friend I’ve known and respected for many years once posted a heartbreaking comment on Facebook. He wrote that he was afraid to leave his house, afraid to let his sons go outside. This was shortly after another Black man had been killed by the police. I responded that I, along with all those who loved him, would be willing to form a protective circle around him and his boys, and we would defend them with our lives.

It’s easy enough to make a claim like that when it’s theoretical. Yet when I remember my fear on that day at the intersection, I have to ask myself what I would really do if faced with a similar situation again. It’s a question I can’t shake.

There are other questions that won’t leave me alone. What will happen with those two White men? Looking back, I realize I was afraid of them before we even saw the Black boy on the corner. What if they become policemen? Prison wardens? Middle school teachers? Corporate executives? Who will hold them accountable?

And finally this: If I can’t protect a Black boy from racial violence, then who will?

Photo by Cristi Ursea on Unsplash

My husband Gene and I were on our way to hang out with our nearby kids and grandkids, who live in a neighborhood that I would guess is more than 99% Black. We take the interstate because it gets us there quickly, even though we’re rattled when we arrive. If you’ve ever driven on I-285 in Atlanta, you understand why we’re always relieved when we pull off onto the exit ramp.

After I exited the freeway, I came to the stoplight at MLK Drive, where we turn left to get to our son’s house. The light was green, and traffic in the right-turn lane was moving forward. But the traffic in my left-turn lane was blocked by what I assumed was a stalled car at the front of the line. I was afraid that we’d be rear-ended by a car or truck coming off the interstate too quickly to stop in time.

Eventually the drivers ahead of us got tired of honking and drove around the car on the left shoulder. I followed, and we got to the intersection just as the light turned red. I was right next to the stalled vehicle.

The car’s windows were wide open, and we could hear music coming from the speakers. A middle-aged man was leaning back in the driver’s seat. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, and his head fell slightly to the side. A teenage girl was curled up in the passenger seat, and I could see just the legs of another teenager or child in the back. This could have been a Black family taking a nap in their car on a warm spring day, and at first I really thought they were all just sleeping.

But it was too odd; clearly something was wrong. I opened my passenger-side window and we both called out to the man, “Hello, sir, hello — do you need help?”

Nobody in the car stirred. We called louder and my husband tried to touch the man’s arm that was resting on his open window, but it was too far to reach. We could see that the man was breathing. There was no blood, no sign of violence. “Do you think they all passed out for some reason, right after pulling off the freeway?” Gene asked.

“That makes no sense,” I said. “We have to do something.”

Then the light turned green and immediately people were honking. I knew the cars coming up behind us were exiting the interstate at high speeds, and I was nervous about blocking traffic, so I drove through the intersection.

I wanted to park somewhere, walk back to the car and try to rouse them. But even if I found a place to pull off the road, there was no safe way to get there on foot. I had no choice but to keep driving.

While I drove, frantic voices were shouting in my head.

You have to call 911!

NO! They’ll get in trouble. They’ll get roughed up and dragged off to jail. Maybe they’ll get shot. You know that sometimes cops shoot first and ask questions later. They might be killed. We can’t call 911!

What if they need medical help urgently?

But we’re White. You know what happens when White people call the police on Black people.

But they might die if they don’t get medical care right away! What if no one else stops to help them? You have to call 911!

Yes, but what if our call ends up with them getting arrested?

The police won’t hurt them — the police force here is probably all Black.

But that’s no guarantee . . .

Finally I called our son, who lived on the South Side of Chicago before moving to Atlanta, who knows racial dynamics at a much deeper level than I ever will, who’s had experience with how cops — both White and Black — behave in Black neighborhoods.

He told me to stop dithering and call for an ambulance. So I did.

I could tell by her voice that the dispatcher was a Black woman. She asked me a lot of questions and I told her all the details. Then I said, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to them.”

“Don’t worry ma’am,” she said, “I’m sending someone to check on them.”

“But I don’t want my call to result in them being harmed by the people who are supposed to help them. Do you know what I mean?” What a ridiculous question to ask a Black woman; of course she knew what I meant.

Then she said — God bless her — “Yes, I hear you and I understand exactly what you’re saying. Please don’t worry ma’am. It will be okay.” And I believed her.

That evening, and for several days after, I called the nearest precinct and tried, in vain, to find out what had happened. I clung to the hope that because the dispatcher was a Black woman, she could make sure everyone was safe. I never found out, and it still rests heavy on my mind.

I don’t know what it feels like to be Black and be afraid to call the police. As a White child, I was taught — and I believed — that police officers were my friends. They would protect me when I was in danger and help me when I was in trouble. That’s been true for me all my life.

So I should have been able to call the police that day without fear. But even though I know that the vast majority of them are good cops, I was still terrified for that family — terrified that my call could result in their death.

This is how racism works. It messes with our minds and makes us doubt our own instincts. It renders us helpless when we should be powerful. If we’re not paying attention, it can rob us White people of our humanity while it is robbing Black people of their lives.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash