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

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

My mom used to tell a story about my love of drums when I was little. Apparently she would take me to a parade and then lose track of my whereabouts! This happened in the Days of Yore, when children wandered off from their parents and no one was concerned. She would eventually find me marching down the street alongside the drum line.

When I was in elementary school and the music teacher asked which instrument I would like to play in the band, I said, “DRUM!”

“Oh I’m sorry,” I imagine he responded, “but only boys get to play the drums. Girls can play the flute, clarinet, or bells.”

I still get a lump in my throat when I remember that day. I may have shouted, “That’s not fair!” which would have had no effect. I wasn’t interested in any of those other instruments, so I became a singer instead. But my love of drums never wavered.

Someday soon I will write the whole story of how that love drew me to West African drums — djembes and dununs — and to my teacher, Master drummer Mamady Keita. He, and the other teachers at his TTM Academy around the country, taught me how to play these drums. He gave me one of my life’s most precious gifts.

Mamady Keita dedicated his life to assuring that the Mandingue (Malinke) traditions would be honored and preserved. As his student, I made a promise to play djembe rhythms in their authentic and historically accurate forms. In response, Mamady named me an ambassador of Mandingue culture, as he did everyone who studied with him. I do not take this designation lightly.

In San Diego, where my husband and I spent many of our winters in the RV, I played my djembe with the San Diego Women’s Drum Circle. One year, a few of us were invited to perform at a national convention for women in psychology. Our little group of drummers included one Black woman and probably six or seven White women.

In an odd parallel, the convention participants included one Black woman and maybe a hundred White women. We drummed for them at the end of their morning session, right before lunch break. As we played and our audience swayed and clapped, I kept watching the lone Black woman, who sat in the middle of the third row. She didn’t move or look at us.

We finished playing, and our group started packing up equipment, while the psychologists gathered their belongings and left for lunch. Only the Black woman remained seated, still looking at the floor. I sat down next to her and asked if she was okay.

“No,” she said. “No, I’m not okay.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

“I see all you White women playing those African drums,” she answered, “and I don’t know if I love you or hate you for it.”

I’ve forgotten what I said in response, but it must have been something that encouraged her to continue. I did make notes later as I sat in my car, and to the best of my memory, this is what she said:

When my ancestors were stolen from West Africa, they had to leave their drums behind. Those drums were an integral part of their daily lives — their grief and celebrations, births and deaths. They arrived here without their drums and were not allowed to build new ones. Their rhythms were lost to them. Their identity was stripped away from them. This is who I come from — people who lost their drums. And now, everywhere I look, I see White women playing my ancestors’ drums. It’s brutal. Do they even know the history? Is it because they’re the ones who have money to buy the drums and pay for the lessons? The lessons with African teachers? Does anyone see the irony here? I’m enraged that White women are free to play my ancestors’ drums. I resent them. I resent you.

But. At the same time, if it wasn’t for White women, these rhythms would not be spreading all around this country. You are the ones who have the means and the opportunities to do this. You are the ones keeping the traditions alive, making sure they’re not forgotten. You White women are the ones who brought the sounds of my ancestors to this room, to me. I am grateful to White woman for that, and I’m grateful to you.

I monitored my own emotions closely as she talked. There was guilt when she spoke of resentment, followed by relief when she expressed her gratitude. I did my best to keep my reactions to myself, although I wanted to cry more than once.

When I take notes after an interaction like this one, I write down what the other person said but often fail to record my own words. So I can’t remember how I responded to her. What I can tell you is that our conversation was the beginning of a friendship. And when my husband and I left Oregon on our book tour several years later, she was the first person to schedule a reading for us.

I often hear her words in my head when I’m drumming. Then I hear Mamady Keita’s words: “The drum knows no color. The drum knows no gender, no age, no nationality. Do not ever allow this drum to become an instrument of separation or discord.”

I want to honor Mamady’s instructions, yet when I have an opportunity to play with African American drummers, I feel uneasy, like I shouldn’t be there. Like I’m imposing my whiteness into their sacred space and using something that doesn’t belong to me. Although I’ve never been made to feel unwelcome in such settings, I often choose not to participate. It’s painful that something that feels so good can also feel so wrong.

How do I hold these contradictory truths at the same time? And my friend — how does she hold both resentment and gratitude? There are no easy answers here.

I’d love to know your thoughts.

Photo by Lee Pigott on Unsplash

It’s challenging to conduct a workshop on racial justice with an interracial group of people who work or socialize together but have never talked honestly about race. Usually the White people assume everything is fine. They say things like, “We’re all friends here, so we don’t have any problems with race.” They’re often taken aback when a Black friend or coworker speaks openly about their feelings and experiences with racism.

In this case, our participants were all members of the Baha’i Faith community who had known each other for a long time. About 20 people, including my mother, had come to the day-long workshop my husband Gene and I were facilitating. There were two Black women, three White men, and the rest were White women.

We were engaged in a discussion about neighborhood initiatives when Tasha, the younger Black woman, said, “I can’t bear to lose anyone else. My cousin and one of my closest friends are dead. Other friends are in prison. Every day more Black boys disappear. It has to stop. I can’t take any more loss.”

She was trying not to cry, wiping tears off her face with the back of her hand as they spilled from her eyes. As she talked, everyone got very still and quiet. Everyone, that is, except Francis, the older Black woman, who rose from her chair like an avenging angel.

Francis began speaking to all these White people she had known for years. She told them they had to stop feeling sad and sorry and surprised, and start feeling angry. She said their compassion wasn’t enough, that they had to DO something. Her voice got louder and her gestures more emphatic, and by the time she finished, several minutes later, she was shouting and shaking with emotion.

We called for a break so we could regroup. We needed to come up with a process where the White participants could respond in a way that was safe for these two women. While my husband and I were consulting, one of the White women came over and told me she was going to leave.

Cathy was visibly upset. I went out of the room with her and asked what was going on. Of course I can’t recall in detail everything she said, but it was something like this:

“It feels like she’s accusing me of being a racist, but I’m not. I came here to learn and be supportive, and now she’s judging me. And there’s no need to stand up and shout. I deserve to be treated with more respect and I don’t like that kind of confrontational language. I thought we were friends! She’s hurting my feelings and I’m just trying to be supportive. I can’t deal with this. I don’t do well with intense emotions. I’m not the kind of person who can stay in a situation like this and I didn’t come here to be attacked. I’m leaving.”

This is the story she was telling me and herself. It generated fear, resentment, defensiveness, anger, pain, and sadness, which are all understandable reactions to that story. So she felt threatened and decided she needed to protect herself by leaving the situation.

I told her, “Of course you can leave, if that’s what you need to do. I just want you to be aware of one thing. If you leave now, you’re basically telling your Black sisters that their anger is too much for you, that you’re not strong enough or willing to be there for them when they’re hurting. Is that what you want to tell them?”

Cathy opened her mouth but didn’t speak right away. She looked first surprised, then puzzled, and finally determined.

“No,” she said. “Not that.”

“What do you want them to know about you?” I asked.

“That I do care about them. I just was starting to feel scared. I’m not used to people showing such intense emotions. All those things Francis was saying were really hard to listen to, and it made me feel extremely uncomfortable.”

“What else?”

“Maybe that I’d like to try again and that I hope they’ll be patient with me.”

Then she seemed to remember something. “Actually,” she said, “someone was just telling me that I’ve changed, and I think she’s right. I’ve gotten a little tougher lately.”

As I stood there and listened, Cathy gradually talked herself into an entirely different identity. She went from “I’m not the kind of person who can stay in a situation like this” to telling me, “I’m someone who’s learning how to stay present with strong emotions.”

Same people, same situation, different story.

Now the story she was telling herself generated feelings of love, connection, courage, and self-empowerment. It’s not that the previous version of herself wasn’t true, but it was an old truth that didn’t take into account her recent growth.

Cathy returned to the workshop and participated fully in the afternoon’s activities and discussions. At the end of the day, Tasha and Francis said they felt heard and supported, and everyone was hopeful about their personal and community action plans. As people were leaving, I saw Cathy talking to Francis. I would have loved to hear what they were saying.

Gene and I had to be in another city the following day, so we had no opportunity to debrief with any of our workshop participants. But I was hoping to talk soon with my mom to get her feedback. She called me the next day, just as we were pulling up to our favorite Chinese restaurant to order dinner. Here’s what she told us.

That morning, members of their Baha’i community had gathered for an annual district convention. After prayers, Francis and Cathy stood together at the front of the room and took turns telling the entire gathering what had happened the previous day at the workshop. They shared all the details, all the feelings.

Mom said they created a healing energy that permeated the convention.

I’ve told this story hundreds of times, but I’ve never written it before today. I think it’s a powerful example of what can happen when someone transcends her conditioning and steps into an advanced version of herself. It’s heroic, in my humble opinion. I hope you find it as inspiring as I do.

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels