Enlightenment

I started to wipe my sweaty palms down my silk white pants, the ones that matched the black and white checked jacket forgotten in my closet and stopped before I left a permanent stain. Instead, I raised my head and gazed at the crowd of hostile expressions waiting for me to explain why the Board allowed high school teachers to include racial equity lessons in history class.

Other board members shifted in their chairs as I rose to speak. Even though we lived in a progressive, suburban school district, the loudest protests arose from middle class white parents whose sanitized education differed from the one taught at the school. The sea of angry faces echoed the striking photographic images of angry white parents – mostly women -- from the 1960’s battling desegregation. Did they know what they looked like? Did they care?

The few people of color in the audience sat straight in their chairs, defiant expressions on their faces. Their family histories told the real story. But in our district, about 70% of the students were white.

As I walked to the podium, placards raised above heads in defiance – “Say no to critical race theory,” with the letters CRT in the middle of a circle with a slash through it, “Education not indoctrination,” or my favorite, the one they thought was so clever: “Creating Racial Tension.”  

The group knew my stance – it had been all over the papers – and I’d already had a rock thrown through my window and threats had been yelled from honking, passing cars. Some of those in the crowd were probably responsible for the harassment.

Boos and hisses greeted me as I leaned toward the microphone. I waited until the noise abated.

“If you will oblige me,” I said, talking over the few remaining instigators, “I have one question to ask of you.” The angry faces stilled for a moment as they registered that I hadn’t launched into a scholastic defense of our curriculum. For a second, I discerned a flash of curiosity in a few eyes, particularly in those of the parents who supported teaching real history.

“With apologies to the people of color in the audience, who know the answer, how many of you would become black if you could?”

“What does that have to do with anything,” a white woman asked.

“It has everything to do with it. So, ma’am, if I had a magic wand and  change you from a white woman to a black one, would you do it?”

The woman’s lips formed a straight, defiant line. I glanced around at the other faces.

“Anyone else? Anyone at all?”

An uncomfortable silence greeted me.

“Well, I think that about tells us everything we need to know.” I shook my head, stepped away from the podium, nodded to the other board members, and left the room.

Marissa’s eyes lingered on the departing board member, Liz -she thought she remembered her name was– as she strode from the room. After she disappeared, Marissa observed the knowing expressions on the faces of the other women and students seated together in their small group

Of course, they understood why no one in the white audience raised their hands. White people didn’t worry about the effect on them or their children of the daily slights, the news stories about some Senator or member of Congress attending a meeting with White Nationalists, the public outcries over taking down Confederate flags, or the removal of  statutes of Confederate Officers erected after the Civil War with the express purpose of intimidating their African American neighbors

The news feed on her phone displayed story after story of modern-day lynching’s –not only at the hands of police but by regular citizens too. Just that morning she’d read a story about a white couple stabbing and shooting a Black man for no reason other than the color of his skin. She knew too well how the musings from some vocal white citizens about the days before these uncomfortable racial issues were raised, exhausted her people, who understood but dared not say, that the objections were code for “when African Americans knew their place.”

Marissa looked over at the parents of color seated around her. They wanted her to speak for them. As they nodded encouragement, she sighed, smoothed her skirt and, when the Chair asked for comments from the audience, raised her hand. The Chair nodded to her and as she approached the lectern, the back of her neck burned, as though the barrage of hostile eyes upon her emitted flames. She kept her head high as she moved through the attendees, ignoring as well as she could the murmurs of the crowd, a low rumbling that followed her to the podium. She waited while the Chair held up his hand for silence. Finally, the sounds dwindled, and she steadied her breathing.

As she prepared to speak, Marissa stared straight at the section where the protesting white parents sat. Then, in a loud, clear voice she said, “I didn’t have to raise my hand because I live with who I am every day. My color may not be the first thing I think of when I wake, but I am reminded of it as soon as I leave my house and go about my day. A common theme I hear, and one I heard today, was that learning about our country’s racial history makes children uncomfortable.” She watched the vigorous nodding of heads in front of her and dug her nails into her palm to remain calm. “Not only is critical race theory not taught in high school, but my children are uncomfortable every day. Like me, they face constant reminders that they don’t matter.”

She gestured to the signs the white parents held aloft while she spoke. “You don’t think these signs make my children uncomfortable? You don’t think the hateful expressions on your faces make my children uncomfortable? Whose children, exactly, are we protecting? Because it damn sure doesn’t seem like you’re protecting mine.” 

The friends from her section stood and clapped, and to her surprise, so did several white parents and every student who stood at the back of the hall. The noise drowned out the objections of the parents holding the placards. Marissa noticed Liz step back inside, and saw her clap, nod, at her and smile.

As she returned to her seat amid the continued claps, a tear wet her cheek. Despite everything, she loved this country, and, maybe, just maybe, some of  it loved her back.