January 2003

It seemed easier to drive the 2,200 miles to Phoenix, our small car crammed with Christmas presents, than to wait in lengthy security lines at each airport, carrying unwrapped gifts to be opened by latex-gloved inspectors in a process assuring us a flight free from danger. Although the plane would arrive three days before we did, the trade off was worth it. We did it last year; we would do it again. The first time was soon after 9/11 and it was thrilling to see America celebrating the holidays in colors red, white and blue. Eagles and stars lit up the night on the blue line roads we traveled then. This year, less so. The first drive taught us that John and I had to compromise: I wouldn't ask him to listen to audio books if he didn't expect me to listen to football.

That decided, we turned on easy-listening National Public Radio, available on assorted stations through the many states we traveled and telling us exactly when we crossed from Eastern to Central to Mountain time. The calm voices, programming uninterrupted for commercial messages, news delivered without hype, interviews with writers, scientists, geologists, anyone and everyone whose accomplishments are worth noting, kept us interested without intruding on personal reverie.

Holiday trips are stressful, what with the parties before, the preparation for what's coming, knowing what you must do, what you can let go, and, most of all, what you must remember about the reason for the season. Listening to NPR melted the tension.

We already heard the news about the Trent Lott fiasco at Strom Thurman's 100th birthday party (later called the Blooper of the Year) when he offered a compliment to Senator Thurman and at the same time opened up a window to his core. Lott is a respected man, always highly regarded among his peers and constituents. But, even his apology didn't erase his saying we'd be better off today if Thurman had won the Presidency -- running on a pro-segregation platform.

It was almost old news. I felt from the outset he couldn't have meant we'd be better off with segregation. The South has come much too far. Since I never knew segregation growing up in New York, I'm only glad it no longer exists -- anywhere. At least, not legally.

I once heard a definition of Blacks in the North versus Blacks in the South: In the South, Blacks can come as close as they like, hugging and warmly greeting White neighbors when they meet, but don't let them climb high or, God forbid, get uppity. In the North, Blacks can climb as high as their ambitions, talents and abilities will take them ... as long as they don't move in next door.. It's all in the attitude and I've witnessed both. On December 20th, "All Things Considered" was the feature on an NPR Weekend Edition. Called a Race Roundtable, National Public Radio brought together in their studios a relatively small group of people from the Historical Society of Washington, D.C/, to discuss Lott's remarks and to ask where America goes from here. Historically, the Nation's capital has been the site of race controversy from the beginning -- and still today. After a replay of Lott's remarks, moderator Michelle Norris asked for the views of those who heard it. One young woman said she didn't think the Senator understands exactly what has happened in his own lifetime. Another said: "He said what he meant and he meant what he said." Another "squirmed." She grew up where everyone was equal and she wanted to go back where there are not such discussions.

Kate, feeling ashamed in conversations about slavery, couldn't believe that race was discussed at community meetings in her neighborhood. What was the context, she wondered. It was "scary." When pressed for why it was scary, she said she felt she was being attacked.

And then, in an effort to assuage Kate's feelings, a young man spoke. I will make no effort to paraphrase his rapid-fire extemporaneous remarks but will quote them fully in all their eloquence. He asks a question I never heard posed before ... and I do not have the answer.

"Wilbert Glover here. I want to go back to the discussion that Kate was having, where she walked into this--sounds like this minefield, where people started talking about racism and slavery, and she said that she felt ashamed. I don't want you to feel ashamed, because you didn't own any slaves. But what I want you to understand is my pain, because we, as African-Americans, from the way I see it--we came out of slavery running. We have never had an opportunity to mourn. And sometimes I feel like what we need to do--that my people need to just go on the Mall and have a day of mourning, so we can understand what happened to us. And I have always understood slavery. I began to--I under--it was an economic thing. I can understand that. Everybody practiced that. But one of the things I never understood--and I remember asking my mother--`Why do the whites hate us? They have everything. They got the best schools. They got the best books. I don't understand why they hate us. I don't understand when they hung us, why did they mutilate our bodies like they did.' You understand what I'm saying? Nobody has ever answered those questions for me. I understand slavery. I'm willing to let that go; let the nation go. You understand? But I think that what we need to do is just go somewhere and just cry without somebody accusing us of being weak, without somebody criticizing our behavior. I remember, as a kid, I used to look at America as the mother of us all, and I was just this kid that she didn't want. So I straightened my hair, and that wasn't right. I bleached my skin, and that wasn't right. I used to say, `ain't' and `t'aint' and `y'all,' and then I fixed my language, and that wasn't right. And then there was a time I just gave up on America. I got mad at it, and then that wasn't right. You understand what I'm saying?"

Panelist: "Right."

Glover resumes: "And I don't want you to feel guilty, but when I cry and when I say it hurts, I want you to hear me. That's all, you know--not feel bad, because you didn't do anything, see. But hear my pain. That's all I'm saying, you know?"

Panelist: "Yeah. I hear your pain."

Mr. Glover: "You didn't do a single thing. You are as much a victim as I am."

This is the crux of a deplorable situation and Mr. Glover's legitimate question continues to go unanswered. He asked his mother, "Why do whites hate us?"

It's not about color; it has never been about color.

Fifteen years ago in Pittsburgh I saw African-American students waiting in line at a fast food place. Those neighborhood students in T-shirts and Reeboks waited, almost snubbed, while other Blacks, African Exchange students in native dress, were greeted with smiles and served first. No, it's not about color.

It's about pain.