Equality And The American Dream… 

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This
is not about politics. This is about being an American and specifically
about being an African American. I am an American but I am not an
American of color, quite the contrary. I am blond haired and blue eyed
and my ancestors were from England, Scotland, Ireland and Holland.

As
a child, I was taught by my mother that a person’s color, nationality,
religion, political viewpoint, wealth or social standing should not
bear any weight in the friend selecting process or in their human
rights.

Today
has brought some very vivid memories back to me and they are ones that
I had all but forgotten. Those of you who know me personally or
professionally may remember some of these times and issues. I was
taught by my mom that it was my duty to try to help the “low man on the
totem pole.” (That probably isn’t politically correct but that’s how my
mom described it.) Well, I guess a leopard doesn’t change its’ spots.
Today, I feel the need to share a few stories from my youth.

Growing
up, my first memory of hearing that someone’s color mattered to some
people was when we were in the process of moving. We lived in
California. The real estate agent had come to visit and I, at the ripe
old age of four, had a friend over to play. The woman said to my mother
within my earshot, “Please don’t allow your daughter’s friend to visit
when the people come to see the house.” My mother and I
both said in the same breath, “Why?” I don’t remember her exact answer
but I remember that neither my mother nor I liked it.

My
next vivid memory was when I was in college in Georgia. I became
friends with a girl in my dorm. She was “black.” She and I would talk
about racism and I remember telling her that, I knew how she felt. She
gave me a strange look. She said, “Have you ever gotten on a bus as a
little girl with your mother and plopped on the first seat and then got
scolded by the bus driver and your mother because, “Your place was at
the back of the bus?” She said, “Have you ever needed to use a restroom
and seen the signs that said, “Ladies,” “Gentlemen” and “Negroes?” I
remember crying as she spoke and then we hugged. She said, “I know you
think you know but unless you live it, you don’t know.” One of us
gained weight that year and one of us lost weight. We traded our white
jeans because the other’s fit better. I remember another girl in the
dorm saw my friend’s jeans on me. (She had drawn a picture on the
pocket.) This girl said to me, “I hope you washed that ‘nigra’s’ jeans
before you wore them.” That was all I needed to hear. I had to do
something.

Shortly
thereafter, sometime in the early 70’s, there happened to be a civil
rights march to Atlanta. The march was broadcasted on TV and my very
bigoted father almost had heart failure as he watched the national news
as his little long blond haired daughter marched to Atlanta with
“colored people” singing, “We shall overcome.” I don’t
remember much of what was to follow but I do remember that it wasn’t
good. Also, I do remember that the president of my college called me in
afterward. He said to me, “Claudia, our girls do not maach!” “Oh yes they do,” I thought.

Years
later, after I graduated from college, I remember trying to understand
what it was like to have skin that wasn’t the same as mine. I was a
supervisor in an airline reservations office at the time. I had two
agents come to me a few days prior to, what is now, Martin Luther King
Day. They pled with me to help them get the day off. They were so
passionate about their request that I went in to the powers that be and
fought for their cause. At first, their wish was denied but I kept
fighting for them because they were not “just trying to get a day off,”
they were in pain because of the loss of such an unbelievable leader.
Finally, I was permitted to give them the day off but only if they made
the day up. I felt good about what I had accomplished because it was
unheard of at the time. Little did any of us know that that day would
become a national holiday. I take pride every year as that special day
approaches because I feel like I made a difference and contributed in
some way to the memory of Martin Luther King, Jr.

The
riots in Miami began that summer and they were terrifying. Houses were
set on fire and people were being killed. My friend lived in one of the
areas that was burning. We were working the night shift. I told her
that she should come home with me after work because she would be
safer. I remember her putting her hands on my shoulders and shaking me.
She said, “You are so dumb. Who do you think has a better chance of
surviving, me in a black neighborhood or a white girl and a black girl
in the same car?” As I drove home that night, I had to
drive on a road where the people who lived there, were pushing grocery
carts into the road to block cars and then they were throwing “molatoff
cocktails” at the stopped cars. I was afraid but since I was young I
was sure that I was also invincible. Plus, I was preoccupied with
concern for my friend’s safety.

Sometime
after that, I got married. I invited the same friend to my wedding. My
reception was at a prestigious club in the area. My friend didn’t come
and I didn’t understand why and I was hurt. I still have the gravy boat
that she gave me as a wedding gift and I think of her often and wonder
where and how she is. I know she is happy today and I am happy too.