Learn, teach, learn.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, I teach a group of adults all of the skills they never learned in high school.
We comb through the newspaper, and I explain the difference between expository and persuasive writing. We find an interesting article to read and they take turns reading it aloud, seeking out the who, what, why, when, where and how before sharing what they’re comprehending. I teach grammar and they correct typos on historical paragraphs. We finish up our three-hour class with a 45-minute math lesson, converting fractions and discussing how they fit into our financial lives.
They learn a lot in my class.
But I learn so much more.
I’m white. They’re black.
Nearly everyone in my class has either been incarcerated or has a family member who is incarcerated. I was “arrested” once when I was a 22-year-old cub reporter in rural Maryland, a planned event cleared with the sheriff’s department so I could write a story about what it feels like to be locked up. They slapped some handcuffs on me, I rode in the back of the police car and I was booked, fingerprints taken and all. The whole event lasted about two hours, and I was the only arrestee there.
I have been a reporter for more than 20 years, and I have written stories about poverty, racial injustice and the inequity of the judicial system. I know a little bit about a lot of things. I have watched countless documentaries about the history of racism in our country. I listen to the podcast “Ear Hustle” religiously and often speak “authoritatively” about what life is like on the inside.
But I have no idea.
And I know that I have no idea.
I don’t understand when people say they don’t see color and that we are all equal. Because all I see is color and disparity. I live in the Deep South where interstates literally divide white and black neighborhoods. In Baton Rouge, there is a white university and a black university. Nearly 75 percent of public school students are black and 80 percent of private school students are white. When I first moved here 17 years ago from New York, I asked a co-worker directions to the nearest mall.
She replied, “The white one or the black one?”
I want to fix and help and heal and do. I want to raise kids who fix and help and heal and do. But I don’t know what to do. So I listen. And I learn. And I teach.
I love this country, but I don’t think its history means the same for everyone. The past can be what you want it to be if you choose a history book that focuses on one topic but not the other. But in order for us to see the past clearly and fix the present, we must look at each puzzle piece as a component of the bigger picture. We can no longer fixate on one jagged piece and call it our truth. If we lay them all out on the table and take the time to realize that each piece is different, we can also see that each piece fits.
The truth of our country isn’t found in the reds, whites and blues of our American flag, instead it’s buried in the varying shades of gray of our muddled history. Because at the end of the day, the truth is that our founding fathers built freedom and owned people. At the same time.
We have these discussions in my class. We talk about the hard stuff. We look at the history of racism and white privilege. And one Thursday, about six months ago, one of my students shared her fears with me, explaining that when she goes for a walk around a city park — the same one I walk around — she keeps her hands up, palms out, arms up above her head so the police will see that she is not armed.
“When you’re exercising?” I asked, a confused look on my face.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Because of this,” she said, pointing to her arm. “Because I’m this color.”
She told me that she is afraid when her son drives at night or goes out alone and referenced Trayvon Martin. And I thought about my seven year old son and what it would feel like to be afraid for him, simply because of what he looked like. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I listened. And she taught.
June 8, 2020