As the summer draws to a close, the twins scramble to squeeze everything in, including the summer reading books: The Catcher in the Rye and The Help. I do not envy them the aggravating tale of Holden Caulfield. I never enjoyed a book less than that one. The Help, however, was a painful look at a part of America's past that hit far too close to home for my comfort. I see the connection between the two, though.
Anissa and I watched the movie version of The Help with Emma Stone just a few months ago. It was a strong retelling of the 1960s segregated south. While the pain of black Americans during this period was deep and unmistakeable, the story focused on the narrater Skeeter's pain. She was robbed of a relationship with a black woman caregiver by her fearful white mother-a woman driven by other people's prejudices. Skeeter is a journalist, and decides to tell the story of the painful truth of the black maids in the south. She almost comes unravelled in the process.
As we watched, Anissa grew more distraught with the concept and every hate filled act of ignorance. She wept, and I wept for her. It was not something she had truly seen in her life. We often laugh and say "you do go to public school"--but her school is integrated. Our kids have many friends who are black, or biracial, or hispanic, or whatever. We have worked hard to create an environment of love and acceptance for all. We have even brought international college students into our lives for them to know the world.
But the book, it is bringing it all back for her. Every painful detail. And her love for her friends, it clouds her comprehension of who could think that way. I remember. I remember many who did. Including me.
I remember being in 4th grade. It was 1976. (10 years after my father's high school-my future school-was integrated.) We had moved to Germany, and knew no one. My father was Air Force, and we went to school on base. The first friend I made was Dorothy. She was so beautiful. Caramel skin, curly hair, and funny! She was nice to me, and I wanted to be her friend. But, I lived in a house that didn't allow it. I knew that, or at least I thought I knew. My parents were much like Skeeter's, it was just how they were raised. They never knew that I had turned down Dorothy's request to have a sleep over because her father was black. I was afraid of what my daddy would say, but I never gave him a chance to say anything. I allowed our friendship to disintegrate. (I never noticed the origins of that word until just now.) I have regretted it ever since. There were moments in high school that I had opportunities to fight the color barrier, but I was too scared of fighting that battle. I didn't push. (Sorry, Reggie, you deserved a chance.)
While I was in high school, my father went back to college. I remember being so proud to attend his graduation. A degree in industrial management. But it was the psychology classes of his minor that helped him the most. He finally understood the why of how he was raised, and moved forward. My father is a Democrat, and I wasn't sure what he would do in 2008. He called me the first time he voted for Obama. I cried when I got off the phone. I cried for Dorothy. I cried for me. My tears were for a victory that wasn't about an election. It was about my childhood, and all those lost relationships. All those I could have loved, but allowed society to tell me I shouldn't.
Anissa texted me yesterday-she and Dave were driving to a conference youth meeting in Springfield. She said the book was upsetting her so much that she had to put it down for a while. I reassured her as best I could, but it brought back so many painful memories of chances missed, bravery denied. I still was haunted last night by the president's words: "It could have been me." Yes, Sir, it could have. But if its up to Anissa and Austin's generation, it won't always have to be that way.
My children don't have to feel afraid, like I did, they just need to feel. My words to you: don't allow yours to grow up in a color cocoon, it will break their hearts later when they realize what they have missed out on.
Dorothy and I, we weren't meant to be. But my new friend Tamara? Yes, she and I have a chance.
Sorry, I couldn't resist including the DYAC moment. Oh, and don't worry, she'll finish the book, she's too much like her mother and grandfather to not finish what she starts.
