WFH: Week Thirteen

Last week, I felt it was time to reduce the frequency of these dispatches, as I will be working from home for (possibly) the rest of this year. But this week, I do have some words to say.

I don't know what the history books will make of this ugly period in our nation's history, but it will not be kind. (Nor, should it be.)

I watched footage of protesters, having stopped traffic on one of our local freeways, bashing at the windows of the trapped cars. I felt terrified, and I wasn't even one of those drivers. I recognized that I am privileged not to feel afraid as I go about the ordinary business of living my life.

Are we the only species that has evolved to be cruel? To take satisfaction, or even pleasure, from inflicting suffering on others? I don't know anyone who raised their children to be cruel; but if, for some sad reason, your family did, please ... rise above it.

I am old enough to remember the tumult that swelled during the 1960's. My family fled the city for the suburbs, and it took me a few days to sort out what was unsettling about my new school.

All the faces were white.

My urban school hadn't been heavily integrated, but there were black and brown faces among my classmates. Even as a child, I found myself uncomfortable in a place where everyone looked just like me.

Last fall, I waited to cross a major thoroughfare that bisects our campus. A family (mom, dad, and toddler in a stroller) waited alongside me. I wondered why they were there; not because they were Black, but because the nearest park and the nearest residential area is some distance away.

I smiled at them. The father scowled at me. “Are you one of them geniuses that work here?” he asked.

Ouch. There was a lifetime of pain behind that question.

“No,” I smiled, “but I work with some!” The walk signal started counting down. It's a wide street, but the normally impatient drivers waited without turning across our path.

“Hah,” I said. “We got some respect, for your baby; normally they just drive right on through.” That led to a little pleasant conversation before we parted ways, and I left wondering what that toddler's life experience will be. Better than that of her parents, I hoped.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

More than 56 years have passed—a lifetime, for some—since Martin Luther King Jr. spoke those words. The content of the character of too many of our leaders, and fellow citizens, is appalling.