I was outside my house gardening a few weekends ago when a neighbor stopped by to pet his dogs. I took my gloves off and squatted down to give the dogs a good scratching experience and felt the sun on my back. What could be better? My neighbor asked why I had a sign on my lawn that said Black Lives Matter.
My day was over.
I am Black, right? I said, standing up as tall as my frame would allow, the sun was shining on my blond hair. I continued to pet his dogs because I needed to keep my hands busy so they didn't slap that man's face, and because I needed the comfort of petting dogs at that moment.
After the usual back and forth of him saying "No!" and me saying "Yes!" and then him trying to gauge exactly "how Black I was", we had a very uncomfortable conversation about racism.
Guidance counselors and admissions agents wouldn't accept Black people into community colleges in the 1950s and 1960s, so I told him about my father's struggles to get an education. I told him that even though my father was a veteran, he could not use the GI Bill for college because he was a black man. I told him that people painted "Go Home Nigger" on the back of our home when my parents finally saved enough money to build a house. I told him that "Black Lives Matter" calls attention to the fact that Black people are considered less than white people and that needs to stop.
If people don't understand that Black lives matter, they will be murdered by the police and denied opportunities by the establishment. We won't be allowed to participate in the American Dream, and we will be made to believe that it's our fault because of a racist society with the full support of the government.
This isn't the first time I've had this conversation. This has been going on for a long time for me.
The author's parents were married in 1963. The photo is courtesy of Miriam Zinter.
Both of my parents are black. I was born with light-skinned, wavy hair and blue eyes, and my white genes were passed on to me. This was something that had been predicted. There are white babies in my parents' families. My family is made up of aunts, uncles and cousins who are all white.
The story of my grandmother's cousin, who left the family in the 1940s to join the Army and fight in World War II, is told in this picture. He was married to a German girl and never returned to being black. Family members would look at each other while he was on the street. He was lost to us because he chose an easier way. For me, Neville was a cautionary tale. I didn't want to be like him.
Annie Mother, a great-aunt, would pass as white to purchase properties and then sell or rent them to Black families who could not find decent, affordable housing. I pursued a career in social justice because I wanted to be like Annie Mother.
My parents tried to buy a home in Syracuse. Most of the houses they made offers on had deed restrictions that said the home could not be sold to Negros. They decided to build their own home and found a place in New York where the builder was willing to sell them the land. They learned they couldn't get a mortgage despite the good news. My parents had savings, but they were black, so they didn't have enough.
My dad decided to transfer to Alaska because he could make more money there. My mom banked all of my dad's checks when we moved in with my grandmother. My parents paid cash to have their house built.
The same house was painted "Go Home Nigger" by people. They did this when we were already home. I went to school in a white neighborhood and the other students were all white. My parents talked to me before I started kindergarten. Let me explain the talk to you if you don't know it. The talk is about race. It is about being black in a world where white people make the rules. If you don't know what Black means, you won't be able to survive.
My parents were worried. This was 1969. I would be starting school in a district where there were no other Black children because people knew we were Black. We assumed that I could and would be subjected to racist actions by my peers because I am Black. We were prepared for groups of white parents to shout at me. Or throw something at me. If this happened, my parents needed me to know that I was not bad. It meant the adults were bad and that I needed to rise above them.
The author and her sister were hit by their mom. The photo is courtesy of Miriam Zinter.
We wanted to be like Dr. King in our home. I knew who he was when I was 4 years old. I was taught the principals of nonviolence. My parents hoped for a better world for me when they marched with King. I was prepared to walk through a gauntlet of screaming hatred when I got to school the next day. I was looking. There wasn't anything happening. If any protesters were there, they would not have known I was black. I might have walked by them with my new outfit and blond hair. I was ready to learn and I did. There aren't challenges just because there weren't protesters.
My kindergarten teacher didn't think it was appropriate for a black child to play with white children. The other students were playing in the classroom. I stood by the window and cried. The principal stepped in after my parents complained. I was allowed to play with my classmates. My parents worried that my teacher would not engage me in the same way she did with the other students, so they worked with me on my math and reading. I excelled.
When we moved to Rochester, New York, the neighborhood was mostly white. I did not find this strange. Some of the people I am friends with today are people I fit in and made good friends with. I knew I was Black and I didn't have to forget who I was.
My history teacher told my class that if we wanted to insult Black people, we should call them Uncle Toms. A high school student dressed up as a klansman for Halloween. A student dressed in blackface ran around in front of him. We were told we needed to develop a sense of humor after a few Black students and a number of our white classmates complained to the principal. A student called me a "white nigger" when he was a teacher. I found myself defending affirmative action, busing and desegregated with my friends and classmates whose parents thought that if Black people invaded their white world, chaos would follow.
Many years have passed since then, but this madness hasn't stopped.
My neighbor, who asked me why black lives matter, is not the only one who has felt comfortable making a statement rife with racism.
White people think I am also white and therefore feel safe saying horrible things. I have had people tell me that seeing interracial couples is offensive. They don't understand why Black neighborhoods look so ghetto, and they think Black people are "thugs". Many of these people are educated and hold jobs that give them power over Black people. Doctors, judges, lawyers, social workers and politicians are some of the people they are. That is frightening.
The author, her sisters, and their dad were listening to a story in 1969. The photo is courtesy of Miriam Zinter.
I have made it my business to speak up when I have encountered racist rhetoric. I told these people that I am black. I have told them about my family. I've done everything I can to educate them about the systems of racism in this country.
Sometimes they say, "But you're different!" I ask if other Black people are also different. When they say yes, I ask them how they are different. When will you realize that we are not different? You have been deceived into believing that Black people are bad, and that what you see with your own eyes is not different from what you see in the real world.
That makes them happy.
There is a force dedicated to segregation and racism. There are people who benefit from conflict. It is harmonious when people of different races live together and want to know each other. It breeds suspicion and distrust when races are separated. It becomes a fight between us and them.
Being a black woman who looks white has allowed me to experience white privilege. People assume I am smart and honest because I am white. If I looked Black, how would these people treat me? I have known for a long time that I would be treated with suspicion or disdain. If I looked black, the police would have been called to question me. This makes me sick and angry. How many of our Black brothers and sisters have had the police called on them just for being black?
We need to stop this. Accepting and learning about our racist past is the best way to change. It is concerning that people are protesting the idea of history being taught in schools. The only way for America to be great is to accept all of our citizens at face value, and the only way to do that is to understand our history and the pain and tragedy that exists within it.
A woman who is black and white is named Miriam Zinter. She began her career as a community leader and later became the executive director of a not-for-profit neighborhood organization and is now working in the housing finance sector. She serves on boards that help homeless and poor people. She has two adult children and a spoiled shiba inu dog. Her parents live down the street from her, and she values them every day. She loves talking to her two sisters every day. She loves to eat and drink. Unless she says you are a troll and just move on, you can follow her on social media.
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The article was originally on HuffPost.
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