I started the fifth grade in 1971. The Supreme Court had just approved busing as an avenue for desegregation in Swann v. Charlotte-Mecklenburg Board of Education. The ruling had an immediate ripple effect across the country. Plans for busing programs quickly got underway. In my school district in Jacksonville, Florida, Duval County was under federal court order to ensure that our busing program would be fully implemented within a year. These types of federal court orders were being implemented and monitored closely in all the Southern states—not surprisingly.
Not only were schools undergoing a major change, American life was smack in the middle of a massive social upheaval. The 60s had laid the groundwork by introducing radical ideas about individual freedom, civil rights and raising suspicions around authority. The cultural landscape was changing rapidly through women’s rights, birth control, the sexual revolution, cohabitation, music, self-expression, Vietnam protests, Watergate—to many, we were loosening our morals as a country. Interestingly, we are hearing that same refrain today, from both sides, 45 years later.
My parents, along with all the others in our neighborhood, were frantically wringing their hands over the looming busing situation. Racial slurs were openly used, parents offended that their child would be subjected to those lesser-of-people. “I’ll be damned if my child is going to school with a bunch of N..s,” they shouted in defiance to one another. They called each other on the phone or stood together in each other's yards trying to get information about private schools that might still have availability. Some mothers were nearly hysterical.
Surprisingly, my parents found a private Christian school with a few spots left. I wondered how they managed to scrape the money together since it was never a secret how tight money was in our household. I didn’t realize at the time that my mother started working part-time at JCPenney to pay for it.
I didn’t care much for my new Christian school from the very start. Each morning began with an assembly in the sanctuary. We sang hymns and prayed, then nodded off to a dull sermon. There was also a dress code which I despised. Girls were not allowed to wear pants—only skirts and dresses. There was one exception to this code: if it was unbearably cold out, the girls could wear pants under their dresses. How stupid this seemed to a tomboy like me.
Even though I was really young, I was keenly aware of the politics of that church-school. Haughty adults strolled through the halls with ugly piety, protecting us from those fiendish dark skinned people across town. They were smug in their holy duty to save us.
Out of about 500 students in the school, there was one, one black student. A very sweet, quiet and lonely girl. Kids picked on her relentlessly, badgering her, “What are you doing in our school? You don’t belong here!” Every day I saw her sitting alone and crying during recess. I spoke to her a few times, but she wasn’t in my class so I had no way to befriend her other than those rare times on the playground. It got so bad for her that her parents finally took her out of the school. She must have been so relieved, but deeply traumatized too. Wherever she might be today, I hope that the experience she had at the start of fifth grade is but a distant memory and that she’s living a beautiful life in her sixties.
When I found out that she was gone, I was angry—and on a mission. One opportune day our teacher gave a lesson about law and crime. I was listening very carefully, just waiting to find a way to trip her up. I don’t know exactly what she said that triggered the next turn of events, but I remember it had something to do with the punishment fitting the crime. I raised my hand and said, “So what you’re saying is, if a ‘Black’ man were to do this, then it would be okay to shoot and kill him. Right?”
“Right,” She said.
“You’re a racist!” I shouted as I jumped up from my desk.
“Sit down. No I am not!”
“No, I’m not sitting down. You’re a racist and you're wrong! I’m leaving!”
“Sit down!”
I glared at her for a moment as my fists tightened. I scowled then flipped my desk over. The class exploded into an uproar. I stormed out the door and slammed it hard. The door was made of louvered glass panels and two of the panels shook loose and shattered on the floor. By now kids were pouring out of the other classrooms and some of us started yelling, “Riot!” All the students whooped and hollered and ran wildly through the halls. We had heard about the riots across town. Now we were having one of our own! Teachers were terrified, shouting out to other teachers trying to understand what had happened. They finally got us all herded into the sanctuary. I still don’t know how they managed to do that as crazy as everything was.
The principal and several staff stood on the stage at the front of the church. The P.E. teacher, a large muscled man, walked up and down the aisles like a sergeant-at-arms.
“NOT ONE SOUND!” The principal threatened. He morphed into a red-faced furor, panting and darting his wide white eyes around the room. “NO-ONE MOVE, NOT ONE INCH!”
We all sat there for a long time, in stillness and silence, while several teachers and staff talked among themselves. Our teacher was crying and shaking while she spoke in whispers to the principal. Several of the adults on the stage looked over at me while they listened to her story.
Then, one by one, starting with the principal, each adult came up to the microphone and started explaining how racism was wrong. The principal said there had been a misunderstanding. They said our school was a Christian school and that Christians can’t be racists. At one point, one of them tried to get me to apologize to my teacher. I refused, shaking my head, arms across my chest. We all remained in the sanctuary for the rest of the day.
It took a smart aleck 11 year old kid to force the issue in that Christian school that day. Imagine how things might have drastically changed had all the adults in that holy sanctuary been able and willing to admit that most of the students were there because of the white fragility* of our parents and ancestors going back hundreds of years.
In all honesty, I have no recollection how “the riot” was communicated to all the parents, but I remember talking to my mother about it when I got home. She wasn’t mad at me, but she did convince me to apologize to the teacher. She said I could apologize in my own time. That alone was a remarkable thing, that my mother gave me that space to choose the right time to apologize. I didn’t right away, but I don’t think I waited too long. I’d like to think that I waited just long enough for my teacher to give some serious thought to the real issue. One can hope.
I don’t know how or why I began to stand up to racism so young. After all, I was still being raised to think and behave like a racist. My father proudly professed his white supremacy, “glory hallelujah.” We still used the N word as easily as we talked about the weather. We still rolled our windows up and locked the doors anytime we were driving on “the other side of the River.” Maybe it was because of Miss Rosier, or memories of Nanny. Maybe I was already feeling my own growing sense of “otherness*” because I didn’t fit in with the girls, and the boys told me I should act more like a girl. Or maybe I was starting to absorb some of the messages that were coming from the news on television. They said that the government thinks that school integration seems to be the right thing to do and I suspect many white people at the time knew on some level that something needed to be done about the black/white divide. They knew that it was morally wrong, but had no reference point from which to work. Most “nice” white families didn’t talk about privilege, or examine the generations of prejudice. No government decree was going to solve the underlying nature of learned hatred. I wish I could say that my own racism had ended there and that as I grew older I became an ally in the civil rights movement. Not a chance. I was already standing firmly on a white scrubbed foundation along with millions of other white kids.
Several months before the school year was over, I left that Christian school. One very cold morning I’d decided to challenge the dress code. My mother, to my amazement, allowed it. I told her it was too cold out to wear a dress, and that I wasn’t going to wear pants underneath a stupid skirt. I had a hand knitted poncho that was long enough to sort of work as a dress. I explained, “See, my poncho is long enough.” It really wasn’t unless I tugged on it. My mother said I’d probably get in trouble but I could try if I wanted to. Sure enough, as soon as I got to school, I was called into the principal's office and promptly sent home. When my mother drove up, I got in the car and said rather frankly, “I’m not going back to that school any more.” She sat back with a surprised expression, and said, “You’re not? Well, huh, let’s go tell your Dad.” He wasn’t as okay with it as Mom was, but he didn’t fight it. It was expensive, plus I complained every single day about how much I hated it there. I finished 5th grade back at my local elementary school, the year before me and my classmates boarded the bus to the other side of town.
AI Inquiry
*White Fragility refers to the defensive reactions that some white people may display when confronted with discussions about racism, privilege, or racial inequality. The term was popularized by Robin DiAngelo in her 2018 book "White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism." These reactions can include behaviors like:
- Becoming defensive, angry, or uncomfortable
- Dismissing or minimizing discussions about racism
- Withdrawing from the conversation
- Focusing on their own feelings rather than engaging with the topic
- Making the discussion about their individual experiences rather than systemic issues
The concept suggests that these reactions stem from a lack of experience in constructively engaging with racial stress, partly due to living in environments that insulate white people from having to regularly think about or discuss race.
*Othering is a complex social phenomenon where individuals or groups are mentally classified and treated as fundamentally different or alien from the dominant or "normal" group.
Othering operates through several key mechanisms:
Power dynamics - Othering typically flows from groups with more social, economic, or political power toward those with less. The dominant group positions itself as the default or standard against which others are measured.
Dehumanization - By emphasizing differences rather than shared humanity, othering can lead to seeing the "other" group as less human, less civilized, or less worthy of dignity and rights.
Stereotyping - Othering often relies on oversimplified stereotypes that reduce complex individuals to a few assumed characteristics based on their group identity.
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