"Abuelita, what was Texas like back then?"
"Well mija, not much has changed."
It was too difficult to explain to her that Texas remains with its racist views. I did not want to tell her about my experiences in the South during the 40s.
My granddaughter's question reminded me of a particular event in my life that gave me a small taste of hope when I was 12.
As I was on the bus with my mother, I remembered seeing a French woman by the name of Simone. Her and her friends stood out from the people on the bus.
Suddenly, there was a black woman who fainted. No one dared to help her. My mother and I heard Simone whisper to her friend, "Why isn't anyone helping that woman?". We were wondering the same thing but dared not say it aloud.
We had become accustomed to seeing, experiencing, and living through the blatant racism of the South. What makes this event so remarkable is that my mother and I had not heard any white person before Simone be concerned about the wellbeing of a person of color. It was something new to us.
As we were getting of the bus, Simone also got off. We told her that we were surprised she cared about the woman. She later told us that she was traveling all across the United States and that she was from France. It was an odd experience for us to have a person from outside the country notice, and vocalize the injustices in the South. She had an interesting discussion with my mother while I listened intently. Wherever Simone is now, she will never know the hope she gave me as a young brown girl growing up in the Lone Star State.
Growing up in Brooklyn New York, my family was surrounded by people of different colors and different backgrounds. My father would remind us every saturday on our walk to synagogue that there were people in our city that didn't look like us, sound like us, or act like us, but that they were still people.
ReplyDeleteIn Brooklyn we we're surrounded by other Jews and I assumed this what the world was like. When I went off to college, however, I realized that this was not true everywhere. There was no synagogue at my school and I was one of only three Jewish students.
It wasn't until I left New York for the first time that I realized how unique my father's words were. Sometimes, it takes something from the outside or, in Simone's case, someone from the outside, to help you understand where you're from.