That was beautiful, Billmon.

First-class, Billmon...

...but I'm just waiting for the obligatory troll to chime in with the meme that "progressive politics" had nothing to do with it, it was obviously just the expected results from a good capitalist economy, the "rising tide lifting all boats." Or something like that.

Indeed it was.

"There is, however, one thing I've always sworn to myself: The world of my childhood dies with me."

I made that very same promise to myself many years ago as well. I hope I can see something similar when I have a child.

Yes, that comment also resonated in particular with me. I salute your brutal honesty with yourself, Bill, and share your dream.

Excellent post Billmon. You could teach bush a thing or two about compassion.

What words! I got a positive rush and tears. Just wonderful and just another white boy learning about life too. Thanks.

I didn't grow up in the South, and I'm too young to remember whites-only drinking fountains in any case. But I still have similar feelings; when my kids are playing with their friends, I often stand back and how wonderful it is to see them with so many kids of different racial backgrounds--some white, some Asian or Asian-American, some African-American some with parents of different races, and just about every other permutation you can think of.

And then I think how sad it is that this is remarkable, or that our world is such that I even notice it. But considering where we've come from, I'm still happy to see where my kids are, and it gives me hope for where they're going.

p

Yeah, Billmon, I hear you. I grew up in Texas and West Virginia, where the black people were segregated from us, though we saw them every day. Then my family moved to Ohio when I went to high school, so I had to learn the 60's mid-American version of apartheid, like at what tables the different races were supposed to sit at in the cafeteria at lunchtime.

One cute-looking black girl at my high school was named Rita Dove, and you may have heard of her because she later became the poet laureate of the United States at the beginning of the Clinton administration. Of course, I would never have had the nerve to actually talk to her! So I missed out on meeting someone pretty incredible.

I read one of her poems later on, about what it was like to attend the summer picnics of BF Goodrich, where her dad worked as a cleaner despite having a PhD in chemistry... the poem is about watching the white people eating their picnic lunches across a lake that divided them from the blacks. Sad, but I guess/hope that probably wouldn't be the case nowadays?

Since I've lived in Canada for the past 33 years, I miss the US blacks. Most of the folks you meet up here are Caribbean, with a completely different culture.

Anyway, great column, Billmon. I can't imagine how you write such consistently thoughtful stuff and still manage to earn a living at the same time.

In a more perfect world, we would be reading Billmon in the NYT or WaPo, and George Will and Peggy Noonan would be writing on blogs that nobody would read.

Billmon,

I have to congratulate you on your personal acheivment in overcoming the prejudices you grew up surrounded by. Its the kind of thing a better world is made of.

I had the good fortune to go to a school with literally dozens of nationalities attending and another one with really just one. There wasn't any racism at either, but after that sort of experience it is clear as day to me that the only way to produce a really tolerant society is for people to mix with other races as much as possible at as young an age as possible. Otherwise you get, not necessarily racism, but that uncomfortableness/unease (someone has to invent a word for this) you talked about feeling towards blacks.

You have my admiration.

you and i must be about the same age, billmon, though i grew up in northern louisiana. i've also lived all over the country and now i reside in the midwest. i'm the product of louisiana public schools. segregated louisiana public schools. my family wasn't as overtly racist but the culture i grew up in certainly was. my grandparents always used the "ra" version of the n word (still racist, i know) but never the "er" version -- that was just too vulgar. it was impossible to grow up white in the south at that time without in some way now expressing the mark of the imprint you wrote about. like you, no matter how rationally i approach the topic of race, i can never quite get past that cultural imprint completely. the good news, however, is that there are many southerners like you and me, maybe even most. the good news is, that is, that there are many who grew up in the south, recognize the effect the culture had on them and struggle with it. i think it's a collective attack of guilty conscience among our generation. because of that, and other factors, i see a change in the racist culture, both regionally and nationally. i really do believe that america is maturing with respect to race and dr. king would be proud of that, as you suggested so eloquently.

smiley

Wow. That's all I can say.

thanks bill. linking to you now.

That was touching. I am a product just one generation on the other side of a decision like yours. My mother was the one who managed to tell her mother "No". She has some of the old reactions, the old language, and she has been the one to shoulder the burden of "It ends with me." I watched the news from the South as a child and my mother made it a point to ask me what I thought, and seemed to be well pleased with the answers she heard. I love my mother and I love my grandmother too, of course, but the one has a relationship with the world far too alien for me to know. What must it feel like to be the generation that watched their children take up the burden as you have in order to make the next one free of it? There's a book there ya know billmon, and man, you can write.

God I hope you are right. I fear you may be wrong. The beauty of children is that they have no idea that there is any real difference. They only see another child who may want to play with them.

I grew up with wonderfull parents. They believed that "All Men Are Created Equal." A very dear friend of their's was Geranimo Pratt, the Black Panther who was wrongly convicted of the murder of a school teacher in Santa Monica around 1972. It was basically a frame up by the F.B.I. They never believed it and taught me that there was no difference between our family and his family.

We moved around the country and while living in Colorado I learned some stupid things from children of bigoted parents. I was in about the third grade. One day on the school bus I used the N word against another kid. The bus driver called my mother and told her. I was grounded and made to write a 200 word essay on why I was wrong. To this day I am thankfull that the driver called my mother because she was able to nip that attitude in the bud.

The reason I write this is because we MUST make sure that the children of today are taught right and watched for the kind of influence that I had from the other children.

I a happy to see what you and your readers wrote today. With your help the world will continue to make strides to achieve M.L.M.'s and our dream. You give me great hope.

I, too, am the first generation on the other side of the decision. I am the Great-Great-Grandson of a colonel in the confederate army. I have often wondered how many generations my family would have to carry the burden of the sins of my forefathers. Reading Billmon's post, I realize that my father, the good Reverend, mayhaps have set us on the road to righteousness.

I believe I have only used the N-word once in anger. I was about 7 years old and I called my father one. I had no idea what it meant, just knew that it was "bad". Angriest I have ever seen him. My father can swear like the son of a sailor that he is, but I was always taught that racial and ethnic taunts were the only "bad" words. (yes, in case you are wondering, that does make me a "Son of Preacherman" AND "the son of a son of a sailor")

speechless.

Not much to add, but bravo.

Great words, Billmon.

I was eight years old in 1958 and went to see relatives in Virginia.

One bunch had an antebellum plantation home. It had a pump-handle water well in the front yard.

Glass and a tin dipper. Guess why...

My mom made me proud. We drank out of both dipper and glass and shamed our relatives when they objected. Some blacks saw us, but did not say anything. It was before the civil rights movement. Looking back, they were probably frightened by what we were doing, perhaps they feared retribution. I hope those people remember that my mom stood up for what was right before it was common.

Our generation carries the racial hatred virus but most of us have not passed it on to our kids, Thank God!

I watch my kids in their twenties and everybody gets together for fun.

I really do hope that racial hatred dies out because our kids are better than we are.

.

Probably the most beautiful and vivid tribute the Reverand King and his Dream I can imagine.

No thoughts,no comments but one-AMAZING

Dang, Bill, you made me cry!

I'm of a younger generation, from the Midwest, far north where it was far more common to hear people talk garbage about American Indians, but the vile thread was there, too. I remember hearing all sorts of foolish things said by kids who had never seen someone who was black or hispanic or asian. I benefited from having parents who refrained from any sort of talk like that, a mother who talked about the issues with ambivalence, but with a general idea that racism was wrong. It was far easier for me to shed the baggage than for you. Thank you for a beautiful and touching bit of writing.

Just before I started 1st grade in 1960, we moved from Chicago to Nashville. What a culture shock! The 100th anniversary of the Civil War was just beginning, and all of a sudden the "we" referred to the Confederacy. We didn't even get off school for Memorial Day, 'cause that was a Yankee holiday started by Lincoln. So we got off on Confederate Memorial Day.

We've made a lot of progress since then.

That was very inspiring Billmon. I am not from the south but I was born during WWII after my family moved to California to work in the military aircraft industry. I graduated from high school just as the Civil Rights movement was starting to emerge and though their wasn't an overt racist social system in place, there were still strong racial divisions. I graduated from Compton High School and had many black acquaintances in sports and class (even though the black kids were not often guided to the college prep classes) but there was not much mixing after school that I was aware of. Recalling those relationships I too decided during the '60s that there was something basically wrong in the way we were dealing with our non-caucasian citizens and eventually came to the conclusion that there was really no more difference between the races than there was in the color of roses. The differences in individuals is in the socialization. I tried very hard to remove racial distinctions from my childrens life view. My children are grown now and both have members of other races in their circle of friends and just recently my son married a lovely Vietnamese woman with two children whose father was black. They are a very happy family and I am very proud of my son and his family.

Growing up in Tennesee and South Carolina, I can remember when we were traveling that I wanted to stay in one of those "colored" motels, it looked way more interesting to to a 7 year old than one of those "white" ones. I can still see the "colored" sign in bright neon in the dark in my mind's eye.

To my best recollection, my parents made no comment at the time, probably thought I was too young to understand.

I think there has been some progress. To endorse discrimination now you have to mask it with some "free market capitalism" crap, though this may make it more hidden and harder to confront.

-marku

ps--Billmon, when is the next econ post?

Billmon, how dare you send chills up my spine like that.

I'm just a couple of years younger than you, but growing up in California I don't remember anything like you describe. While the overt segregation issues maybe didn't exist in San Diego, I'm sure there were racial divides. I do know that I remember very distinctly the one African American in my 3rd grade class; and I know that junior high was a terrible ordeal, in part because there were so many different people around me, who I didn't understand, couldn't relate to, and, in my 7th and 8th grade mind, wanted to hurt me.

Billmon,
That was a fantastic essay.

Thank you, Billmon. You are not alone.

Beautifully said.

I have to link to that. That was stunning. Simply stunning. Thank you for nourishing my basic faith in humanity today.

WF

I grew up in the same age Billmon, but in Gary, IN, a black majority city. My parents were politically correct covert racists. I say this because the one time I used the "n" word, about age 7, my mother slapped me and said never to use that word again. Yet both my parents supported George Wallace in '68. I've been ashamed of them for that ever since. To this day my relatives would never use a racial slur but still think it's fine to make lazy black jokes and such. We don't get along so well since I tell them I wont sit around listening to such.

Like I said, I grew up around blacks, lots of them. Whites were a minority at my first schools. Some of my friends were black, but few of them got along with my white friends and vice versa. But my parents were always worried about my growing up in such a place, where there were many poor people and gangs. And blacks, I presume. So when I was 15 we moved to a rural place about 50 miles away, and there was exactly one black at my new school. I remember what a big deal it was when the one black guy dated a white girl (though who else he was supposed to date I never was able to grasp). I played on several sports teams with Edgar White (the one black guy, ironically named) and while he received no other racist treatment I ever saw, he did his best to fit in. Behaviorally speaking, he was pretty much identical to the white kids.

Then I went in the military at the end of Vietnam. Plenty of blacks around, but things were much different than today. There was a dividing line a mile wide. I managed to fit in with both crowds, though again, it seemed I was the one white hanging out with the blacks I knew.

Only after my dad's death was my mother ever able to tell me that she had been ashamed of her attitudes about race and that she was ashamed of my dad's views.

We are such a long way from a color blind society. Things have gotten better, obviously, but this covert, almost subconscious racism remains. So long as blacks make 11 cents on the white dollar we'll never achieve equality, since we are still geographically segregated to a large degree. Only when the majority of white people live with black neighbors not terribly unlike themselves will we see real progress against the pervasive attitudes about the "other". Those who are against affirmative action simply don't see how these attitudes continue to keep a sharp divide between white and black. Nepotism alone accounts for far more unqualified whites getting good jobs and university slots than affirmative action has ever given blacks. Whites have all these inherent advantages that they seemingly never realize.

There is one caveat though. Rural poor whites have a lot in common with blacks when it comes to lack of opportunity; perhaps more in common than they have with rich whites. In some ways the racial divide is also a class divide. I see this class divide eating away at the principles this country was founded upon. Of course the current administration is making things worse, and seems to want to cement an already formed aristocracy. This whole topic is a big reason I'm a Democrat.

My son is autistic, and never thinks about black or white. He likes everybody, and wants to give everyone he sees a hug. That's one good thing I see in him; that some of these problems in our country will never affect him personally.

I had a moment of horror some years ago when I was babysitting my 5 year old niece. A black farmer came over to return something he had borrowed from my uncle and my niece said "What's that black stuff all over your face?" I was just about to do something when he kneedled down to her, laughed and said "What do you mean?". She walked up and tugged on his beard. So perhaps that is a good ending that she only thought about the beard and not the skin. I know I felt relieved.

I grew up in western New york with nary a black person in sight. My parents never talked about race. It was only when I went to college and made friends with blacks that I learned how backward my parents were.

But it was too late. I was okay.

Billmon, that was beautiful I saw MLK's speech on NewsHour tonight, and the tears rolled down my face.

We have made progress. My husband and I do not share the prejudices of our parents, and our children have been raised accordingly.

Every new generation can be better than the last.
That goes for all of us.

If only Chris Sibeni. . .never mind.

Thanks for time well spent.

great post bill except that i think your last paragraph was a bit harsh, america's greatest virtue is perhaps its ability to accept the mistakes it makes and the willingness to change for the better.

What a terrific piece, Billmon, both in content and style. As good in its own way as Dr. King's original.

I, too, was born and reared in the South, but on the other side of the color line - I'm about three-quarters Seminole, an eighth Scottish, an eighth African-American.

I drank from those "colored" drinking fountains and swam only on "colored" days at the public pool. When I was 6, 50 years ago, I watched my grandfather step off the sidewalk, my hand and my sister's in his, to let a white man and his children pass by. Once, I overheard whispers about what I would later learn was a lynching of someone my parents knew. There were dozens of other horrors and humiliations I could recount.

Happily, over those past 50 years, Americans have done what, in my opinion, Americans do best. We believe so much in our 18th Century ideals of liberty that we continually - in fits and starts -work to ensure they cover everyone.

Racism has not been terminated in America. But we are today closer to King's dream than 35 years ago when my mother and stepfather wed in another state because interracial marriage was illegal. Or 40 years ago when blacks risked their livelihoods or even their lives for daring to register to vote. Or 50 years ago when my grandfather stepped into the street to avoid a beating.

Despite the Trent Lotts of the world, there's no going back to the world of Strom Thurmond and his ilk. We've made permanent progress. To those who fought, were imprisoned and died to move us forward, we owe much.

Oh my goodness, did you ever dig up memories. I am 50 and grew up in small towns in North Carolina and went to college in the same state. I remember segregation so well. My fathers parents were townies, well to do, his father a dentist, his mother a teacher. My grandfather was a Democrat and a Methodist both with a capital D and a capital M. My grandfather was strident liberal do gooder always aggrevating someone. My southern experience was, I think, very weird to say the least.

My mother grew up on the other side of the tracks. Althought very bright and achieving in her own right, unlikely to advanced too far had not my father and her created me at the very young age of 16. I am prominately featured in my parents class picture in their senior year of high school. Both, with me, went on to UNC, and my father also became a dentist thanks to my father's father financial assistance. By the time my father was a practicing dentist at the very young age of 24, he had three children and another soon to be on the way. From that point, I always spent the summers with my fathers parents.

In those days in the south, you not only had separate drinking fountains, but at doctors and dentists offices, you had separate waiting rooms, white and colored. Today we are used to male and female restrooms, I grew up with two restrooms, white and colored.

My grandfather decided, as the unabashed liberal and methodist that he was, that separate waiting rooms were against his beliefs. He had one waiting room for all. Sadly, he was way, way ahead of his time and the waiting room housed the whites, and the blacks stood out in hall rather than create trouble. The town's mores trumped his goals but he himself never relented.

As a depression young adult, he never got over, nor did his wife, my grandmother, the fear of poverty. My grandmother's family were quakers, against slavery from the get go, but impoverished from the "great war"(for you non-southerners,the war between the states} and also from the depression. My grandmother had no problem with my grandfather's overt liberalism or his overt religiosity. She just went about her business being "penny wise but pound foolish" forever. When I was in college she once sent me 87 cents in change in an envelope that arrived intact for my birthday with a note that said that was all she had but she was thinking of me. My roommate was sincerely horrified and said I should send it back immediately. What I could never explain was that my grandmother only had 87 cents in her wallet at the moment, or any moment, because she never handled money. The weekly linen bill, grocery bill, maids wages etc were all taken care of by my grandfather. There were no "grocery stores" so to speak, you just called and had what you needed delivered. I remember seeing the grocery store with the tall shelves and the ladders that ringed the place.

My grandfather never turned anyone away regardless of their ability to pay if they were in pain. Of course dentistry in those days was not about preventive care, it was about need. He would take a bag of tomatoes or collards or a smoked ham when ever they were provided as payment in kind. To this day people still approach his sons with some kindness or a twenty dollar bill to say thankyou for his big heart. My father continued with this not very capitalistic approach, but we always ate well and once he got a very old car for a set of dentures and once a black and white TV that rolled.

In the summers of my youth, I knew I could never get a quarter from my grandmother for anything as silly as going to the movies, but I could walk two blocks to my grandfathers office for the money plus the nickel for a coke (where I grew up sodas were called co-cola or a coke} but the movie admission was a quarter only if you had a Coke bottle cap also. In those days you could sit in the movie all day for a quarter and double features were the norm. In my small home town, there was a separate entrance for coloreds and they had to sit in the balcony and were not allowed to go to the concession stand. When my father started his practice in the suburb of the capital city, the downtown movie theatre had two balconies, with the third for coloreds, and again the separate entrance.

From the time my father graduated from dental school, my mother had a full time maid, 8 to 5 every day, M to F, for $20 a week. For the first year of his practice, they rented a house and then bought a home. When we moved to the first owned home, the maid was helping us move. It was a hot summer day, so mother suggested we go out to eat at the only restaurant in the vacinity. There were three children at the time, and we were beyond excited about eating "out" or at least I was. We had the maid with us, and I think my parents were just too tired to be thinking clearly-because as my brothers and jumped out of the car they just sat there. They realized, much to late, that our maid could not go in as most clearly the sign painted on the door said "whites only" and this was 1961. My parents then had to explain to us children about Willet not being able to go in and she would have her meal in the car. The whole "eating out" adventure was ruined for all of us and it was very ackward and rushed.

I know you are thinking, oh how banal, how naive, but I have never forgotten it. And I never will. Willet was a college student working for the summer to save. God, I hope she is sitting somewhere grand today! And I hope she can forgive me. I was a rising third grader but I should have eaten my meal in the car with her, I knew it then and I know it now. Willet, that day made me the most obnoxious liberal today that I know. Thank you for your humiliation because it made me a better person. And I will never forget, never!

Beautiful post, Billmon.

Being a Southerner of the same generation, a lot of what you wrote really resonated with me.

There is still so much to be done, but the changes we've seen in our lifetimes make me believe that if this variety of festering insanity can be conquered, there's hope for the species, after all.

You keep outdoing yourself, Billmon. What a beautiful essay to celebrate this day, and make it personal.

I was born in 1955 in Midland, Texas, and raised there until age 12. There were two sections of town, white and black. There was intermixing, of sorts - black women came and worked in the houses of the white folks each day, and black men came to work in their yards. One of those women, Fannie Young, worked in our house for 7 years, until we moved west. Her husband and his crew did the yard-work once a week.

Rarely did whites travel in the other direction. Fannie would make baby-sitting money from my folks when they spent evenings out by taking us kids to her home. So we got to know her family, and in time they felt like family to me.

Like Mike S. above, I had a bad experience with ... that word. I came home from school one afternoon, a day in which I'd received some extracurricular education from a fellow student. He taught me a colloquialism which described black people. I'd never heard the word, certainly not in my house. So, in all innocence, I asked Fannie, "Fannie are you a n.....?" She broke into tears and fled the room. That was one of the firmest lessons I ever learned. I couldn't say the word if I'd wanted to for years afterwards.

Living as I do in Arizona (as Richard Pryor reminds us, "There are no black people in Arizona!"), my daughter has not had the opportunity to face The Question. I worry for her. I have told her the story of my encounter with Fannie, and of the hateful and hurtful connotations of the word (and the attitude which accompanies it), but who knows if the lesson will stick? She's a good and moral kid. I think it will, superficially. But if she could have seen the look I saw in Fannie's eyes that day, I'd by God know for sure.

A master piece to bring peace to a master.

"There is, however, one thing I've always sworn to myself: The world of my childhood dies with me. My children are going to grow up free -- or as free as I can possibly make them -- of the taint of racism. That's going to be my own personal victory over the bastards who gave America slavery and segregation, including the ones in my own family."

Tidy this piece up Billmon and submit it to the NYT, the Atlantic Monthly or someplace else. God knows it needs to be heard.

Monsieur Billmon,

What a wonderful, soul-bearing piece of writing.

Thank you.

I have felt the same way. And I cannot thank you enough for putting my thoughts into words.

I do not post here often, if at all, and I know that my post will be caught in a sea of others. However, you have my highest praise and adulation. I, too, came from a similar background (in urban St. Louis, which is South if you're from Chicago and North if you're from Birmingham...). I have grown up with racism all my life, with my friends and family. And, while I strive to present Dr. King's courage to my children, I cannot even hope to show them the bravery you've shown tonight on this weblog.

Thank you.

PS: Never be ashamed of your "unpleasant" background. Your experience with racism only makes you stonger and more aware of the challenges that face all of us.

Wow, Billmon thank you. Beautiful.

It is our responsibility to make change, change the enveloping social architecture and infrastructure of our lives. But, time and new people being born, ah, that is the change.

For all the terror that struck in all hearts in the Civil Rights era, the Protest Era, '62, '63 and '64 being very rough - hell all of it, it was also the first time my mother, who took me south every summer from the 50s onward, found she could discuss race with her friends and family.
One day my Mother told me a friend sat at the kitchen table, in the hot Georgia summer night in Milledgeville and said, You know, what is being done to people is not right. First time in decades they spoke of race.

Breakthru happened, and part of was television. Some people who had told themselves it was not so bad, being white, were forced "to see" those police and the dogs, the bombings and the death. Anything that gets people toward the prize.

Wow. That's all. Just wow....and thanks to people like all of you, the dream still lives....

Complicated stuff, methinks.

MLK was a genuine moral hero and martyr--he deserves more laudatory essays than can be written. But it is also true that that era and its relatively clear moral landscape is receding into history. The "facts on the ground" have changed in America 38 years after the civil rights act was passed.

On a certain level, the civil rights movement emerged as a secular religion and ethos, a moral organizing principle that was vivid for much of an entire generation. Identities could name evil both in the polity and world externally, and also address the "evil" in their own hearts. I wonder if your daughter's generation may pine for a moral struggle that is as clear.

The hard paradox here is that it requires the experience of evil to be able to know the virtuous. But the "colored only" signs are only found in auctions, museums and parents' stories these days.

Isn't there also a problem in that?

I grew up in a lily-white Pacific Northwest town, and although I never really gave a thought to black people, I had the typical inbuilt prejudice.

But then as an adult, I noticed things like the following: when I was freezing my tail off waiting for the overdue bus home in a winter storm, the only people who ever offered me a ride were blacks. When my arm was bandaged after an accident, the only people who ever inquired about what had happened were black.

And then, when I got interested in politics, I found that my views tended to align pretty well with mainstream black outlook.

dude look in the mirror: your lips are PINK, not white!

Wonderful piece, Billmon.

I was raised in the north, but my parents were racist and I grew up learning stereotypes and baseless fears. Then when I was in sixth or seventh grade, the violence in the South was on all our TV sets and I was reading about the Civil Rights movement in the news weeklies. That was the beginning of a long period of antagonism between me and my father. I woke up during that period and never went back to sleep again.

When Dr. King was assassinated, I vividly remember my aunt hissing, "Good! I'm glad they got the son-of-a-bitch!" The shock I felt at hearing that has never left me. It ripped the polite cover off of her forever. I hadn't realized the depth of the racism, the visceral quality of it, and I knew at that moment that my parents weren't really much different.

When my husband and I were ready to buy a house we chose to live in a town where our kids would be among a variety of economic classes and races. Many of our acquaintances would not have moved there, believing that the schools were bad, etc., which, to my mind, was mostly a cover for that Fear of the Other you wrote about, if not out-and-out racism.

Our children made friends of other races, but rarely did those friendships carry over after school hours. We hadn't realized the extent to which the town was segregated in terms of housing, with blacks in one section of town and whites in the other. Oh, and a couple of pockets for interracial families. Even in school, the black students and white students separated pretty much into their own groups, with interaction coming mainly in sports, band, choir, and drama, but not so much spontaneously. The choice seemed to be made by both sides of the color line.

This was disappointing to me, but my kids felt differently. They went off to college comfortable with being around different kinds of people and now have friends of various ethnic and racial backgrounds.

One of my daughter's closest friends is married to an African-American. My granddaughter, aged two and a half, described this man as "black," and my daughter was very surprised to think that racial awareness had surfaced so soon. Further prodding from my daughter elicited the description of B. as "black and brown" (meaning his hair and skin) and of his wife as "orange and pink." So much for racial awareness! People just come in different colors, like her plastic animals.

Progress is slow and difficult and full of setbacks, but progress it is.

Bllmon, You did it again in your magnificent post. It is very difficult to type through the tears. When I read the thread here and feel the heartbeat of pure compassion, I realize there is still hope for this benighted land. So many beautiful stories of conquering prejudice and overcoming racial stereotypes. Thank-you all for renewing my faith in what America can still be. As for an ideological battle of the highest moral order, how about taking on the Neocon crusade to replace traditional American values with their old ethics of profits at any cost. Let us all contin ue the good fight.

I have solved the problem of my personal racism by developing a strong hatred for white people, too. I don't like anybody.

Thanks, Billmon.

From Dr King's speech, "Beyond Vietnam: A Time To Break Silence" (April 4, 1967):

" We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak for peace in Vietnam and justice throughout the developing world -- a world that borders on our doors. If we do not act we shall surely be dragged down the long dark and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.

" Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long and bitter -- but beautiful -- struggle for a new world. This is the callling of the sons of God, and our brothers wait eagerly for our response. Shall we say the odds are too great? Shall we tell them the struggle is too hard? Will our message be that the forces of American life militate against their arrival as full men, and we send our deepest regrets? Or will there be another message, of longing, of hope, of solidarity with their yearnings, of commitment to their cause, whatever the cost? The choice is ours, and though we might prefer it otherwise we must choose in this crucial moment of human history. "

beautiful. love you, love your writing, love your family, love the dream.

My family's from Georgia, but I grew up mostly in South Carolina. My parents were not particularly liberal, though they supported Jimmy Carter in 1976 because he was the hometown team. I was only 5, but I remember my father making a point to wear his Carter tshirt when he went jogging in the evenings during the campaign.

Being born in 1971 is not why I am not a racist, though I'm sure it helped. I was always told how someone looked was irrelevant, and that was an across-the-board admonishment: it covered race, it covered disabilities, it even covered the big scary home-perm hairdos worn by PTA moms manning the bake sale booth. EVERYONE is just a PERSON. They are JUST LIKE YOU.

When we moved to SC when I was 11, the group of friends I fell into were a mixed race group; and I was still carpooling with them to school as a senior in high school. Children who accept one another without regard to race aren't such a new thing.

I'm not saying there isn't racism in the south anymore, but that it isn't as pervasive and acceptable now as some would have you believe. There are people who, even in the early 80s, had school-aged children who played and watched movies and celebrated birthdays and worked on homework with children of other races without giving it a second thought. These kids grow up to make friends with people of other races in their various workplaces, become lunch buddies, have girls' nights out together as adults. I know that was my experience.

Just my 2¢.

Right on Billmon.
We are all in this together.

Dream Time -- One of the many reasons I like stoppin' by the Whiskey Bar.

I echo all applause ... positive rush and tears ... stunning ... beautiful ... wow ... masterpiece ... touching ... and especially "Dang, Bill, you made me cry!"

I was overjoyed when my own children, in pre-school, said of a classmate "... the one with the brown skin." It's an honest assessment. They don't even know the word "black." They just don't see it.

The times, they are a changin'

That you exposed your own soul for its still-apparent weaknesses, while expressing what your soul desires, took courage and kindness.

Good going. And I hope you'll take some time to cross that divide more in your generation. You, and the 'other' are missing out on each other.

That was an awesome, well-written piece. Thank you for posting it.

Billmon,

That made my day. Thank you.

Thank you. That was the most moving thing I have read in a long time.

Last night I watched the whole Martin Luther King "I have a Dream" speech which was broadcast on the PBS News Hour. First time I had seen the whole thing, it sent chills up my spine. So did your essay.

I second Dorsanoo. Get this piece published. The sentiment may have been expressed before, but now should be a moment of national reflection. I had hoped that it would occur in the post 9/11 period, but alas, visceral reactions trumpted contemplation. More than ever, with the chaos of the world and our nation swirling about us we need the introspective; who we are, where we have come from, and how we intend to shape our future. We own it to ourselves, our children, and the world.

I have only been reading this site for scarsely three months, but over that time I have been taken aback by several of your posts. Fabulous work. When the Whiskey Bar closes for good it will be a sorrowful day.

Until then, hoist a glass and rejoice! We have gained as a species; shall we contiue to do so. Bravo, Billmon!

OK now I'll comment.I live up North way up north!We have very few black residents,mostly Asians.The most prominent Blacks{Damn I hate that word but I don't know what else to say}are Doctors from India in all specialties.it is unusual to see Negro? people anywhere and if you do they're tourists from the States.I grew up in the 50's and 60's.I remember seeing MLK on TV,I remember the horror I felt the day he was murdered.Afterwards as I grew I did my best not to pre-judge people on race,creed or religion.In this modern and violent world that will always be a challenge but "the Angels of our better Nature" I hope will prevail.They have with You,Billmon.

Beautiful story - and being born in Tennessee in 1973 - I can certianly identify with the demons that you are overcoming for yourself, and even more importantly for your children.

My parents were in your exact position - remembering segregation all too well, but somehow unable to 100% overcome those old thoughts that lurk in the recess of their mind. They raised me to not see color(or not to make any assumptions based on that silly fact anyway).

Once I started dating - they realized that they may have been all too successful. There were never any problems with me having friends of different races - no issues with play dates, or sleep-overs or dinners full of kids of all races (OK - in the south it is only black and white - not a lot of other races in the mix). But they just could not overcome it when those play dates translated to actual dates. Regardless of the color of my dates, my parents and I fought for years and years about my dating non-discrimination. That was just the last bastion of racism that they could not overcome. They tried to make me understand where they were coming from - them remembering separate eating arrangements and all. But, it was just something that I was not willing to budge on - they were wrong in my mind and I could not accept their arguments otherwise - playing the "in my day card" just didn't get it for me.

Now, turning 30, I'd like to think that my parents have been able to learn as much from me as I learned from them. They did finally come around to understanding that I was a product of how they raised me - color neutral (not blind) - and that I was proud of them for overcoming their inner-most demons to accept that the times are a changing and that each generation makes progress on this issue.

I thank you all who went through that time and were able to come out of it better and more sensitive people. Your inner struggles make a huge difference.

This post has received far more comments than most of Billmon's other posts (which I find all to be excellent in their own right), and that does not surprise me one bit - this type of thought piece cuts right through all the daily shenanigans and gets to the heart of the matter directly. It takes guts to make an admission such as this one, and to offer it up as an example of how small, individual actions add up to form a better future is a very thoughtful thing to do.

Brilliant piece of writing. I, too, grew up in the South (later than you however) and still remember that fateful day in 1978 when the rules all changed and there were suddenly minorities at the elementary school I attended. By the end of the year I had made friends with Chris (he played trombone, I played trumpet) and had even taken the bus across town by myself to visit him (which alarmed my parents just a wee bit). Although he attended a different high school and we eventually lost touch, I remain grateful that my parents worked so hard at raising me in a color neutral environment. There still remains in our society at large a great deal of discrimination (it once took me an extra 45 minutes to get served at a Denny's because I was sitting with an african-american friend), and only the continual efforts of many brave individuals such as yourself and many of the others who have posted will see it rooted out. So Bravo to you once again for raising the bar.

Billmon: go to Africa. Nigeria would be ideal. I realize it's not a great tourist destination, but their history as a British colony echoes with unbelievable richness in every voice you hear. (It's also left them deeply conflicted about which side of the road/hallway to drive/walk on) I liked Angola too, which was Portuguese (Luanda might be a second Rio but for the CIA-created civil war)

Africa was brutalized by the colonial powers and I was amazed at the lack of resentment for such recent and awful history, until I caught on. Yes, terrible things happened, but they happened to villages, tribes, families. Some died and some lived through it - together.

A web of social, family and clan connections is the part of everyday living that brings joy and heartfelt laughter into even the hardest life.

Northern Europeans, standoffish antisocial prigs by any sane African's standards, would have been far less devastated by the unforeseen and irrevocable sundering of every link to past, place and people. But I think even we'd be in culture shock: generations of kids misshaped by parents with nothing good to pass on from grandparents.

Talking with Africans you soon realize how much scar tissue still impairs, conceals and disfigures the American descendants of slaves.

Perhaps because their only treasure lies in each other, they cherish it so much more. And they lost, in innumerable, personal, unimaginably lonely tragedies, so much more.

Kudos, Billmon. It's always a pleasure to read your often provocative posts that, to me, represent the best of the blogosphere.

This one is special.

Not only did you bare yourself and your past, you let me share your hopes for our future and that of our children. Thank you for showing that MLK's dream can be colorblind.

Thanks also to everyone who added his or her experiences to this wonderful thread. I enjoyed getting to know some of my favorite contributors to Billmon and dKos a little better.

So, so amazing. As a Alabamian born in 1956, and descendant of many generations of Southerners, I am truly touched by this wonderful article. Thank you.

Listening to MLK's speech, as I did last night thanks to the NewsHour, always moves me deeply. I was in the crowd that day, not because of any great activism on my part -- I was only fourteen, and not much interested in the affairs of the wide world, though not entirely ignorant of them either -- but almost by accident. My family had lived in the Washington suburbs but had moved to California that summer while I was at camp in North Carolina. The plan was for me to spend a few days after camp with friends in Washington, then fly to SF to join my folks -- and the March was on one of those days. The friends I stayed with went to the March and took me along. I remember the heat, the press of people, but I didn't really grasp it. Who does, at such moments? But now, when I see and hear MLK giving that speech, it's as though I'm plugged into the whole twisted awful history of our country then and since then.The strength of the man. My God, what hopes we had!

Whoa! What a piece, and what an amazing comments thread.

But I've long wondered if a lot some of the de facto separation that persists has to do with the fear of some whites that blacks may resent them (and the guilt of knowing that it isn't unreasonable), and the fears of some blacks that whites may still look down on them. While both of these attitudes (condescension and resentment) do exist in some people, the fear of these attitudes is probably even more widespread. And I'd guess that it likely poisons interactions with people who'd probably have gotten along great if they hadn't been carrying their fears with them.

But actual racism wasn't something I saw people being willing to proudly exhibit until I was renting a room in a house near Palo Alto, CA, just a couple years ago. The area had been blessed by the property value increases of the tech boom, and it had long been a mostly white enclave, for reasons that I don't know enough to speculate on. Around the block (I got all this info from the owner of the house after everything was pretty much over, I was working crazy hours & didn't know any of these people) lived the former fire chief, and most of the neighborhood was either comfortably retired or upwardly mobile.

And then a charter school wanted to move in at the church down the street. The only thing I remember of the uproar this caused was driving home one evening, seeing a bunch of neighbors gathered on the street corner and listening to someone standing on a little platform. I thought 'huh, that doesn't happen every day', made myself dinner and holed up in my room. It turns out that they were gathering to plan what to do to stop the school, which had less than 100 pupils, from finding this last-ditch home so it could serve it's troubled (mostly minority) students.

My landlord, the sort of person to watch interestedly but never to feel moved to action regarding much of anything, related to me that the sentiment about the school was that it would bring crime to the neighborhood and that the kids would never become anything but hookers and drug dealers anyway. The local paper had run an editorial wondering if the flap was about race, but the same retired fire chief who was a head ringleader wrote a thumping letter to the editor denouncing it as a smear. The paper retreated.

The only part of this that I noticed as it was happening was a flyer circulated around the neighborhood asking for money to buy a gift for one of the women who'd done a lot to organize the resistance. By then, the school had already been told in no uncertain terms that they'd have to look elsewhere.

Until that point, it was hard for me to believe that there were people at this time in our history that would act like that, especially in such a liberal spot as the SF Bay Area. Not to just struggle with a racist upbringing, as my mother did, but to actively admit and act upon those sentiments to hurt someone (in this case a group of children) that they'd never met.

It was eye-opening, and disgusting. And I still haven't been able to shake a sense of contamination, of collective fault for it. I was so wrapped up in my job, my friends from work, and my own little world that I didn't know what was going on *in the same block I lived on.* I wonder what would have played out differently if I'd gone to one of those little gatherings and written my own letter to the editor about what was really going on. And then I wonder if I would have had the guts to do it, because I was just renting a room in a house, and I had no lease or other stake in the neighborhood.

If the world is just, perhaps every one of those 'concerned parents' will wind up with a mixed-race grandchild or two.

Absolutely lovely, Billmon. The only unfortunate thing is that something like this still needs to be written, that we're not yet living in a society where it's taken for granted.

A post from the heart. Billmon, you've touched a lot of people: that seems a good memorial to MLK. I am also a descendant of white slaveowners. I discuss it on Alas, A Blog in a recent thread called "If you read just one post..."
I came here from Body & Soul.

Reading of your experience with your daughter and her friend brought tears to my eyes. My experience is a bit different form yours: I was orn in the Midwest, in an area with its own Klan history; in the '30s, the Klan ran my grandfather out of town for refusing to play ball. My own father is a conservative fundamentalist Christian. I was brought up with firm instructions that "it's wrong to be prejudiced," and that certain slurs were never to be used - yet my family practiced a more insidious form of racism, in that it was always present, but rarely out in the open. I was raised hearing the "Of course, there are some good Negroes [Jews/Mexicans/pick your target], but they're mostly lazy and shiftless" canard. (This was back when using the word "black," much less "African-American," made one a flaming leftist.

I've been fortunate. I still fight certain prejudices, but I've been lucky enough as an adult to live in some of the most diverse areas of the country. The list of my closest friends includes people of all ethnic and religious backgrounds, to say nothing of a wide diversity among sexual orientation, educational level, and socio-economic status. I now live in a city where people who "look like me" (i.e., white) are a minority; in fact, thinking about it, I'm the only white person on my block. And I grieve for the poverty of the lives that many of my relatives have led, because they've closed themselves off to so many wonderful friends and experiences.

I will never fully know what it's like not to be white. But thanks to my friends, neighbors, and colleagues, I learn a little about it every day, and in the process, we cease to think about the fact that we're white, black, brown, whatever - and we become just friends.

Thanks again for the post.

Hope it's not too late to add a comment. This piece really moved me, and I've sent a link to everyone I know.

Very insightful.I just watched "Mississippi Burning" a couple of nights ago, when they showed it at the local tv channel here in Singapore. Thats when I really learnt about Christian terrorists.
Singapore is a multi-racial society. We never had attrocious racism in our history, despite our racial differences.Altho in our history there hv been records of racial riots,etc.Nothing as terrible as whats in America.

You set an excellent example, Billmon. Your actions toward improving the future are becoming more common.

I vacationed at the Grand Canyon last year, staying in Williams, AZ. I happened to be out when the school kids were going home for the day, and I didn't see a single group of kids that was segregated. White kids, Black kids, Hispanic kids, a few Asian kids, probably even Native American kids - chattering together, arms around eath other, just being kids. As it was Halloween to boot, I was out later to see what a small town does with that celebration. These same groups of kids were going around trick-or-treating together - in the commonly traditional costumes.

It's been a long time coming, and there is much yet to change, but Dr. King's dream is making progess.

Beautiful words, something we need more of in these dark days.
My mother was a southerner. When we would go visit my grandparents we were always puzzled by the crummy rural store with its worn wooden floor and slamming Kreamo bread screen door. It had a sliding window like we would have had at a Dairy Queen at home in Michigan. There was no "coloreds" sign but they all seemed to know that this was where they bought their Coke and cigarettes. In the wisdom of a child I was struck at the ridiculousness of the notion that anyone could have been not good enough to enter that funky, dirty, drab store.
My mother in her wisdom and graciousness rose above the prejudice of her upbringing and taught us that we were all equal. I think she literally believed her Catholic theology. We lived in an area in rural Michigan that always had 20% or so black population. When my sister brought home her black boyfriend my mother said, "When I raised you kids to not be prejudiced I never thought you would take it this far."
When her southern relatives came to visit us and saw for the first time their mixed race niece, at the sweet age of 1 year, they were stunned. My mother calmly informed them that this was her grandchild and when her son-in-law came back from work she expected him to be treated with all the granduer of family or they could leave. They left. We were all proud of my mom. My brother-in-law was a great favorite of my mothers's until she died several years ago. He has also been a favorite of mine. My sister and he have been married for 30 years.
Martin would be proud.

I grew up in Bradford, West Yorksire, England. There was a growing Pakistani community near where I lived which was in a run down area of the town. We lived in a terraced house near the border with this community and grew up being used to seing a group of people who were different to us and appeared on the exterior to be exotic. My father was a solicitor and had Pakistani clients who visited our house. He also employed an Indian lawyer who, if my memory serves me well, was of the Seik religion. It was easy for me to make friends with young Pakistani people of my own age although they were principally male friends; Pakistani girls and women were not allowed to integrate. So, before the rest of my younger brothers and sisters came along, we the eldest grew up taking buses driven by Pakistanis and with Pakistani conductors, going to the cafes run by them, and going into their shops for food. We learned the names of their dishes and how to eat them without knives and forks. It would seem a very different upbringing to many I have read in this posting......

It wasn't until our late teens when I began to hear whisperings of how the Pakistanis affected the value of house prices. This invariably led to discussion about how run down and overcrowded their houses were as though this was no way to live at all. The church community I grew up in was very middle class and would look down on English whites as well as the Pakistanis. There was talk that they were going to take over Bradford!

And so I became aware of segregation. But it wasn't legalised; the communities kept themselves apart from each other. As far as I know they still do. And trouble arises from time to time.
I moved to Merseyside to study and my college was in a Jewish suburb of the city so a very different place from Bradford and the black Jamaican/British, and Chinese communities in Liverpool city centre. I married, moved to the Wirral where my children grew up and rarely saw a black face.
I now work in a community arts centre as a volunteer. It's known by the local community as "The Blackie" We housed the Indian Holi festival this year and I assisted Front of House. There was a young Indian man there who was perplexed by the name of the project. To those who are not locals the name can cause problems particularly to those who choose to be politically correct. I suppose because they notice that there are numerous black people who work with the project and many of the events are multi-cultural. A very direct name one would think but one which was given to the building which houses the project. During the late18th and early 19th centuries so much soot was spewed out by the factories and coal fires from the houses surrounding the building that it lost its beautiful stone colour and was totally blackened. Hence the nick name. This arts project has been active nearly 35 years

I am proud of my father and how I was brought up . He showed us by example not by word. My mother too; she applauded Dr. King and was horrified by what was done in the name of segregation. My children are now grown up and spend more time in Liverpool and have the opportunity to mix with different cultures. When I took them to Bradford once and showed them around the places I grew up they wanted to know what "these people" were doing there. I was suddenly shocked by their reaction. They couldn't understand when I told them they were British and had every right to be there. They wanted to know all about them and why they had left their own country. The history lesson was too difficult for them to understand at that age even as I hyped it up telling them that our ancestors had invaded and taken over their country and forced them to be British. It's great to read that your children mix so naturally that they don't ask "awkward" questions.
Dr Kings words in the greatest speech ever written and delivered will echo down through history. We must not judge by colour but by the "content of our character"
With warm regards to everyone who has contributed

Anne from The Wirral, England

I just read this piece and was provoked to write about it on my own blog. I hope you have a chance to stop by and read what I've written. In the main I agree with what you've said, but your essay has also raised addtional questions in my mind. Anyway, it's refreshing to see another white person grabbling with these issues!