Let’s Make it Truly a Day of Independence

For 3 years, I’ve tried to compose this column properly, so that nobody is offended. I pray I have succeeded. 

Naturally, today is teeming with patriotism. As I reflect on nationality, I think of the term “melting pot.” So while reading my old scribbled notes, I saw, “Melting pot = people of all colors are treated equally.” How could I write that? It’s not true – at least in my case.

Some people believe they’re not bigoted. My husband Bob and I were listening to radio commentators remarking that Kennedy was the first Catholic president. One said, “It’s great that intolerance is behind us.” Frustrated, Bob said, “Behind us? No blacks, Jews or women have been presidents. How about any ethnic minority?” I didn’t know. He said, “Or anyone running who’s not in a traditional family?”

When I was younger, I swore I wasn’t prejudiced. I was wrong. As painful as it is, I must acknowledge my biases and face them head on. Because if I don’t, I stand no chance of changing.

Although my family was filled with intolerance, that’s no excuse. A shrink told me, “Our histories only influence our tendencies. Ultimately, we’re responsible for our choices and beliefs.”

Bob was also raised in a prejudiced household. He’s Protestant. His parents said, “There are good Jews and there are  . . .  .” (I can’t bring myself to say the word they used.) When his mother complained about an expensive dentist bill, she added, “That cheap Jew.” Bob shouted, “Saralee’s Jewish!” Her rationale was that I wasn’t the average Jew.

When my parents took me to college, they freaked out when they read the name of one of my soon-to-arrive roommates. Joy Ruby from Dorchester. No way would they allow a black roommate. The other was Sheryl Holland from Scarsdale, New York. Perfect. White, Jewish and affluent. Then a girl walked in and said, “Hi! I’m Sheryl.” She was black. When I went nuts after they told me they’d complain to the dean, they decided they’d tolerate Sheryl because she was a beautifully dressed, sophisticated, well-spoken woman, and they’d put up with her, in spite of the color of her skin. Soon Joy Ruby arrived. A Jewish white girl.

I was disgusted by their attitude. But during my freshman year, while driving late at night, I saw a white woman walking with a black man on either side of her, holding her arms tightly. I thought, “I’d hate to read about her being molested in tomorrow’s paper,” so I offered her a ride. She laughed and declined. Clearly they were pals. One man screamed at me about my racism. I felt such shame.

I was prompted to write this column years ago when Bob had an appointment in Boston. As we pulled into the garage, our brakes failed. Fortunately, we were just about parked. Later, we had the car towed to a gas station.

We sat in the cool waiting area of the repair shop. I saw a black woman approaching, obviously destitute from the appearance of her clothing. She was carrying pamphlets and a torn pillowcase stuffed with clothing. I assumed the pamphlets had to do with some religious thing involving asking for money. I turned away as she came in. She raced to the phone. She said, “This is Dr. Jackson from Mass General. Send an ambulance. There’s a dehydrated man  . . .  ” and she gave directions. She rushed out, probably to tend to the man. I felt such shame.

Who knows? Maybe the clothing was for the needy. But I was caught in my presumptions.

And so, I don’t believe we’re stuck in our ways, at any age. Although I hate facing my racist attitudes, I must. And today, of all days, is the right time to look into my heart. Maybe by continually doing this, I can some day be free of my prejudice.

After all, it is Independence Day.