[Critique Group 2] Belated reminder

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Sorry, I might have my weeks mixed up. I thought the pieces were due  this week, but I think we're meeting this Turusday. If this is not true,  please will  someone let me know.. If not  the critique order is below, with my submission.
BradAlice LeonardValJoan-----
Black and White, Where Are We?



 



Dosi was a black lady who sometimes came to my house toclean it, when I was a child. This may have been the first time I had apersonal awareness of someone who was black. The encounters with Dosi occurred around 1948, before I had a chance toknow anything about black people. I knew they were a different color, ofcourse, but didn’t think that was good or bad. A black maid was referred to bymy Jewish parents as a schvartza. It’s a Yiddish word for a negro. It hadn’toccurred to me that Dosi was referred to as the schvartza, and not usually her actualname, when spoken of by my mother or other people.   Ididn’t realize that was demeaning. It doesn’t recognize her as having humanstatus. To me, ‘maid’ and ‘schvartza’ were synonymous. My father had a blackworkbuddy he simply referred to as ‘Nate.’ I never heard my dad speak of him in anyway other than ‘Nate.’



My neighborhood was made up of all white people. Thatusually meant Jewish, Italian, German and sprinklings of other immigrant stock,such as Ukrainian, people. 



My memories of Dosi are vague, but she seemed to be avery appreciative woman. It is possible she was putting us on, but I think it wasgenuine.  I remember a pumpkin that hadbeen carved out into a jack-o-lantern. It was after Halloween, and the pumpkin was getting rancid. We wereabout to throw it out, when she stopped us and asked if she could have it. Shewould make a dessert from the spent pumpkin. She seemed so grateful to getit.  The way she acted was the firstindication to me of the economic differences between whites and blacks. Ididn’t fully understand the disparities’ implications at the time. 



My cousin in East Orange went to a school that was mostlyblack.  So, he had a fuller experiencewith the racial issues. I went to some football games. All the players wereblack. I was introduced to confetti and cheerleaders.  I remember cheering for a guy with themoniker of Moocow. We delighted in it. When we were older, Sam, my cousin’sfather who was a grocer, opened up a mom-and-pop grocery in Newark, New Jersey.Newark had gradually changed from being predominantly Italian to black.  After having been robbed at least twice, hegave up the store.



My family and I left Irvington when I was seventeen.  We resettled in St. Petersburg, Florida. Thefirst year I was there, wearing my Sabbath best, I was walking to our newsynagogue. It was a long way, but I was used to that.  The route took me through a section of ablack part of town. The road wasn’t paved there, and I passed some unpaintedwooden dwellings, with folks socializing on the porch.  I was on the far side of the street.  They all stopped to watch me. Two yelled outthat I had no business there. I should go home. I kept walking trying to ignore them. I passed through safely, but Ifelt really bad. I felt out of place, unwanted, threatened and misunderstood.



I guess that’s the way many black people feel wheneverthey stray onto white turf. I’m glad for that wake-up experience.  However, I had many incidences dealing withissues on black turf.  I didn’t have thesensitivity to know that I also had white privileges which protected me inthose situations. I was young and thought I could muscle my way through almostany situation whether I was working in black territory or white.  But that’s another saga.



When I worked at the Jewish Vocational Service, I becameinvolved in group therapy. I had never had any training in sensitivity groups,so, with agency backing, I enrolled in a course with that title, “SensitivityGroups”, or words to that effect.  The classeswere taught at Florida International University. The staff at the universitywas mostly black, and it was a highly gratifying experience in which the maintraining method was for the participants to become involved in a sensitivitygroup.  The leader of the group was ablack professor. Unfortunately, all but one member of the group was white.  Every member was able to let down their defensesand was vulnerable to dealing with the truth of our feelings in a protectiveenvironment where we felt free and impelled to loosen our armor. That includedthe black professor, or so we thought.



This woman got sick for a short time during the group’sexistence, and we all went to visit her at her home during her convalescence.  She returned to complete the group and toeffect closure. At that last session, we were asked to write something downthat still needed to be said that hadn’t been said before.  When it came to the teacher’s turn, she brokeinto tears.



Apparently, she had been putting on a façade all along. Shesaid she didn’t really talk like she had. She felt compelled to talk white. Shekept an emotional distance during the existence of the group, which she wasfinding it impossible to do, since everyone else seemed to be trying to begenuine. There had been many terms of endearment directed toward this teacher whichseemed to be real. The support she got when ill was indicative of that truth.  She could no longer maintain the façade.   It wasconfession time.  We were shocked, but weaccepted, forgave, and loved her for her own candor and authenticity. 



For the purposes of this account, this was a new revelationfor me.  Black people felt forced to livetwo different lives, at least at that time in history, if they wanted to livethe “American Dream.” To have any chance of success, some of them had to actwhite. To be safe, one could not get too close or too honest.  This was the sixties. I hope much of this haschanged. I’m probably guilty of wishful thinking.   Life had taken on a new level of complexity.



Over the years I have at least one close and lasting blackfriend and a few others with whom I felt close to for the time our paths crossed.The one whose friendship I cherish was forced to leave town to live with herdevoted daughter, who was more than willing to take care of her during a life-threateningmedical crisis. I’m glad to say she is still kicking, against all expectation.  She lives now in the Northeast. We call oneanother on occasion.  One of the otherfriends actually might have saved my life at danger    ofhis own life. 



By and large, this path of living is an intricate path totravel in.  You never know when you are beingperceived as prejudiced versus just misunderstood.   This road may be a little easier than itused to be in the past. Actually, it might be more difficult for whites. We maybe more enlightened by a clearer understanding of the past.  It isn’t a pretty past, but it is real. If wehave the courage to accept the reality of the part white people have played inthat history, negotiating this road of interracial relationship has a chance.If we persist in our denial, I doubt that anything will change. I, for one, wouldrather have a true picture of the historical facts and struggle with it, thanto proceed with an ill-informed set of beliefs. 



Therefore, I choose to travel the bumpy road with the truthto guide me.



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