<div style="font-size:10pt;font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;color:black;"><div style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; color: black;" data-mce-style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; color: black;"></div><div id="yiv2704146988"><div style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; color: black;" data-mce-style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; color: black;"><div><p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">Black and White, Where Are We?</p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><span> </span></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">Dosi was a black lady who sometimes came to my house to
clean it, when I was a child. This may have been the first time I had a
personal awareness of someone who was black.<span>
</span>The encounters with Dosi occurred around 1948, before I had a chance to
know anything about black people. I knew they were a different color, of
course, but didn’t think that was good or bad. A black maid was referred to by
my Jewish parents as a schvartza. It’s a Yiddish word for a negro. It hadn’t
occurred to me that Dosi was referred to as the schvartza, and not usually her actual
name, when spoken of by my mother or other people.<span> </span><span> </span>I
didn’t realize that was demeaning. It doesn’t recognize her as having human
status. To me, ‘maid’ and ‘schvartza’ were synonymous. My father had a blackwork
buddy he simply referred to as ‘Nate.’ I never heard my dad speak of him in any
way other than ‘Nate.’</p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>My neighborhood was made up of all white people. That
usually meant Jewish, Italian, German and sprinklings of other immigrant stock,
such as Ukrainian, people. </i></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>My memories of Dosi are vague, but she seemed to be a
very appreciative woman. It is possible she was putting us on, but I think it was
genuine.<span> </span>I remember a pumpkin that had
been carved out into a jack-o-lantern.<span>
</span>It was after Halloween, and the pumpkin was getting rancid. We were
about to throw it out, when she stopped us and asked if she could have it. She
would make a dessert from the spent pumpkin. She seemed so grateful to get
it.<span> </span>The way she acted was the first
indication to me of the economic differences between whites and blacks. I
didn’t fully understand the disparities’ implications at the time. </i></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>My cousin in East Orange went to a school that was mostly
black.<span> </span>So, he had a fuller experience
with the racial issues. I went to some football games. All the players were
black. I was introduced to confetti and cheerleaders.<span> </span>I remember cheering for a guy with the
moniker of Moocow. We delighted in it. When we were older, Sam, my cousin’s
father 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.<span> </span>After having been robbed at least twice, he
gave up the store.</i></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>My family and I left Irvington when I was seventeen.<span> </span>We resettled in St. Petersburg, Florida. The
first year I was there, wearing my Sabbath best, I was walking to our new
synagogue. It was a long way, but I was used to that.<span> </span>The route took me through a section of a
black part of town. The road wasn’t paved there, and I passed some unpainted
wooden dwellings, with folks socializing on the porch.<span> </span>I was on the far side of the street.<span> </span>They all stopped to watch me. Two yelled out
that I had no business there. I should go home.<span>
</span>I kept walking trying to ignore them. I passed through safely, but I
felt really bad. I felt out of place, unwanted, threatened and misunderstood.</i></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>I guess that’s the way many black people feel whenever
they stray onto white turf. I’m glad for that wake-up experience.<span> </span>However, I had many incidences dealing with
issues on black turf.<span> </span>I didn’t have the
sensitivity to know that I also had white privileges which protected me in
those situations. I was young and thought I could muscle my way through almost
any situation whether I was working in black territory or white.<span> </span>But that’s another saga.</i></p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal"><i>When I worked at the Jewish Vocational Service, I became
involved in group therapy. I had never had any training in sensitivity groups,
so, with agency backing, I enrolled in a course with that title, “</i>Sensitivity
Groups”, or words to that effect.<span> </span>The classes
were taught at Florida International University. The staff at the university
was mostly black, and it was a highly gratifying experience in which the main
training method was for the participants to become involved in a sensitivity
group.<span> </span>The leader of the group was a
black professor. Unfortunately, all but one member of the group was white.<span> </span>Every member was able to let down their defenses
and was vulnerable to dealing with the truth of our feelings in a protective
environment where we felt free and impelled to loosen our armor. That included
the black professor, or so we thought.</p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">This woman got sick for a short time during the group’s
existence, and we all went to visit her at her home during her convalescence.<span> </span>She returned to complete the group and to
effect closure. At that last session, we were asked to write something down
that still needed to be said that hadn’t been said before.<span> </span>When it came to the teacher’s turn, she broke
into tears.</p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">Apparently, she had been putting on a façade all along. She
said she didn’t really talk like she had. She felt compelled to talk white. She
kept an emotional distance during the existence of the group, which she was
finding it impossible to do, since everyone else seemed to be trying to be
genuine. There had been many terms of endearment directed toward this teacher which
seemed to be real. The support she got when ill was indicative of that truth.<span> </span>She could no longer maintain the façade. <span> </span><span> </span>It was
confession time.<span> </span>We were shocked, but we
accepted, forgave, and loved her for her own candor and authenticity. </p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">For the purposes of this account, this was a new revelation
for me. <span> </span>Black people felt forced to live
two different lives, at least at that time in history, if they wanted to live
the “American Dream.” To have any chance of success, some of them had to act
white. To be safe, one could not get too close or too honest.<span> </span>This was the sixties. I hope much of this has
changed. I’m probably guilty of wishful thinking.<span> </span>Life had taken on a new level of complexity.</p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">Over the years I have at least one close and lasting black
friend 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 her
devoted daughter, who was more than willing to take care of her during a life-threatening
medical crisis. I’m glad to say she is still kicking, against all expectation. <span> </span>She lives now in the Northeast. We call one
another on occasion.<span> </span>One of the other
friends actually might have saved my life at danger<span> </span><span> </span>of
his own life. </p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">By and large, this path of living is an intricate path to
travel in.<span> </span>You never know when you are being
perceived as prejudiced versus just misunderstood.<span> </span>This road may be a little easier than it
used to be in the past. Actually, it might be more difficult for whites. We may
be more enlightened by a clearer understanding of the past.<span> </span>It isn’t a pretty past, but it is real. If we
have the courage to accept the reality of the part white people have played in
that 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, would
rather have a true picture of the historical facts and struggle with it, than
to proceed with an ill-informed set of beliefs. </p>
<p class="yiv2704146988MsoNormal">Therefore, I choose to travel the bumpy road with the truth
to guide me.</p><br></div></div></div></div>