The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray

by Seneca Fox

  *** IWH ***

  ...What about me? If bigotry can be measured across a continuum, or some convoluted plane, how would I be measured?

  In my early childhood my family lived in a persistently segregated society. I went to a segregated elementary school, a segregated church and lived in segregated neighborhood. I vaguely remember eating in restaurants where the patrons were all white. Memories of other boundaries are less clear to me. Nonetheless, I know the boundaries were there and on some level I must have understood.

  In my parent’s home I was immersed in a culture that was little more than a vestige of the once slaveholding South. Betty’s weekly presence in our home was evidence enough. I wasn’t there by choice, but one could argue that my parents were; and, when I was a child, they were the greatest influence on my life. Were my parent’s bigots? I would not want them to be judged that way, but if their lives were measured by today’s standards they may be judged as bigots.

  …but labeling my parents as bigots seems sad and superficial. I think of my father growing up on a farm in rural South Carolina, beginning work in the tobacco fields at age six. His father died when he was still a child, leaving him and his mother, two older brothers and younger siblings to manage the farm. Dad attempted to get a college degree, but when he dropped out for a semester to earn enough money for another term he was drafted into the Korean War. When he returned home he got a job and met my mother.

  Mom’s life before she married was different. As the daughter of a military officer, her young life was more privileged. Any reflections on her youth that were passed down to me were more about how she tomboyishly gathered a basketful of marbles by beating the “boys” at their own game or sneaking away with her girlfriends on a Saturday afternoon to see an Elvis Presley movie. Mom said little about the cultural issues of her time and I didn’t ask. It was as if there were none to be considered between the final days of World War II and the time when I became conscious of my own existence.

  So, for me, it “is” sad and too superficial to judge my parents in the waning days of their lives, having worked hard only to endure the financial hardships that come with personal bankruptcy, having held jobs out of necessity and a strong desire to provide monetary support to their sons as they attended college or to send a birthday card with a twenty dollar bill enclosed. …having successfully managed life as responsible citizens to then be told in the waning days of your existence that your generation had it all wrong can only leave one despondent.

  Somewhere along the way, though, things began to change. In the heat of the Civil Rights movement, my school was segregated one year and integrated the next. But, when integration began, the segregation continued; only the form had changed. The disadvantages of the less-privileged were clear as they were led to the back of the class, and on the whole, performance in the classroom was different between the races. For some, disparities like these were justification for continuing a more formal segregation, but for those who measured carefully, who were patient enough to let change beget results, the successes piled-up, ever so slowly, one-by-one. Doctors, lawyers, professors and more, until eventually, the successes came too frequently to ignore and, somewhere among the scattered stories of success I discovered that I was a member of a culture in transition. Talk of differences began to give way to common ground. While some held on to the past, others were blind to what was on the outside and uniquely perceptive to what mattered most – the inside. Others retained an awareness of the past as they struggled to move forward.

  I don’t know how or when, and, I’m not sure that “my” transformation is complete – honesty, may be the best I can offer – but somewhere along the way I changed. Slowly, I paid less attention to the outside and more to the inside. Eventually, I found myself more frequently questioning my own superficial judgments, or dismissing them altogether and embracing non-judgment when judgment was not necessary; and, practicing patience and striving for empathy when judgment was required.

  Though I am old enough to have children, children who could be well into the age of abstract thinking, I have none. But in our youth, I have seen a further transformation. So many youth of today who have a snapshot knowledge of the 60’s and 70’s, and only limited experience with the 80’s, seem to have a different set of filters through which they see the world. To many of them, color is either not an issue or something to be embraced as an opportunity to share diverse viewpoints and experiences.

  Yet, I sometimes wonder if my simplification is at all correct. Has my world changed so much in three generations – it’s hard to believe that permanent change can happen that fast? If so, perhaps I should be grateful and recognize the debt that I owe to others. I’m not like Leland, partly, because my parents, yes my parents, valued the individual’s right to make up their own mind, especially about sensitive issues. I want to believe that they tried to guide me with “open minds” and answer my questions as truthfully as they could. Regardless of their personal thoughts and feelings they wanted to leave me to decide for myself – at least on a conscious level. It was as if they understood that their view of the world was limited by the past, by their past in particular, and they stood aside at the right times for Max and me to decide for ourselves.

  Then there is Anna, and others like her. Anna is a passionate woman. One of her passions is insisting that all people are worthy of being treated with respect. She also remains steadfastly hopeful that education is a key to understanding one another and enabling mutual respect. She is like the youth of today; it’s tempting to say that she was born a generation too early, but in every generation there are people like Anna – writers, activist and even some politicians.

  Then there is Max; as his brother, I’ve seen his pain, pain inflicted by the hateful actions of others that hardened his bond with Betty. Max learned about hate in a hard way and because of his experience he likely has more compassion for those who are harmed or helplessly marginalized by others. Max has always had compassion, even when it wasn’t in his best interest.

  And, finally – there was Betty. I wasn’t sure why she returned to me, unless she came back to nudge me forward. If only I could talk to her.

  So, where does this leave me? I have no frigging idea.

  There is no single despicable act of bigotry that holds me back. In fact, I could point to spontaneous acts that might be used to defend me against any accusations that I am a bigot. But I am not blind to my own roots, and there is a collection of small slights and revealing prejudice thoughts that weigh me down. If nothing more, the transformational age that I live in has taught me to spot the slights, to stop them and to avoid them. But, as any victim of many slights might say, “so what”? Knowing this, how can I fairly judge myself? Instead, I suppose that it is for others, perhaps others like Isaac to judge me.