Race and Your Community - Essay Example

Happy Birthday to you… Happy Birthday …dear...Jesse… Happy Birthday to you…” As the strains of this age-old song echo all around me, I Jessica Karen Wallace stand in front of my birthday cake, aglow with the twinkling of eighteen candles, as a mute spectator. Looking at the faces all around me, my parents, my brother, two best friends, a few cousins, and great-aunt Karen who flew down from New York especially for the occasion, a feeling of utter desolation coupled with self-loathing suddenly encompasses me. My eighteenth birthday, supposedly a milestone in my life has suddenly transformed into a millstone. It bewilders me that until a few hours ago I was an average eighteen-year old girl who could not see beyond her nose. The world for me was all candyfloss fluff; clothes, friends, boys, school, parties’ etc and not necessarily in that order were the only things that ever concerned me. I had been looking forward to my eighteenth for a very long time, I was about to graduate from high school had finally saved enough money to buy myself a second hand car and could not wait to say good-bye to Cedar Hill, Dallas. Now Cedar Hill is a quiet suburb located about sixteen miles away from downtown Dallas, and if I remember my history correctly was once the temporary capital of Dallas County but apparently a tornado swept through sometime in eighteen... umm… something, now what was it that Mrs. Jacobs, my 7th grade history teacher, used to say? Ah yes, I remember now. It was 1856 and the tornado destroyed most of the buildings so the capital had to be shifted .See Mrs. Jacobs sure would be proud of me. The other thing that makes Cedar Hill stand out is the number of antennae. Lets see if I can make Mr. Richardson, my 7th grade science teacher proud too. According to him- now he was one person who did not like me much, but then again he did not like anyone or anything which was not a shade of white. Now due its elevation (Cedar Hill) a number of radio and TV stations have their antennae here. In fact, we have the highest concentration of such antennae in the country. Ha! How’s that for memory! Mr. Richardson always used to say I would never amount to anything. In fact, he had this bumper sticker on his car, which read, “if it ain’t white it ain’t right”. Anyway these antennae were also a constant source of entertainment to my brother and me. During the day we would pretend that they were huge giants that needed to be brought down and at night the many lights attached to them made them look like Christmas trees. Although I was born in Cedar Hill, my parents shifted to Dallas from New York sometime in the eighties. Now why they ever did that remains a mystery. I would take New York over Cedar Hill any day. According to my father, he moved because he felt that it was a safe place to raise a family. Yes. Safe and boring. I won’t say that we are an average African American family, but I guess we are as average as it could get. My father owns a hardware store that my mother helps him run. We live in a neighborhood which can be described as quiet, bordering on sedate and most of our neighbors are African American, although we also have a few Hispanics. In fact, Gabriella, one of my closest friends since childhood, is Hispanic and Monica, like me is African American and it was our desire to run away from Cedar Hill which first brought us together. As children Gabriella, Monica and I were always finding ways and means of earning money for our “great escape.” We had once put up a lemonade stall outside my father’s store, conning my father’s customers into buying lemonade. But we soon gave that up when one old lady scathingly stated that she would sooner let her throat become hard as parchment than buy lemonade from a bunch of tar colored ruffians. I was six years old back then and marched right up to my father and demanded to know what the word ruffian meant and why did the old lady say we were covered with tar. Later that evening our parents sat my brother and I down and tried to explain what the lady had said. It was the first time I realized that the color of my skin was “different” and that no matter what happens I shall always be looked upon as “different”. Yet every Sunday, at church, Father Christopher would emphatically state that that God had created all men equal. Hence I was one highly- confused six-year-old. If Father Christopher’s sermons were not confusing enough, I felt that I had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole, when in school, Mrs. Jacobs started to tell us about our origins. As an African American female she was very passionate about her heritage and how far we had come and how far we had to go. The history class became an anomaly for me, as we learnt how blacks first came to America as slaves, how they were mistreated, the civil rights movement, segregation, and the dream of Martin Luther King. As I learnt about the battle waged by the blacks in Texas, such as the Texas vote for secession, the Reconstruction era, the rise of first black politicians in Texas like George T. Ruby and Norris Wright Cuney etc my confusion heightened. If God created all men equal, then how could one man treat another in such a ghastly manner? Who was correct - God or my history books? But I was too afraid to ask all these questions. I became wary of people who were different to me. My relationship with Gabriella became strained, and I started getting into trouble at school. I even got caught while writing graffiti on Mr. Richardson’s car. Which was not a very good thing because Mr. Richardson called the cops, and before I knew it I was standing before a Judge Williams of the juvenile court. The judge ordered me two weeks of community service, but before I left the courthouse he asked to speak to me. Judge Williams, was one of the few African Americans who were a part of the government system of Dallas and a very upstanding member of the community. I considered him a sell out, an enemy, Judge Williams knew what I was thinking and said he was not surprised. He told me that at my age he felt exactly as I was at the moment and found a number of ways to get back, but it always landed him in trouble and his resentment was just further fueled but he later realized that his methods were wrong. That if he really needed to make a change then violence and anger were not the way to go about it. According to Judge Williams being a part of the governmental system had opened up numerous doors for him to bring about a change, to do what he wanted. His hard work and honesty had made him an honorable member of the community, respected by both blacks as well as whites. He told me about his organization which he started for troubled teenagers, both black as well as white and asked me to pay it a visit. Although I said I would but as everything went I shrugged it off. My parents put my behavior down to rebellious teenage hormones. I stopped attending Church, and became a firm believer that God had never intended to create all men equal. If that had been the case we would have all either been covered with tar or would have sported bumper stickers proclaiming “if it ain’t white it ain’t’ right. Father Christopher from the church came to meet me, as a member of the black community he felt that he needed to clear my confusion and answer some of my questions. He asked me to come with him when he visited some of the other members of the church. On one such visit while we were passing through Fair Park, we passed the African American Museum. Father Christopher asked me if I wanted to go inside, intrigued I said yes, I had never been to the museum before and something urged me to go inside. Once inside Father Christopher introduced me to Linda Vaughn, she told me that the African American Museum was the only museum in the Southwestern United States which was devoted to the preservation of African American artistic, cultural and historical materials. Father Christopher and Linda Vaughn managed to convince me to enroll for the museum’s summer camp. Hesitant at first, I agreed, it was this camp I learnt more about my culture. I shared experiences with other teenagers, Judge Williams also came to camp, to educate us about how we could make a difference by becoming a part of the local government. Linda Vaughn’s sister Rita who worked at the Dallas Observer told us how we could make ourselves be heard via the power of the media. Rita was an outstanding community leader and her columns at the Observer had from time to time highlighted the plight of the black community in Dallas. In the past Rita, along with Father Christopher, Linda Vaughn, Judge Williams, and other members of the black community, had organized demonstrations and protests to demand equal rights for African Americans in Dallas. My resentment began to fade and I began to feel happy that there were people who were out there to protect our interests but I still prescribed to the theory that God had never intended to create us equal. I soon gave up my so-called rebellious ways and turned my energies towards things long forgotten - my escape from Cedar Hill. I therefore smoked the proverbial peace pipe with my friends, and in the process discovered that Gabby had a really cute cousin who lived in the village- and hence began my obsession with men and the “village”. Now it so happened that if you were single and ready to mingle, the “ village” was the place to be. With its numerous apartments, proximity to one of the largest malls in Dallas, the Greenville entertainment district, downtown, and everything else North Dallas had to offer- the “village,” to a group of seventeen year olds seemed like paradise. With graduation and my eighteenth birthday fast approaching, life for me was all candyfloss fluff. My family decided to make my birthday a grand affair since I would be moving away from home. My older brother who had long since shifted to the “village” was home for the celebrations and my parents, albeit, horrified at my decision, were a tad appeased with the thought that my brother was there to keep an eye on me. Amidst all the preparations and chaos, one of our relatives from New York came to be a part of the festivities. Great-aunt Karen, I am apparently her namesake, had lived in New York most of her life and from all the stories that we had heard about her, she was Mother Teresa and Florence Nightingale rolled into one, and as far as I was concerned, was to be avoided like the plague. Therefore, I was a bit surprised, that a few hours before the grand party was to commence, she came into my room to give me my present. I had hoped to get some cash as it would help in getting settled, but as I eagerly tore open the wrapping, all my hopes were dashed. Inside was a copy of Booker T. Washington’s autobiography “Up from Slavery”. My hands trembled as I looked at the book. I felt that some one had just branded me with a hot iron. All my old fears and confusions resurfaced, and I threw the book at Karen in disgust. Shocked, she asked me why I had acted in this way - why I refused to acknowledge an important part of my heritage? Laughing at her, I told her I did not believe in it and shoved my line at her - about all men not being equal. Tears of pity streamed down her face. I realized that the pity was for me. She sat me down and asked me that if all men were not meant to be equal then why had so many in the past gladly given up their lives for the sake of equality? If we were not meant to be equal, why did so many endure pain and suffering so that one day their children might have a chance to call themselves equal to all? Why, if were not meant to be equal, did Martin Luther King dare to dream? Why, if we were not meant to be equal, did the need to sit anywhere on a bus become as important as taking a breath of air? And why, was it, if we were not meant to be equal, that people all through the ages, in various cultures and civilizations, fought to earn their right to live with dignity? As I stared speechless at her, my mother interrupted saying that it was time to come down for the party. Boy! Was I glad for the excuse! and ran down as though there was no tomorrow. Happy Birthday to you… Happy Birthday …dear...Jesse… Happy Birthday to you…”As the strains of this age-old song echo all around me, I Jessica Karen Wallace James stand in front of my birthday cake about to melt from the heat of forty candles. Looking at the faces all around me, my parents, my husband, my children my brother, two best friends, and a picture of great-aunt Karen on the wall, a feeling of self worth, pride and dignity suddenly envelops me. My fortieth birthday, a milestone by any standards, and even though it has been a struggle to achieve what I have - it has all been worth it. Today I have love, of my husband and my children. I have a profession - I am a journalist. I have respect - of my colleagues and my community, but most of all I have dignity and I have pride. I am proud of my heritage, proud of where I come from. I am proud of what I have achieved and proud to proclaim that God was right and I am proud to stand along with my forefathers in this continuing struggle for equality. Some twenty years ago I was wrong to believe that God never intended to create all men equal. The passage of time has taught me that yes we were created equal by our creator, but it is us men and women who create these inequalities. We all have to fight this man made evil, be it black, white or brown. I have learnt that if some one thinks that I am unequal, it is only because I gave that person the right to judge me in that way. By behaving the way I did all those years ago and not acknowledging who I was and my heritage, I allowed people to judge me and think of me as unequal. It was my actions that created the inequality and not God. It is my actions, which have made me unequal. To be proud of what I “The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people” Langston Hughes References Handbook of Texas Online, African Americans, http://www.tsha.utexas.edu/handbook/online/articles/AA/pkaan.html (last accessed May 16, 2006) http://www.blacksindallas.com/index.html (last accessed May 16, 2006). http://www.dallascityhall.com (last accessed May 16, 2006). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dallas,_Texas (last accessed May 16, 2006). http://www.aamdallas.org/ (last accessed May 16, 2006). Read More

In fact, he had this bumper sticker on his car, which read, “if it ain’t white it ain’t right”. Anyway these antennae were also a constant source of entertainment to my brother and me. During the day we would pretend that they were huge giants that needed to be brought down and at night the many lights attached to them made them look like Christmas trees. Although I was born in Cedar Hill, my parents shifted to Dallas from New York sometime in the eighties. Now why they ever did that remains a mystery.

I would take New York over Cedar Hill any day. According to my father, he moved because he felt that it was a safe place to raise a family. Yes. Safe and boring. I won’t say that we are an average African American family, but I guess we are as average as it could get. My father owns a hardware store that my mother helps him run. We live in a neighborhood which can be described as quiet, bordering on sedate and most of our neighbors are African American, although we also have a few Hispanics.

In fact, Gabriella, one of my closest friends since childhood, is Hispanic and Monica, like me is African American and it was our desire to run away from Cedar Hill which first brought us together. As children Gabriella, Monica and I were always finding ways and means of earning money for our “great escape.” We had once put up a lemonade stall outside my father’s store, conning my father’s customers into buying lemonade. But we soon gave that up when one old lady scathingly stated that she would sooner let her throat become hard as parchment than buy lemonade from a bunch of tar colored ruffians.

I was six years old back then and marched right up to my father and demanded to know what the word ruffian meant and why did the old lady say we were covered with tar. Later that evening our parents sat my brother and I down and tried to explain what the lady had said. It was the first time I realized that the color of my skin was “different” and that no matter what happens I shall always be looked upon as “different”. Yet every Sunday, at church, Father Christopher would emphatically state that that God had created all men equal.

Hence I was one highly- confused six-year-old. If Father Christopher’s sermons were not confusing enough, I felt that I had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole, when in school, Mrs. Jacobs started to tell us about our origins. As an African American female she was very passionate about her heritage and how far we had come and how far we had to go. The history class became an anomaly for me, as we learnt how blacks first came to America as slaves, how they were mistreated, the civil rights movement, segregation, and the dream of Martin Luther King.

As I learnt about the battle waged by the blacks in Texas, such as the Texas vote for secession, the Reconstruction era, the rise of first black politicians in Texas like George T. Ruby and Norris Wright Cuney etc my confusion heightened. If God created all men equal, then how could one man treat another in such a ghastly manner? Who was correct - God or my history books? But I was too afraid to ask all these questions. I became wary of people who were different to me. My relationship with Gabriella became strained, and I started getting into trouble at school.

I even got caught while writing graffiti on Mr. Richardson’s car. Which was not a very good thing because Mr. Richardson called the cops, and before I knew it I was standing before a Judge Williams of the juvenile court. The judge ordered me two weeks of community service, but before I left the courthouse he asked to speak to me. Judge Williams, was one of the few African Americans who were a part of the government system of Dallas and a very upstanding member of the community. I considered him a sell out, an enemy, Judge Williams knew what I was thinking and said he was not surprised.

He told me that at my age he felt exactly as I was at the moment and found a number of ways to get back, but it always landed him in trouble and his resentment was just further fueled but he later realized that his methods were wrong.

Read More