Autobiography

In the town where I was born, there were no black people. In fact, I don’t recall ever even seeing a real African American person in the flesh until I was eleven years old and went to Seattle to stay with my cousins for a while. Obviously, all the kids in all my grades at school looked pretty much like me--middle class, white, small town. Some of our dads were ranchers, some were storekeepers, some were millworkers or loggers, some were professional men--all of us dressed alike, watched the same TV and (at least in grade school)--had the same ideas, goals and philosophies.

While there were no children of other races in our school, a different culture was strongly represented. In the early 1900s, a colony of immigrants from Finland had settled in the area; many of my schoolmates and teachers were of Finnish origin. And many of the “Finlanders”—as my dad called them—spoke Finnish at home and maintained their cultural traditions; they had their own church, their own graveyard. My mom and dad had many good friends among our Finnish neighbors (my mom had taught some of them in school) and my parents’ acceptance and appreciation for this “foreign” culture helped me to become aware, in a positive way, of how differences can enrich us.

Another early influence in the development of my cultural competency was my paternal grandmother, who had lived on an Indian Reservation as a child. She told us stories, demonstrated dances and described episodes from her childhood that always portrayed her profound respect for Native Americans and their culture. I was fascinated. Later, when I was in high school, one of my teachers often made disparaging comments about Indians and Reservations. Because of what my grandmother had taught me, his sarcastic remarks offended and hurt me--even while the other kids laughed.

These positive messages about cultures were ultimately more powerful in shaping my views than some other family influences. My mother’s family had moved west from Tennessee a generation earlier and had brought their intolerances with them. My maternal grandmother, in particular, showed her prejudice toward African Americans whenever the opportunity presented itself. I can’t imagine what she would have thought about one of us sitting next to a person of another race in a schoolroom. I remember once when my sisters and I were visiting with her she cautioned us—with intense disgust--to stay away from a certain house across the street because a family of Mexicans had moved in.

We didn’t pay any attention to her, however, and when Lupe came out to play and invited us into her yard we happily joined her—until Grandma came out and hustled us back into the house. Poor Grandma! As it turned out, we kept sneaking over to Lupe’s house. We actually spent quite a bit of play time with Lupe that summer and became pals. That I remember Lupe after all these years shows what an impression it had on me as a child to be exposed to a child who was different from me.

My parents recently shocked me during a discussion about President Obama’s policies by admitting their lifetime racism toward African Americans. I remembered how, one summer when I was in high school, I sought out a guy on a forest firefighting crew who came from Detroit, Michigan, and was African American. My parents were worried and wondered what might happen. But I was simply curious; I had never had a conversation with someone who was black. As much as I wanted to talk with him and get to know him, our relationship (must to my parents’ relief) was very brief. Communication between the two of us was hopeless; I couldn’t understand a word he said. My grandmother was appalled when she heard about it, “Didn’t he smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

By the time I was 16, I had seen and heard much about the Civil Rights movement which had been going on throughout my childhood (I was born in 1955. As we studied these events in school and followed the news, I could tell that some of my teachers were very uncomfortable about the changes that were going on—the students, on the other hand, I recall being universally supportive of segregation and equality. It was a time of generational conflict and many of us espoused liberal, inclusive philosophies in reaction to—and in rebellion against--our parents’ and teachers’ narrower attitudes. By the time I graduated from high school, in 1973, I was a feminist, a liberal and a supporter of Civil Rights for all.

The University of Idaho, where I went to college, was neither a hotbed of dissent nor a diverse community. Two of my roommates dated Asian guys. A few of the football players were black. Mostly, however, the people around me--again--looked and acted just about like me (although students with liberal politics--like me--were in the minority). The experience of my roommate who was involved with a Chinese-American man was interesting, however. She was completely rejected by his family--for being white. He could not cope with the anger of his parents and they eventually broke up. I realized that racism works in all directions.

Like many other young adults, when I was in college I became more interested in religion and spirituality. I had been raised on the fringes of a church, but our family rarely attended. As I studied the doctrines of world religions, of Christianity and of my own Christian church, I became convinced of the divinity of every member of the family of humankind—no matter what culture or race or lifestyle. This belief has shaped my philosophy more than any other factor. The peaceful teachings of Jesus and the examples of righteous people have been a continuing influence for good in my life. I came to believe in community and collaboration, rather than competitiveness and conflict.

A person’s world-view is not finished when she graduates from college. I’ve had many experiences as an adult that challenged my idealism and refined my ideas about life and cultures. In 1979, for example, we moved to a tiny community in North Idaho where I first became aware of the culture of the rural (white) poor. Our daughter attended a school (and I subbed there) where 99% of the students were getting free or reduced lunch. The economy was troubled; mills were closing, but poverty had been a way of life for most of the people around us--even in good times. I admit, I had a really hard time accepting some of the life-style values I saw. It was particularly troubling to me that young people wanted nothing more from the future than a seasonal job, unemployment payments (they called “rocking-chair”) in the winter, a snow machine, beer to drink and a gun to shoot. And, like their parents, to sit in their squalor and be consumed by hate, anger and racism. Finally, I realized that I was surrounded by a culture more foreign than that of the Finnish immigrants I grew up with. I found it difficult to extend my tolerance for other cultures should be to this culture as well.

The experiences of my children have taught me too. When we lived in Golden, Colorado, in the late 80s there were many Hispanic families in our neighborhood and children in my kids’ schools. (When we later moved to Oregon I was instantly struck by the BLONDNESS of everyone.) One of my daughters was very close friends with a girl her age named Maria Rascon. Like most of the Hispanic kids we knew, she came from a family with a many-generation history in Colorado or a nearby state. Unlike many of them, she came from a family that was quite wealthy--much higher on the socioeconomic ladder than us. They were members of our church and the girls were almost inseparable. We moved to Salem when my daughter was in the 7th grade; immediately she was exposed to racism at school where students were mocking and taunting “Mexicans.” Horrified, she stood up for the Hispanic kids--in memory of her dear friend Maria--and became a target of harassment herself, at least temporarily. She had to learn that, while the Hispanic kids in Golden were part of the “dominant” culture, that was not true here. There is a great deal more diversity in Salem than there was then, and there is less racism in our schools. My son sits in high school honors classes with many kids of other races--including Hispanic kids, but only very rarely an African American.

When I was young, I expected racism to disappear by the time I had kids in high school. I learned about Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, I saw the segregation barriers come down and I thought the next generation would have learned to live and “sing, in harmony and love.” I believed the Coke advertisements.

Today, I realize that defeating racism will take much more time and more teaching and I worry much more about it now than ever before. I wonder about my role as a teacher who is a member of the “dominant” culture. I feel nervous about mentioning race and worried that some innocent comment or action I make might be offensive to another culture, or interpreted wrongly by others as racism. I don’t believe culture and race are exactly the same thing. Sometimes members of other races are part of the “dominant” culture. Sometimes white people are not. I try always to be aware of cultural differences, but I worry that noticing them leads to stereotyping.

My grown children have settled all over the world. I have kids living in England, France, Ukraine and Okinawa (as well as Texas and Manhattan.) Where ever they are, I am proud to say, my kids appreciate and respect the cultures they find.