Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

I Am a White Woman

I am a 59-year-old Southern White woman. Born and raised in the South; educated at a private school for most of my elementary, middle, and high school years. And I am so ashamed that nothing seems to have changed over the course of my lifetime.

During a brief period when I attended public school in Burke County, Georgia, I remember being on the playground when a march on our school took place. People were marching to demand the desegregation of the school system. I was in second grade, unaware of the unrest sweeping the country at that time. I was just a kid on a playground, enjoying being outside in the sun.

Shortly after that march, our school began the process of desegregation. Until that point the public school system was divided into two different elementary schools. I remember starting classes with my new classmates. I sat in front of the only Black student in my class. I liked him; he helped me cheat in math. I would slip him my test and he would finish the questions I needed help completing.

I can’t say that I did not see color; I knew he was Black, but I also knew he was kind, caring, and beautiful. I made friends with him and with a Black girl in another class. We would hold hands and walk around the playground. One day when my mother came to pick me up from school, she saw my new friends and me together. She quickly informed me that holding hands and playing together were things that should not be done. What would other people think if they saw me?

Even at the time, despite being so young, I already knew I really didn’t care. The woman who took care of me at home—the woman who loved me, held me, and looked after me—was a Black woman named Daisy. For most of my young life, Daisy was my world. She was the person who comforted me when I was afraid of a storm. She was the person who taught me how to tie my shoes. To be honest, she was the person who taught me how to love.

Daisy always counted me as one of her own. Years later, when I visited her in a nursing home, I asked how many children she had taken in and raised. She said, “Six, including you.”

I loved Daisy. I still love her.

How can we still be right where we were all those years ago? How can there still be so much hate? So much disparity? So much inequality?

This month, I have run/walked over 100 miles with my friend Sue. For over a week this month, we started our runs by running 2.23 miles, then stopping for a few moments to talk about Ahmaud Arbery. We talked about our privilege and that of our white male friends. We realized that we and our white male running friends have never even considered the possibility of being shot while we jogged through a neighborhood. It made me realize I had no idea how dangerous the sport I love could be for my Black friends.

How can it be that in this world you can get shot just because you go for a run? Yet as a woman, I know it can be dangerous for me to go running alone. Shouldn’t we all have the right to go running and not fear for our safety or our lives? We have to do better. We have to be better.

And now we are here, with George Floyd killed—lynched—in front of our eyes. I am so angry I can’t breathe. My soul is choked by the tears that will not come because the boiling anger seems to make them evaporate.

Years ago, when I first went to college, I played basketball for a small Baptist college. Because I had gone to a private school this was my first time playing on a team with Black women. It was an amazing experience; my teammates and I bonded, and I loved every minute of it.

One weekend when I was home—I remember this as if it were yesterday—my mother and I were in the car; she was driving and I was in the passenger seat. I was talking about my new friend Nona. My mother stopped me and said, “You are going to have to choose between your family and your new friends.”

I looked dead at her and said, “I am not choosing. My generation did not start this problem and I will not choose.” She replied, “Your Pa Scott is turning over in his grave.” We rode home in silence, but in my mind, I said, “Let him turn.”

Last night I talked to a friend who was active in the protests of the 60s. I asked her how and why are we still at this place. How can it be that nothing has really changed?

Her perspective helped me see things through a different lens. Maybe things haven’t changed because the people with money and power want the rest of us to fight against each other. They keep pitting people against each other to preserve their own power. They don’t care about people; they only care about power. We are just human capital to them. They strategically keep us fighting, keep us taking sides, while they walk away with the money. They don’t care if we live or die; there will always be more of us to control and manipulate.

So I ask, what can I do? Other than voting, how can I make a difference? How can I help stop this madness? How can I keep breathing in this world, knowing what I know and seeing what I see?

I am a 59-year-old White woman. If you have a soul, I think you are asking the same questions as I am.