Recently I was waiting at a red light, it was a nice spring day and my car window was open. I was listening to oldies on the radio and dancing in my seat which is a habit of mine. Suddenly a car pulled up on the lane to my left blasting Rap music. I glanced over and noticed that there were four young black men in the car and they to had their windows down. I could no longer hear my radio over the blare of theirs so I automatically I started bobbing my head and tapping the stirring wheel to the beat of the Rap. Unaware of what I was doing I glanced over at the car again. All four young men were looking at me laughing and smiling. Just then the light changed and as their car pulled away I heard them say “you go grandma” and I knew they enjoyed the moment as much as I had.

I grew up in a small town in Northern California in the mid fifties. Like most small California towns in those days it’s main industry was agriculture. Many families had migrated there during the Dust Bowl of the thirties to find work in the fields or one of the canneries. My fathers family were what was called ‘Okies’

who had come from Oklahoma. It was a diverse town in many ways with Mexicans, Native Americans, and Europeans and even one Japanese family that owned the chicken ranch where my mother bought eggs. What it didn’t have was one single black person.

My six sisters and I worked along side our parents picking fruit when the season permitted. The small income my mother earned during crab season at one of the local fisheries sustained us through the winter. We had no television, no money for movies, and no internet. Our whole belief system was solely molded by school. books and family.

Books in my young life were predominately made up of fairy tales. nursery rhymes and “Horton Hears A Who” which message was lost on me until I read it to my own children years later.

School consisted of the 3r’s, reading, riting and ritmatic. Diversity and tolerance were not taught. Social issues were not discussed and political correctness did not exist.

That brings us to family. My father whom I loved dearly, had a name for everybody. They were the nips, the wasp, the coons and Jew bastards. He rarely spoke of anyone without referencing their nationality in some derogatory way. Being from the south he directed his most vile contempt towards Afro-Americans.

As children often do we mimicked his sentiments. We would sing ditties like “ eeny meeney minny moe catch a nigger by the toe” So by the time I was ten years old and saw a black man for the first time on television I had already decided they were inferior to me.

When I was twelve my mother had left my father. remarried and we moved to an urban area in the East Bay. Occasionally we would see

a black man or woman on the street and I was fascinated, for they seemed normal. Then. when I was sixteen came what I refer to as the pool incident. the pool incident. Some friends, and I had gone to the municipal and immediately went to the locker rooms to change into our suits. Hurriedly still pulling up my suit I came out of the dressing cubical I yelled something I had said many times, “ last one out is a nigger baby.” No sooner had the words come of my mouth when I looked up and there was a young black girl about nine years old not three feet from me. To this day I remember the look on her face. fear, shame, pain. I new without a doubt my words were responsible. I could feel my own face growing hot with shame as the others came rushing out of the dressing rooms. Then I started to giggle and so did my friend as we turned an ran out to the pool. I never looked back. We all carry regrets in our lives this is only of many I have.

How wonderful it would have been if I could have said “I’m sorry and I will never say anything like that again.” How wonderful if I could have thrown my arms around her and make her feel loved. How wonderful if life could be so simple and understanding come so young.

In 1966 came the Black Panther Party which originated in Oakland California. My feelings of superiority had already been fading, but not was replaced by fear. Oakland was a mere twenty miles from where I lived. There were always stories about them in the newspapers, and television. J Edgar Hoover himself said “they are the greatest threat to the internal security of the United States.” Most of my fear came from the fact that I understood by then why they were angry. I was seventeen and other then the pool incident had still not had any personal interaction with a black person. There were none in our town, nor our schools, nor our churches.

My next encounter came in 1972. I was a young married woman with two small children. My sister and I with our children had gone to visit family in the next town. It was in November and it was very cold. By the time we started home it was already dark and it had started to rain heavily. We were driving along a seldom used road with no street lights or houses. The nearest business was about three miles away. Suddenly the car died, and my sister managed to coast it to the side of the road. Unbelievably we were out of gas at the worst of possible location.

We were both very concerned as we weighed our options. There was no way we could take the children out in the rain. We had always been taught to do things in pairs so the thought of one of us walking alone in the night was terrifying. Finally it was decided that the best course of action would be to lift the hood and wait for a good Samaritan. Thirty minutes, forty-five minutes, an hour, went by not one car stopped. By now the kids were cold, tired and hungry and their distress added to our nervousness.

Just as we were reconsidering the idea of walking headlights pulled up behind us. I was immediately filled with relief but it was fleeting. The man who emerged from the truck behind us was huge

and as he approached our vehicle I realized he was black. I was so scared, part of me wanted to lock the doors and send him away. Thankfully practicality ruled over fear as he came to the drivers window. My sister had froze, so I reached over her and rolled down the window.

When he spoke his voice was kind and I started to relax as I explained our predicament. He told me he was on his way to work,

so he had no time to go get gas and come back. He said however

that the nearest gas station was on his way and if we wished he would tow us there. We agreed, and as I watched him out in the cold drenching rain hooking up the car to his truck I thought he was one of the most amazing persons I had ever met. To put one’s

self out for complete strangers was an act of kindness that I had never witnessed before. When he said good-by at the gas station I offered him money, he refused. I was glad because that would have made it to easy for me say “ well we paid him”. It would have in my mind excused the debt of gratitude that we owed this man. I wish I could say I never told another ethnic joke after that, or that I stood up in defense when others did. but that would be a lie.

Over the next thirty years I have had many black friends and coworkers and yes they’ve been to my home and I to theirs.

My evolution was slow but I believe it’s now complete. Not so long ago I hung up the phone on a family member who called the president the N word.

I wish I could say that was true of my entire family. Sadly that too would be a lie. I watched recently, as one of them cringed when a black toll takers hand accidentally touched hers as she handed him her money I don’t know why this is, perhaps because we don’t always share the same experiences. If that isso then I am truly the lucky one.