He is the great-grandson of slaves.
He’s the grandson of a farmer, who put down roots in North Carolina.
He is the son of a mother who led her four children to protest segregated lunch counters in the 1960s.
He is the son of a father who sent four children to college on winnings from the poker table.
He’s the father of two adult black sons. Yes, they have received the talk: no running, no back talk, hands where they can be seen at all times by the police.
He was the commissioner for human rights in New York state.
Currently, he is a deputy commissioner in the New York City Fire Department; over the years, he led initiatives to increase the numbers of minorities and women in the department.
He is our friend of over 40 years and a frequent guest in our community. In fact, he was a recent guest on that hot July weekend that followed a week of horrors when two unarmed black men were killed in different cities by police and later five officers were killed in Dallas.
These events were much on our minds and in our conversation, although perhaps with different outcomes. Yet we were determined to take full advantage of beautiful summer days, to swim at the Greenfield Swimming and Recreation Area, buy local corn, dine on fresh produce from our gardens and for our friend to take his usual jog. More about jogging later in this narrative.
However, an incident occurred that weekend that was unplanned. We had stopped at Sam’s Outfitters for a quick shop (relatively quick, that is). Three of us went inside, while our friend chose to stay in the car to make a few phone calls. As he took out his phone and began to check messages, he heard the unmistakable siren of a police car. In a knee-jerk reaction, startled and with a reflexive spasm of fear, he thought, “What if they see me? What if they think I have a gun?”
He pocketed the phone and waited.
Five minutes later, when my husband returned to the car, he was again composed, with no phone in sight.
“How are the ladies doing?” he asked. “Still quick shopping?”
“Still shopping,” my husband confirmed.
The moment had passed, or had it? Later that evening, he confessed to his wife, “I haven’t been that scared in over 40-some years.”
And so now the jog. Years ago, I had mapped out a new route, thinking our friend might like a change. The new route circled through quiet neighborhoods and cornfields and past a rushing stream. “You’ll love it,” I assured him.
He did a test drive, returned and shook his head. “I’ll stick to GCC,” he said, firmly.
Disappointed, I pressed him to explain.
“Not sure it’s safe,” he said.
“Safe?” I questioned, baffled.
“A black man running … sometimes people get the wrong idea.”
I wanted to argue, affirm the good will of my neighbors, and then I stopped. Unlikely, very unlikely such a grim scenario, but it has happened, if not here then close to here. It was, I suddenly understood, a not unrealistic conclusion given the violent history of racism. A history that “colors” our vision. I see safe. Our friend does not.
Five years earlier, another guest. Our guest was a young black colleague, who had come to do some collaborative work. She stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts. While getting her coffee, a stranger approached and started to chat, inviting her to a Halloween Party.
“Be my partner,” he told her, then depicting racially-tinged and sexually explicit roles unsuitable to name in a family newspaper. She reacted with nerve and wit.
Later she described the encounter to us, also with a humorous twist. But back home, she would retell the incident with the disgust and anger it truly engendered, as well as relive the discomfort of an outsider in what she experienced as an inhospitable community.
“Step in someone’s else’s shoes. Walk a mile in them,” empathy tells us.
I try to step in our friends’ shoes. They are way too big. Metaphor aside, I trip. I’m not used to the burdens that centuries of racism have implanted into the soles (and souls) of people of color.
The automatic terror that can erupt at the sound of a siren, the crude racist remarks from strangers, the sense of vulnerability and unsafe visibility in white neighborhoods. But for now, I will listen, believe, grasp the truth, as best I can, and bear witness to the shared testimony.
Ruth Charney lives in Greenfield.