By Barry Shumpert, president of the Board of Trustees
Hi. I’m Barry and I’m a recovering racist.
It all started when I was born almost 75 years ago in a small town in northern Mississippi. From my first memories, I was taught that white people were better than black people and that the two races must be kept socially separate. These vile teachings were mixed in with all the wholesome lessons of childhood: the value of community, the importance of compassion, how to walk, love, ride a bike, get along with other kids, use the bathroom, cope when my feelings were hurt, keep going when things were tough. The child version of me couldn't possibly evaluate all these separate lessons and decide which ones were worthy and which ones weren't. Besides, these racial beliefs were promoted, or at least acquiesced to, by all the authority figures in my life: parents, grandparents, teachers, preachers, Sunday school teachers. I never heard any opposition. I realize now that there must have been some, but it never reached my young ears.
You have to remember that I was growing up during the 1950s and 60s, when the South felt that it was under attack. We were told that integration of schools, movies, restaurants, and (God forbid) swimming pools and churches had to be opposed with everything we had. Questioning the long-standing racial beliefs was tantamount to treason; our entire way of life was under attack. I remember sitting on the sofa not long after I started junior high crying as I watched a television news report showing federal marshals escort James Meredith, a Black man, into the halls of Ole Miss. I was still completely under the power of my culture.
I don’t remember consciously reconsidering my racial attitudes during adolescence, but maybe I was beginning to change. My family had moved to a small town in West Tennessee (which is very much like North Mississippi). I remember a weekend trip back to visit the grandparents in the summer of 1964. As all the relatives gathered for Sunday dinner, there were a lot of comments and jokes about three civil rights workers who were missing down the road in Neshoba County. I was surprised to find that this kind of talk now made me uncomfortable and kind of sick-feeling. I knew that, in spite of all the banter and cheap jokes, everybody there realized that that young trio would never be seen alive again. And, while I didn’t yet consider them blameless (after all, they had come down here interfering in our business), I didn’t believe they deserved to be chased down in the night and viciously murdered. That couldn't have been what Jesus had in mind.
My recovery didn't really begin, though, until I started college. Although I was attending a pretty conservative university, I experienced what one professor called “the sophomore syndrome.” I began to question everything I had been taught in my life and, finally, to think for myself. I decided to leave the Methodist Church and began a long, long period of being unchurched. I also experienced a total reversal of my attitudes about race. Over the course of several months, I wrestled with the irreconcilable conflict between some of my core beliefs. Values I held to be fundamental (“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…”) simply could not co-exist with beliefs that had been ingrained in me about race. Something had to give, and I’m very glad to say it was my racial attitudes that lost this battle. My recovery had begun.
My older sister and younger brother also somehow managed to escape from the culture of racism, and together the three of us influenced our parents. Mom and Dad grew to accept and embrace the movement toward racial equality that was taking place in the country. But we can't take all the credit for their conversion. Television played a big part. I still remember my dad laughing until he cried while watching “All in the Family.” I am sure that when he laughed at Archie Bunker, he knew he was also laughing at himself.
Now, after many years of work, I like to believe that the ideals of racial equality and diversity have totally eradicated any lingering vestiges of racism within me. But deep inside I suspect that is not completely true. As hard as I try, I don't fully understand the life experiences of people of other races, and that makes it hard for me to have relaxed conversations with them or understand some of their positions on social issues. While I have the best of intentions and brotherly love, I'm short on knowledge and understanding.
That's why I know I need to take part in the Anti-racism Workshop that begins at Westside on Sunday, October 27. I'll be there with my workbook and my pencil and my hope that I'll find a complete cure for my inherited illness. I hope many of you will join me there so we can help each other in our continued recovery.
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