Introduction

I think a bit of background is in order.  I was born in Kentucky and raised in California.  Don't hold being raised in California against me.  I did get a much more liberal view of the world than had I been raised in my birth state, but who knows my views probably would have been the same.

The first friend I can remember having lived next door.  She was the youngest of five children.  Mary Romero was as full of energy as I was and I spent more time at her house than my own,  I missed her terribly when we moved.  We did keep in touch, but I did not see her nearly as much as I wanted to.  It did not even dawn on  me that she was Latino.  She was my friend.

I think my first encounter with prejudice came when I was about 8 years old.  I had a friend at school (sorry I cannot remember her name), who I liked very much because she and I laughed together, played together, and in general had fun.  I was in a school play.  My friend's mother made the cape I wore, which I kept for years after.  I loved this friend and wanted her to come to my house to play.  Sooo, I asked my mother if she could come.  My mother's answer changed the way I thought about things forever.  She said my friend could not come to our house because she was black.  Now, I would like to state my mother was a loving, compassionate woman, who in later years must have changed her mind about many things, but especially about prejudice, thank goodness.

I could never understand why my friend could not come to my house.   I thought it was wrong.  I thought it was unfair and all of the other things that a child thinks about something they want to do and can't, but more than that it made me vow to never look at the color of a person's skin to choose a friend.  If I liked them, they were my friend.  End of story.  And, they could and would come to my house any time.  That is, until I moved to Atlanta in 1969.  Oh boy, was I about to get a lesson from the Wizard of Oz, "Dorothy, you are not in Kansas any more."  No kidding.

I loved living in Atlanta.  I loved the architecture.  I loved the history.  I was young and the city was wonderful for young people, vibrant and so much to do. With that said, I had a few struggles with attitudes.  Actually, that is an understatement, I had a lot of struggles with attitudes.  Some from areas that absolutely floored me.  The church.  Yes, the church.

I was married and my husband and I were invited to attend a church by some friends.  We attended a couple of times and it seemed fine, until that one Sunday morning.  We came in and the first people I ran into were our friend and his son.  The son was crying and the father was comforting him.  Of course, I asked what was wrong and, after some reluctance, the father explained that his son had invited a friend to church (a black child) and the superintendent of the Sunday school had asked that the child leave.  I saw stars I was sooooooooooo angry.  Before anyone could stop me I went to find the pastor and let him know the wrong that had been done.  I explained how wrong I felt this was and, surely, there was some kind of mistake and we could go find the child and bring them back and everything would be all right.  His answer floored me as much as the horrible treatment of the child.  I was told that I was not from the south.  I did not understand their culture and that what the Sunday school superintendent had done was right and that I could leave, as this church was not for me.  Well, I totally agreed with him, after stating it might do him some good to read his Bible about loving your neighbor and what you do to the least of these you do to me also, but they must have left that part out of his version, but I would loan him my Bible, if he wanted to read it.

Thus began my stay in the South.  I had never encountered the kind of blatant prejudice I encountered.  My husband had a friend that he wanted to have over for dinner and they would not come because they feared what our neighbors would think.  They would not even meet us at a restaurant.  Not to mention the "colored only" water fountain.  That one really got me.  I remember thinking, the water comes from the same source, what difference does it make, so I drank out of it.  The gas station guy did not like that at all.  Good thing we had a faster car than his.

You must realize that this was after Dr. King's death and the civil rights movement was not new.

Now we jump to 2016 and the election of someone who seems to want to take us back to pre-civil rights movement.  Someone who seems to be saying, "Who cares about all of those people who gave their lives.  Who cares that we "white folk" will not do the jobs that many of the people he claims are stealing our jobs will do."  Building a wall between us and Mexico builds a wall around our minds and hearts.  It fences us in and much as it fences "them" out.