I have never wanted to be Mel Gibson until now. Whoopi says he is not a racist. God, I wish that were me. It’s too late for me to ever be that pure. I grew up just after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, in one of the most racially segregated parts of the country. Nobody talked about racism in Merrick, New York. We just were.
Of course, I was a child, busy with child-like things. I never thought much about the dark-skinned people who lived just over the hill, in Freeport. My people weren’t too concerned with them either. We were worried about ourselves – Jews in an Anti-Semitic world. As far as I knew, the larger political issues that affected my folks were reckoning with the Holocaust, the ongoing wars to destroy Israel, and the feeling that we were outsiders in our own country.
It never occurred to me to question why my town was all “White” and just footsteps away, over that hill, everyone was “Black”. We only went there to buy new shoes. I had get a special type of shoe that could be found at Stride-Rite stores. The nearest one was over that hill, in Freeport. My mom was a new and nervous driver. There was no way she was taking us farther than necessary.
It was almost a straight shot from our home into Freeport. My mom kept both hands on the steering wheel of our maroon Buick Le Sabre, at precisely 10 and 2 o’clock. With her posture a little too upright and eyes focused ahead, she brought us down Merrick Road toward that hill. We passed the familiar landmarks of my childhood: the duck pond, my school, McDonald’s, and Reggie’s Nursery. On warm days, my sister and I put the windows down and let the wind blow through our hair. On the left, a flock of seagulls were visible circling the sky over the growing garbage dump, which still remained hidden behind the trees. Just ahead, the hill took up the whole of our windshield.
Physically, it is not a big hill, but it does obliterate the view on both sides. Just past the on ramp to Meadow Brook Parkway and the rest of the world, the car engine revved to overcome the grade and the power locks clicked down securely. “Close your windows.” Did I ever ask why?
We would descend into Freeport where everything seemed different.
Right away we were in a commercial area of shops that could have been Anywhere, USA. Strangely though, I could see mostly “Black” people walking about. They all seemed busy on the way to places. They were dressed plainly, just as my mom, my sister and I were. I would stare at the occasional “White” person, wondering, “what are you doing here?” They didn’t look lost, and they didn’t look afraid. It was all a mystery. I was a foreigner here. I was filled with fear and moved about cautiously, wondering if anyone would turn on us as we tried to make our way into the shop.
The shop was run by “White” people and all the customers I ever saw were white. There were never any incidents. We locked our car doors and kept the windows up until we were over the hill and safely back in Merrick. Mostly, I was excited about my new shoes. I think I did once ask my mom why Freeport was dangerous. I got some vague answer about “Black people being angry at White people.”
My first whiff of my own racism occurred when I was 17. I was working at my dad’s accounting office for the summer. The son of an employee, an African American woman, came in to visit his mom over lunch. He was tall and very well dressed, probably coming from his own summer job. It was our first meeting, in fact, I’d never known of his existence. I discovered we were both entering college that fall. I asked him where, and he told me “Princeton.” I was horrified by my own shock.
What does it mean to say that we are not racist? Surely, a white person who grew up on Long Island in the 60’s and 70’s could not escape it. White kids in segregated towns like mine were steeped in it, we just didn’t know. My town and others like it did not stay “white” by accident. There were concerted political and cultural efforts aimed at sabotaging the Civil Rights advancements of the era, and undermining the quality of life of African Americans. There was rage in Freeport and race riots in the high school while I lived over the hill. It happened in many Long Island towns. Perhaps that’s why my mom locked the doors. I recently met someone White, who grew up in Freeport, while I was living in Merrick. I envied her exposure to Black culture and an integrated environment. She told me those years were horrible. The racial tension was frightening, the violence scared her and she never felt safe in high school. Racism creates a ripple that affects and contaminates us all.
I’ve read some of the history of Long Island and it turned me pale. In the earlier days there were cross burnings and parades by the Klan. During my childhood it was very ugly harassment, financial strategies, hiring policies, and block-busting to maintain segregation and thwart civil rights for Blacks. There was a call for gradualism, the concept of slowly giving Black people rights. Norman Lent, the ever-present Republican State Senator, championed a movement to keep schools in Malverne segregated. He won. During my lifetime, in the “liberal North” a law was passed blocking integration. It was later overturned by the Supreme Court as “unconstitutional”.
Gradualism achieved the goals of its proponents, because, today so many years later, Nassau County is the most racially segregated place in the nation. Whether the people of Merrick and other white towns today are aware or not, the searing wounds of racism there are profound and continue to fester and contaminate in a ripple effect.
When I left Merrick in 1982, the world opened up to me. Most people stay among people like themselves. That hasn’t been my way. I’ve sought out difference and diversity. I got a degree in anthropology, traveled, and learned other languages. I’ve worked most of my professional years in two communities using languages other than English. I live in a place that is, in many ways, the antithesis of the Long Island town where I grew up. Frankly, I do this because it makes my life richer. There is so much humor and wisdom and grace out there. Often, I cross paths with people from cultures that have been traumatized by society or the powers that be. They don’t trust others easily and usually have no interest in me. I try not to take it personally. Occasionally, a curious soul with an open and patient heart is willing to connect on a deeper level. I relish the privilege and though I try to tread lightly, I often feel I am stumbling about awkwardly making all kinds of cultural faux pas.
That shock in my dad’s office humbled me. It was many years ago and I am still a product of my upbringing. I know undoing my own racism will take longer than my lifetime. When I was in medical school I had the great fortune of making a friend for life. She loves me and accepts me for who I am and lets me ask her any ignorant question. I’ve learned so much about how, she, as an African American woman experiences the very same society in a very different way. A few years ago she moved with her husband and two children to Freeport, Long Island. Even though I now live 2000 miles away, I went to visit her. For me, it was an historic trip, across a racist chasm that spanned years. I came from the Merrick side with my own freckle-faced kids in the car. I drove west on Merrick Road, past Mc Donald’s. As the hill came into view, I unlocked the doors and rolled down all the windows. We coasted down into Freeport grinning towards the setting sun, the sky full of color, and the wind blowing our hair into a mess.
