There is a small, solitary clump of orange tulips in my side garden. There are now six remaining blooms that remind me of my internal struggle with my churning racism. I don’t think my tulips expected to play such a role.
It began as I sat on my deck, putting on my gardening shoes. A yellow school bus pulled up along my boulevard garden, and three young boys bounced out into the garden, followed by the adult woman bus driver. I was vaguely aware of them, and only mildly irked that they were walking on the plants obviously growing in the garden.
What caught my attention were the words “pick flowers” coming from one of the boys. I jumped to my feet and shouted “Hey” as soon as I reached the edge of the deck and I saw that one of the boys was up in my garden with a strangle hold on a tulip. All the while the woman was standing near the bus, not paying attention to what the boys were doing. She seemed unconcerned about the boys having announced their intention to “pick flowers.” She made no response to their picking flowers.
What followed was an unconnected exchange of her shouting to the boys to get back on the bus, my trying to tell the boys that if they pick the flowers no one else can enjoy them. I pointed out to her that they were walking through my garden as they got back on the bus. She told me what a rough day she had had and that she never has parked in that spot before. I’m not sure there was a single thread of continuity in our change.
I found myself muttering to myself about the great cultural divide between white and black people, and wondering if it will ever be overcome. I was mostly disturbed, not by the behavior of the three boys, but by the woman’s apparent indifference to what they were doing. She could only respond to their getting in trouble, and totally ignored what was a latent teachable moment.
For me, it was an experience that emphasized the cultural difference between some black people and some of us white people. I wondered how many generations it will take to bridge our differences.
I simply cannot imagine a white woman walking down the sidewalk with three young boys and her not intervening if they announced their intent to “pick flowers”. I simply cannot imagine a white woman disinterestedly standing by while they climbed up the hill and began tugging at tulips. I can now easily imagine a black woman being that disinterested and that disengaged.
My imagination has been fed by a concrete experience, and now my racism has another issue to deal with. My remaining tulips seem mute, even unaware of their beheaded companions now lying next to them. They may even be unaware of the danger of passing boys.
However, those same orange tulips now shout out to me a reminder of the danger of young black boys accompanied by a black adult woman. My concern about the cultural divide has taken a hit. My remaining tulips seem OK. I don’t feel so OK.