The word “essay” first entered our language in 1597. It comes from the French verb essayer, “to try.” Today I try to capture in words my recent feelings regarding race in Middle America. Let’s start with a conversation I had with my oldest son. He’s 13 now, with the muscles and build of a young adult. He walks with the weight of extra burdens not cast on many of his peers. He’s had trouble this year with a classmate who carries a heaviness of his own. At one point this student made fun of my black son for the color of his skin. My son reacted in his own heavy way. Heavy seems to be the word of the day. Black parents often refer to “The Talk” that they must have with their young kids of color. This isn’t about the birds and the bees, however; this is about survival. How do you respond to the police? How do you handle yourself when faced with confrontation? How can you take measures that, while not guaranteed, will hopefully keep you safe? So in our own heavy moment at home, we have our version of The Talk. (Think about how strange that must feel for my son. We look like the oppressor, not like him.) We tell him that of course he wants to respond when hateful things are said. Lashing back is in our nature. But he must learn to control the anger. The white boy will instigate, and you will be caught. It’s the law of the land. My husband compares it to basketball, the language my son understands best. One player pushes another, but the push back gets the whistle for the foul. I call on the powerful words of former First Lady Michelle Obama. Let the classmate go low, but you must always rise high. You have no other choice. And perhaps the saddest fact of all? We took this child from a country where he was the majority. Where the color of his skin allowed him to blend in and was never the ammunition forced into the weapon of childhood bullying. And we brought him here. Here. Middle America. Where just last week I had to push pause during a short documentary on the Civil Rights march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 because a handful of my 10th and 11th graders couldn’t control the giggles and suspicious sideways glances every time the n-word was uttered. Here in my home state, Steve King, who says “we can’t restore civilization with someone else’s babies,” routinely wins elections and the support of white supremacist David Duke. This is also the Middle America of my childhood. Of leisurely bike rides around town with my best friend when our number one priority was having enough change for candy at Casey’s. This is the Middle America of rolling farmland and highways straight like an arrow. This is the Middle America where I first encountered Jesus and had my first kiss and received my college degrees. I love this place. But this is the Middle America where every year, still, in 2017 my two sons face racist remarks in school. It’s the same place where a student told me that she didn’t experience racism in our high school, saying, “Well, just from my friends, but we all know it’s a joke.” It’s the same place where the Confederate flag is routinely featured on screen savers and in the backs of farm trucks. (For those who need a history refresher, Iowa was a Union state.) I don’t know what will bring about change. Last week when we watched the documentary on Selma, I simultaneously marveled that just a few decades ago blacks were denied the right to vote and mourned that we still have conversations today about the motivation of new voter ID laws that most directly impact minorities. I look at the fact that Loving v. Virginia invalidated laws against interracial marriage in 1967, and now 50 years later my husband and I can adopt transracially without fighting in court. At the same time, I look at the racist garbage posted on Facebook and Twitter, sometimes by my students, and think that 50 years hasn’t afforded too much change. I see pockets of progress around me, but I also see the dark corners of Middle America; I peek under the rug where we don’t like to sweep, and I see remnants of a segregated past, an unspoken “know your place” that hasn’t gone away. And there it is. I’ve tried as Francis Bacon first did in 1597. I haven’t made a clear point. I haven’t drawn any strong conclusions, but I'm trying. I’m sure I’ll try again tomorrow. And the next day and the next day. I’ll try until I get it right.
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September 2020
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