March 10, 2008
An Open Letter to Erma, Mattie, Homer, Alvin, Elaine,
Charlene, Jeanette, Runell, Mary Linda, Johnny Sue, Billy, and Catherine.
Dear Classmates,
In the fall of 1965, I entered Statesboro High School as a
sophomore. This was only the second year
in the existence of this new school building on Lester Road. But more was new than the lockers and desks awaiting me that fall. There were
also new faces – darker faces than those I had been accustomed to in my
Statesboro schools. Some of you were
students who began Statesboro High School that year, the first year that the
high school was integrated. And some of
you remained and graduated with my class in 1968. Others decided to leave and return to William
James. And others of you joined the class
our junior or senior years. But all of
you were my classmates. And one of you
is no longer with us. This letter comes
too late for Homer.
Like many of you, I was born here in Statesboro in
1950. And like you, I grew up in the
days of Jim Crow laws. But unlike you,
these laws did not affect me in obvious ways.
My white privilege allowed me access to every store, restaurant, and
entertainment spot in town. And for the
most part, I was pretty naïve about the evils of racism. Oh, I did notice things – as all children
do. I remember when I was 5 or 6,
standing in the “Whites Only” line at the Dairy Queen with my dad, waiting to
get a cone. It was a hot day and there
were lines at both the “white” and “colored” windows. Perhaps that’s why I noticed the
differences. So I asked my dad why all
of the white people were in our line and all of the colored people were in the
other line. My father shared this unique
explanation with me. He told me that we
were white – and that we stood in our line to get vanilla ice cream, while the
colored people stood in the other line to get chocolate ice cream. Of course, I immediately told him that I
wanted chocolate! And he said, “No, you
are white, so you get vanilla. That’s
just the way it is and you have to accept it.”
Well, I didn’t realize that vanilla was the only flavor served at Dairy
Queen. (That was even in the days before
dipped cones.) But his answer stuck with
me. And it has served as a metaphor for
what happened in my life. Indeed, I just
accepted the differences and did not question them further. Yet, I still took notice – like when boxes
were being filled at my elementary school (Mattie Lively) with our old worn-out
textbooks. I asked what was going to
happen to them and was told that they were being taken to the “colored school”
for the children to use there. “Separate
but equal” was never the case in Bulloch County.
To be fair to my parents, they never overtly taught me to be
a racist. They didn’t have to. Everything in my society, from the Dairy
Queen windows on, taught me that white folks and black folks should function in
separate social environments. And my
society not only taught me that “separate” was right, it also taught me that I
was in the superior group. All I had to
do was look at the water fountains. The
“whites only” fountains were clean with cool, refrigerated water. Not so for the “colored” fountains. And of course, my church reinforced these
standards. In the 60’s we also were
witnesses to television news programs showing activities of the Civil Rights
movement. But these were presented in
ways that made me fearful. I’m sure it
must have been covered, but I don’t remember seeing much of the peaceful
demonstrations that I can now view in documentaries of that time. The emphasis on our news seemed to be on
riots and angry black people wanting to “destroy our way of life.” The propaganda worked. I was afraid and fearful of the possibilities
of integration. And I did not understand
why in the world you would want to leave “your” school and come to “our”
school.
The Brown Decision, virtually outlawing segregated schools,
was handed down by the courts in 1954.
Yet the schools in Statesboro had managed to remain completely separate
for the next 10 years. The latest effort
to satisfy the courts had been the school system’s “Freedom of Choice”
plan. This plan was one in which parents
could “choose” their children’s schools.
Everyone knew what choice was supposed to be made, though, and the
schools remained separate till you and others made the bold decision to be
pioneers in the effort to integrate our schools. So there you were, walking through our halls
with your heads held high and a determined look in your eyes. And there I was, afraid of you, mad with you,
but curious – oh so curious about folks like you.
For the next three years, we did our high school activities
and really had very little interaction with each other. I found out later that there were lots of
folks who were interacting, though
very negatively with you – trying to run you down with their cars and hurling
insults and rocks. I didn’t know about
these occurrences because I never attempted to really get to know you. I did make a connection with one girl that
was life changing. I used to be one of
the folks at school that was a “cut-up” and class clown – someone who would
make jokes about things and try to lighten up everyone’s attitudes. When we were in the hallways, one of you
would “cut up” with me in similar ways.
And we became friendly with each other.
I would like to say we were friends.
But I never invited you to my house and you never invited me to
yours. We were about as friendly as a
white girl and black girl could be in those days I suppose. And I remember thinking that I was more LIKE
you than I was my white friends. We were
both from middle class families with parents that emphasized a strong work
ethic, and we were both so fun-loving.
We were “kin” in many ways. But I
kept that thought to myself – not daring say it aloud. That thought of our kinship, however, cracked
through the armor of racism that I had built around me. And I began to open my mind to the
possibilities of a wider world of humanity.
I never thanked you for that.
This year I have been involved with others in planning the
40th class reunion for the Class of 1968. We haven’t had one in 30 years and I’m very
excited about seeing folks again.
Focusing on my high school classmates and high school years has been a
time of joy and sorrow for me. One of
the sorrows that I have is that I missed out on a real opportunity to get to
know some fantastic people. And I missed
out on an opportunity to provide a welcoming hand of fellowship. This was my loss and I can’t retrieve
it. But I can apologize.
- I’m sorry that I did not make an effort to understand why you were coming to SHS.
- I’m sorry that I did not meet you in front of the school and say hello.
- I’m sorry that I was afraid of you and avoided being in places where several of you were together.
- I’m sorry that I avoided sitting by you in class.
- I’m sorry that I was involved with negative conversations about you and did not speak up when you were put down.
- I’m sorry that I didn’t encourage you to join the clubs that I was in or join the flaggette team.
- I’m sorry that I didn’t invite you to my 16th birthday party. It would have been a lot more fun with you there.
- I’m sorry that I didn’t find ways to get to know you – really know you and understand you individually, rather than seeing you as “one of those black students.”
- I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize the remarkable opportunity that I had in that place and time in history to be a part of something special with you.
- And I’m sorry – oh SO sorry, that it’s taken me 40 years to say, “I’m sorry.”
I hope you can forgive me.
Who knows? Maybe it’s not too
late for some of us.
 |
| Three classmates together in 2014 |
Sincerely,
Jane Altman Page
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