So, What's She Really Saying

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Did you guys have a chance to check out this woman at one of Arlen Specter’s town hall meetings earlier this week? Well, Lawrence O’Donnell was sitting in for Chris Matthews on Hardball yesterday and he spoke with her directly regarding her comments. I was struck by how despite agreeing to appear on Hardball, she really wasn’t prepared to explain or justify her remarks.

Let's be honest, a lot of the rancor and lack of civility displayed at these town hall meetings on healthcare is grounded in good, old (but always in fashion) racism. The sleeping giant this woman spoke of, is a population of white folks that don't appreciate calling a Black man--- Mr. President.

I welcome the opportunity to hear directly from critics of the proposed plan(s), if it stays on point about the issues at hand. Name-calling, spray-painting swastikas, physical confrontations are simply counterproductive.

God Bless the Child

Earlier this week the details surrounding The Creative Steps Day Care’s raggedy experience at the privately owned Valley Swim Club in Montgomery County came to light. According to news reports, Creative Steps negotiated a seasonal membership of $1900 with the club’s management that would have allowed the campers weekly group swimming sessions. The campers at Creative Steps are predominately African-American and Hispanic and once they arrived for their first visit to the club on June 29, they were met with cold stares and a less than welcoming vibe. A few of the campers even heard at least three of the club members make disparaging comments about the campers’ presence at the pool. Following this initial visit, the swim club suspended Creative Steps membership and offered to refund all of their money.

The camp doesn’t want a refund, but to offer their campers a weekly opportunity to play in an outdoor pool in a safe and clean environment. The president of the swim club has apologized but insists that his mostly-white membership are not racists, but has been told by some of the members that the campers presence at the pool will change the “complexion” of the pool. WTF?

This story has gone viral on the internet and received worldwide media attention. Although it’s apparent to me that the club’s reaction smacks of racism, I do think it’s important to offer a slightly broader perspective. As a board member of the nation’s oldest privately-owned African-American swim club, the Nile Swim Club, I know first-hand that allowing access to the pool’s facilities and amenities can sometimes cause tension between our membership and seasonal guests/rentals. But, the Nile has a robust camp program and we welcome over 200 campers to our pool daily, Monday through Friday. The camp program is a vital earned-income stream for our facility and we often find ourselves having to explain to our members the importance of our camp program in offering financial stability to the institution. Communication between our board and membership is key.

The Nile was founded 50 years ago because the Yeadon Swim Club refused membership to African-American residents of Yeadon, PA. My grandparents, Walter and Veronica Nelson, were a part of the founding group in 1959. These members decided to pool their resources together and build a club where they could come with their friends and family and feel welcome, instead of spending their money in legal action demanding that the Yeadon Swim Club become integrated. Now, 50 years later, the Yeadon Swim Club no longer exists and the Nile is still offering a respite for families and campers in the surrounding area.

It’s a sad moment for parents when they witness their children experience a real/ perceived racist act for the very first time. We all know it’s coming eventually, but when it finally hits, it’s like a punch in the gut and wears you out. You have to take a deep breath and do your best not to let the incident become a defining moment, but preparation and ongoing conversations are required because it’s still a fact of life for children of color. I faced a similar moment like the parents of the Creative Step campers earlier this year with an incident between Miss Olivia and a parent of a soccer team of an opposing team in a neighboring league, which included the parent referring to Olivia as that little colored girl with those dreaded things in her hair.

There was a call for folks to gather today in front of the Valley Swim Club and march in protest of their treatment of Creative Steps. Me, I’m not down for marching in this instance… no, I’m taking a page from my family’s history book and I reached out to Creative Step and invited them to join our program at the Nile. To be honest, I could care less about the Valley Swim Club and their raggedy, lily-white club… they can keep it. I’m confident their exclusive policies will lead them to the same demise of the Yeadon Swim Club. God bless the child that got his own.

Do Not Dispose

Early this morning I awoke to the usual drone of the morning’s local newscast, and one of the first stories that caught my attention, was another tragic tale of an African American child shot in the chest while sitting in his mother’s car. The suspect in this shooting is a young, teenage African-American male. Sad--- yes, but unfortunately, it’s a too-common occurrence. Thankfully, doctors think the 12 year-old victim will survive.

As disturbing as this story is, it took a turn for the worse when the news anchor closed the story by stating that the victim has a police record for drug sales. My first thought is--- What the hell does this have to do with him being shot while sitting in his mother’s car? In my opinion, this little zinger was code for--- No need to worry about this young child… he had it coming to him. The comment screamed---- HE’S DISPOSABLE!

In all of the stories I’ve read about this incident, none have intimated this child was engaged in a drug sale while sitting in the car, yet by ending this news story with a reference to this boy’s past infringements, undoubtedly colors how people will process this story.

This pains me; in fact, I’ve been twisted all day after hearing how this story was handled. Our children are not disposable. Yes, they’ve got to learn not to use guns to handle their beefs, but using thinly veiled coded language and dismissing them as unworthy only adds fuel to a fire already out of our control.

Clipped Wings

I’m finally decompressing from my five days in Seattle for a business trip. The trip was cool, but getting there and back home again on Monday was a big pain in the butt.

We were scheduled to fly out on American last Thursday morning, but when I called to check on our flight status, I was informed it had been cancelled due to the heavy rain in the region. When I asked about putting us on a later flight, the agent informed me there were no other options for that day and we had been booked on a flight for 6:30am the next morning. Whatt????? Now, I don't know why no one had contacted me with this info, especially when they request both a home and cell telephone number, as well as your email address when you book the flight.

I went on and tried to explain my need to get to Seattle earlier than midday Friday, but was told there were no other options. I was stuck. Loverman suggested I have my co-worker, who was traveling with me, call the airlines. She’s white and he suspected she might have better luck on getting us on a later flight on Thursday. I didn’t agree, especially because all my life, I’d been told I sound “white,” but my co-worker and I decided to give his little social experiment a try. Believe it or not, it worked and she got us on a direct flight to Seattle late Thursday afternoon. To tell you the truth, I don't know if I'd been dealing with a slacker agent or if I'd been a victim of voice profiling, but I could of cared less how I got out to Seattle at this point, I was just ready to get out there to get down to business.

When we finally got on the plane, I found myself sandwiched between a man who slept most of the evening and a woman who was flatulent the entire six-hour flight to Seattle. It was almost unbearable and I couldn’t ask for a seat change because the flight was packed. On top of this, American doesn’t even offer its coach passengers a complimentary beverage--- they even charge for water! I cannot begin to tell you how happy I was to finally get to Seattle and off that plane.

On the return trip, we miraculously got on our scheduled plane on time, but as we taxied down the runway, the pilot noticed a problem one of the engines. We made our way back to the tarmac to try to fix our engine problem. About 90 minutes later we were on our way, but knew we wouldn’t make our connector in Chicago. Once we did get to Chicago, we thankfully found ourselves booked on a later flight, which would arrive in Philly only three hours later than our original arrival time.

Sure, I know most folks have air travel nightmare stories to share and in the grand scheme of things, I made out better than most, but the entire travel ordeal exhausted me and I just don’t understand how flying has devolved to the point that it’s like taking the Septa’s C bus down Broad Street.

Gas prices go up and the airlines raise ticket prices and begin to charge for checked baggage. Gas prices go down and I don’t hear a peep from the airlines in eliminating these additional fees. Airlines pack us in like sardines; offer no amenities if you’re flying coach and their customer service is just about non-existent. I used to look forward to getting on a plane, but no more--- unless it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll be keeping my feet on the ground for a while.

I'm a Wreck

I’m a wreck, and although it’s only Wednesday, it feels like it will take forever to get to Friday and the long holiday weekend. I’ve been crying at a drop of a hat and feel emotionally fragile.

I don’t find myself in such a state very often, but when I do, I need to identify the cause. Some of it has to do with the fact that my kids don’t go back to school until September 15th because their school is moving into a new building and they won’t receive the certificate of occupancy until September 1st and they’ll need the next two weeks to get settled. This is a problem because all of the summer camps I know of closed for business last week and Loverman is preparing to go back into the classroom next Tuesday to teach his own classes at Temple. Our game plan is to take it one day at a time, lean on family and friends and I guess I’ll have work from home for a few days, but I can tell already it’s going to be a bumpy two weeks.

Another cause of my funkdom is the unofficial end of summer--- never liked it, never will. Summer is my favorite season and I am mournful.

Finally, this week’s Democratic National Convention has consumed me. I am a political junkie and for me politics is not a game, and I take it quite personally, probably too personally. Until Hillary’s incredible and unequivocal endorsement of Obama last night, I was feeling some sort of way about her and her husband’s tepid, at best, support of Barack since the end of the Democratic primary and I’ve been totally outdone with the pundits constant questioning what Obama needed to do to win over Clinton’s supporters. The question is offensive, tinged with racism, because the man has done all he has to do--- he followed the rules, won the necessary number of delegates and thus secured the nomination. Now, it’s time for us to get our act together and battle the true opponent—John McCain and the Republican Party. Our children’s future is dependent on the success of Barack Obama and Joe Biden and anything which takes our focus off winning back the White House and righting our country’s ship both domestically and internationally is counterproductive.

I was born in 1965 and raised with a ringside view of the political process. My paternal grandmother, Veronica Nelson, was elected as an alternate delegate and attended both the 1984 and 1988 Democratic National Conventions and throughout the primary season I imagined how proud she would be of Barack Obama. She would be working tirelessly on the frontlines to ensure his success in the general election in November.

Because of the incredible access my grandmother’s political activities offered me when I was younger and in spite of my wholehearted attempt to view the world from a global, We-Are-the-World perspective, I firmly believe America is still very much a racist country and when I hear bullshit like, America just needs to get to know the Obamas and then America will feel more comfortable about voting for Barack, I want to throw up. Let me say this, if you want to know them, then get to know me, because the Obamas are a reflection of my family and ideals and those of many of my friends and associates. If you don’t know them or me or people like us, by now, it’s simply because you don’t want to, but know this… Barack Obama is this nation’s best opportunity to live up to the ideals upon which it was founded.

We are at a most critical time in our country’s history and this moment is pregnant with possibilities and never in my lifetime have I released myself with such abandon in hope that we finally live up to our true potential.

Stuck In My Craw

While watching both the national and local news over the last two days I caught two sound bytes which just about sent me over the edge. Sure, I’m aware crazy, stupid things are said daily, but these two really got stuck in my craw.

The first had to do with a story out of Philly that’s gotten plenty of exposure on the national level because it includes the senseless beating of shooting suspects by officers from Philadelphia’s police department. This beating was caught on tape by the local Fox affiliate and to their credit, the city’s mayor and police commissioner swiftly stepped in and condemned the officers’ actions and launched an internal review. There’s been a public outcry on both sides, those who support and are empathetic to daily charge of the police to protect and serve in communities which are often hostile towards their presence; and those who see this incident through the prism of an endless stream of unchecked police brutality in communities of color. Fortunately, the race card was more of a non-issue in this instance because some of the participating officers were Black, but I assert that when it comes to the police misconduct, black vs. white is often trumped by those living by the code of the fraternity in blue. So, last night it was announced that four of the participating officers have been fired, and four received suspensions and one officer was demoted. The union representing these officers immediately cried foul and said the punishment of these officers is a rush to judgment and the officers weren’t allowed due process. Hmmm… isn’t that exactly what these officers did when they wantonly grabbed these guys from their car beating and kicking them without an ounce of mercy or restraint? It’s no fun when steel toe shoe’s on the other foot, is it?

The second kernel caught in my craw came this morning when watching an interview with Cokie Roberts on Good Morning America. Diane Sawyer was discussing with Cokie and Matthew Dowd Hillary Clinton and some of her female supporters recent rant that sexism has raged throughout this primary season. Towards the end of the interview, Cokie commented that if some of the things written in the blogosphere and the caricatures seen on the op-ed pages at newspapers all over the country, had been as mean-spirited towards Obama, the way, in her opinion, they have been towards Clinton, the country’s African American communities would have been up in arms. Well, Miz Cokie, obviously you’ve missed the news about the ignorant pub owner in Marietta, Georgia, who’s now peddling t-shirts featuring Curious George peeling a phallic-shaped banana, with the words, “Obama 08,” emblazoned below; and a piece in last week’s Washington Post detailing the overt racism projected at many of Obama’s field teams throughout the country. Let’s face it honey, with this year’s historic Democratic primary race, there’s been loads of doo-doo thrown haphazardly and with ferocity at both candidates and as Hillary Clinton has said several times on the campaign trail, “If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the kitchen!”

Moving Past February

I’ve spent most of this afternoon helping Olivia with her Black History Month project. She’s in the 3rd grade and this is her first big school project.

The assignment is to select a notable African American, read their biography, preferably a book, and next Monday make a visual presentation to the class and submit a two-page report detailing all you’ve learned about your selected hero/heroine.

On its face, I appreciate the teacher’s efforts to engage everyone in the class in learning more about African Americans, but to be completely honest, I bet when Dr. Carter Woodson first launched Negro History Week in 1926, he had no idea our nation would still be so woefully negligent in acknowledging and celebrating the contributions of African Americans, not to mention that of Latin Americans, Asian Americans, women, etc.

I also take issue with the teacher’s requirement that the source material for the selected notable be a book. In fact, when we went to the library to get a book on the subject of Olivia's report, the librarian noted that due to budgetary cutbacks, most small libraries have limited collections and librarians often direct patrons to use the Internet for this type of research. She stressed the need to teach students how to identify credible Internet sources.

In the grand scheme of things, there are very few biographies written about a great number of notable African Americans. As much as I respect and honor the contributions of Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth and Frederick Douglass, there are countless other, untold stories that need to see the light of day, and children shouldn’t have to wait until February to learn about these folks and their contributions. Hell, why not be truly revolutionary and integrate them into the daily lesson plans, so when teaching children about the American Red Cross, mention Dr. Charles Drew’s system for storing blood plasma; and how Garrett Morgan’s invention of the traffic light saves million of lives daily; and let’s not forget to mention Dr. Selma Burke, a sculptor who designed Roosevelt’s image on the dime, when teaching children about the denomination of coins.

Let’s move beyond African American history people and call it (and teach it) what it really is… AMERICAN HISTORY.

how to breed a bigot

I just listened to a really disturbing story on one of my favorite podcast, Chicago’s Public Radio’s This American Life.

This episode, Shouting Across the Divide, explored the challenges/tensions between Muslims and non-Muslims in the U.S. Act One: One of These Things Is Not Like the Other, detailed a story about Serry, an American-born Muslim and her husband, a Muslim raised on the West Bank. Theirs is an arranged marriage, and they led a loving and productive life with there three girls here in the States.

A year after Sept. 11, they began to feel the brunt of America’s raging Islamophobia. Their oldest daughter’s bigoted 4th grade teacher, took it upon herself to proselytize her Christian beliefs to her students. Everything seemed to spiral out of control as the Christmas holidays approached and this teacher passed out candy canes and explained this candy's shaped into the letter “J” for Jesus and the cane’s red color represented the blood of Jesus. She asked the class to pray for their Muslim classmate because she was going to hell unless the girl reputed her Muslim beliefs and claimed Jesus as her personal savior. Most of the students followed the teacher’s lead and ostracized Serry’s daughter, as well as her younger daughters who attended the same school.

This trauma devastated the family. Serry’s husband became depressed, eventually left the family and is planning to return the West Bank. In the end, the school did very little to protect the girls. The family sued the school, and the case was settled out of court.

I guess receiving some sort of monetary compensation for their pain and suffering is at least something, but this family aren’t the only victims, what about the children in this class who entered the 4th grade one way, but by the end of the school year, they’d become repositories of their teacher’s mean spirited and misguided beliefs.

What's my real story?

I just finished reading One Drop: My Father’s Hidden Life--- A Story of Race and Family Secrets, a memoir by Bliss Broyard. One Drop details Bliss’ search for self after learning her father, Anatole Broyard, who lived all of his adult life as a White man, is indeed Black. Bliss and her brother, Todd, are told this family secret only days before their father’s impending death.

I first learned of One Drop while reading a review on My American Melting Pot. It peaked my interest because of the history of passablanc (passing for White) in my own family. Both sides of my mother’s family are extremely light and on my mother’s maternal side, my mom has a first cousin who simply walked off one day and never looked back. Within our family lore, it’s pretty much common knowledge he went on and lived his life as a White man, with a White wife, and with seemingly White children.

I remember family stories my grandmother told me of how she and her four sisters would pass for White now and then as they were growing up. It all seemed impossible to me, because most Black folks can spot their own, no matter how fair, with straight hair, they may be. I used to ask my grandmother about her grandmother, but she explained that she didn’t know her grandmother because her mother married a dark skin man (my great-grandfather), and my great-great grandmother didn’t approve. She didn’t want anybody darkening up the family.

When I was younger, I found these stories amusing and these assumptions of “if you’re White, you’re alright, but if you’re Black, step back,” outdated. As a small child, I remember my Aunt Pam bopping to James Brown’s anthem, “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud,” but as I got older, I realized that I, too, needed to come to terms with my own color struck issues.

Away at college, I became acutely aware of the intra-racial assumptions Black folks make solely due to the color of one’s skin and the texture of hair. I remember a heated exchange with another girl, who told me; I thought I was cute because I had light skin and green eyes. At the time, this was all news to me because as light as my mom’s family is, but dad’s crew has a lot of deep mocha brown throughout and in my immediate family it just wasn’t an issue, but, if you had “good” or "nappy" hair, now that was an issue, and I was one nappy-headed chile.

During my sophomore year, I read Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby and The Bluest Eye and thus began my uninformed attempts to level my privileged light-skinned playing field. These efforts included cutting the perm out of my hair and letting my natural nap to take hold of my head; dismissing light-skin brothers for no reason, other than the color of their skin; and adopting an Afro-centric veneer. To this day, when it comes to re-upping on my make-up, I gravitate to the very berry or chocolate drop lip colors, all of which are way too dark for my skin tone. Thank God for good, honest girlfriends, they let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I can’t rock these darker shades.

I readily admit part of my attraction to Loverman is his undeniable African features, his full lips and darker hue. I’ve always wanted Black babies and one of my most potent memories is minutes after laboring Olivia into the world, my mother commented that Olivia had absolutely no color and she looked directly at Loverman and in her sassy fashion taunted, “Well son, what do we need you for, if you’re not going to add a bit of color to the line?”

Earlier today, when I discussing One Drop with my mom, she admitted to understanding why Anatole Broyard did what he did. I cautioned mom to remember that all of our lives we’ve benefited from our light skin status, by being identified as “a little bit better,” because we’re not dark skinned. For me, I’ve often joked the sins of my grandfathers are written all over my face--- meaning my lighter skin, light eyes, are a result of White misogynist domination of my female ancestors, but I don’t know if this is really the truth or not. It’s simply romanticized reasoning I’ve made up. For me, I think I’m at a juncture where it’s time to find my truth, so I can pass concrete facts onto my babies and finally put the speculations to rest.

Collective Black Guilt Syndrome

With all of my 42 years, I still cannot seem to shake Collective Black Guilt Syndrome (CBGS). For those of you not familiar with CBGS, it’s the misplaced sense of “one bad apple ruins the whole bunch.” An example is when I’m lying in bed, watching TV and the news breaks in with a developing story of a deadly shooting, and the first thing that comes to my mind is, “Oh Lord, I hope the shooter isn’t Black.”

I got to thinking about this after checking out a recent post on the blog, Mes Deaux Cents (MDC). The post detailed the vacuous nature of Sherri Shepherd on The View. According to MDC, Sherri’s a disgrace to Black women everywhere and I tend to agree with her. When Miss Shepherd admitted to not knowing if the world was round or flat, I wanted to reach through my TV set and shake some sense into her. But, why do I feel like Sherri’s representing Black folks/women everywhere? She surely doesn’t represent me.

Earlier today, Loverman caught a promo for today’s Oprah and the topic was a man who videotaped himself physically abusing his wife and before they showed a picture of the abuser, the first thing out of Loveman’s mouth was, “I hope it isn’t a brother?” Unfortunately, it was. A few years ago, when the D.C. area was terrorized by a series of seemingly random sniper shootings, I remember feeling pretty confident that a crazed White man would be identified as the shooter and I, along with many others, were shocked to find out how wrong we were.

The flip side of this syndrome is collective pride folks feel when we bask in the glory of the likes of Oprah, Obama, Malcolm and Martin, but somehow, it’s just never enough, and many of us feel saddled with the vestiges of Willie Horton, welfare moms and video hoes.

I’m sure this syndrome has something to do with how Black folks are represented historically, as well as in mainstream media, but for me, it’s an area where I need to do some personal work. I definitely don’t want to pass this tendency onto my kids. I/we cannot carry the burden for an entire race of people on a daily basis. It’s just too heavy.

Inevitable Milestone

My dear sweet, Olivia, recently experienced a sad milestone. Olivia’s 8 and in the third grade and yesterday, while in school, she got into a discussion with one of her classmates about religion. The other little girl is Jewish and she and Olivia have been in the same class since kindergarten. During this discussion, the other little girl proclaimed that she didn’t believe in Olivia’s God, Olivia countered that there’s only one God, and then the little girl went on to say that not only didn’t she believe in Olivia’s God, but she didn’t like Black people either.

Now, most Black folks can vividly remember the first time they experienced an overtly racist moment and for Miss Olivia it was yesterday. As prepared, as I know Olivia was for this moment, it didn’t dampen the wave of sadness I felt as I realized the bloom in some respects is off the rose. There’s no way to get around it, a layer of Olivia’s childhood simply slipped away with this exchange.

When I asked Olivia how she felt about her classmate’s comment, Olivia said she thought the girl said what she did because she wanted to hurt Olivia’s feelings. Olivia didn’t seem to take it too personally, in fact, she thought it was sort of funny that this little girl could make such a general statement about not liking Black people, because from what Olivia’s observed, this young lady doesn’t seem to know too many Black people, so how does she have enough experience to declare that she doesn’t like any Black people?

After discussing the day’s events with Loverman, we agreed I should reach out to the little girl’s parents, especially since I’d developed a friendly rapport with her mother over the past four years. Hell, Olivia and the girl have even had a couple of play dates over the years, and despite the fact that Olivia seemed to have weathered this exchange unfazed, I wanted to let this mother know that her daughter had come to a place where she was feeling comfortable with voicing her budding prejudices. I’m also aware that these pronouncements come from somewhere; it may be in school or even at home. Maybe the parents need to check the racial overtones they may be unconsciously projecting.

The girl’s mom made a surprising admission when relayed her daughter’s comments. Over the past few weeks, she’s heard both her daughters make mildly racist statements. This alone is scary since her daughters’ ages are 9 and 7. She went on to lament that she and her husband didn’t know where these feelings were coming from and were at their wits end as to how to address it. I asked her if other than at school did she and her family have any contact with people that didn’t look like them? “Not very often,” she sighed. Well, for me, therein lies the problem.

When discussing this incident with my mom, she reminded me of some of my early racially motivated encounters. Throughout elementary and high school I was the only Black student in most of my classes. Nowadays, schools don’t want students distributing birthday invitations in class if every student isn’t being invited, but back in the days before political correctness, I was often excluded and rarely received an invitation as they were doled out among my classmates. My mom recounted the numerous times she told me she wasn’t paying the school’s tuition for me to be invited to birthday parties. I can’t remember when I stopped caring, but believe me; I don’t have many fond memories of my elementary or high school years.

Look people, it all boils down to breaking the cycle and when these precious creatures come into the world they don’t have preconceived ideas of black, white, green or yellow. They get those cues directly from the horse’s mouth. Let’s be mindful.

And still I rise...

The other morning I was listening to Radio Times with Marty Moss-Coane and the subject of the show was the war on women in the east Congo. Top U.N. officials are calling the sexual violence towards these women the worst in the world. Marty’s guests, Christine Karumba, who was born in the Democratic Republican of Congo (DRC) and is now the country director there for Women for Women International, and Stephen Lewis, who is a former United Nations Envoy on Aids in Africa, are calling for the creation of a U.N. Women’s Agency to devise a plan to end this horrific violence in east Congo.

Over and over during the discussion, Moss-Coane asked both her guests and those calling in, why isn’t anything being done? Why isn’t this on anyone’s radar? Why isn’t it the lead story on CNN? And guess what… no one had the courage to simply say, because it’s Black African women who are being ravaged and ultimately, the world could care less about Black women, whether it’s Black women being raped and mutilated in Africa, or a Black woman kidnapped, tortured and raped in West Virginia.

Could the answer to Marty’s questions really be this sad and this simple?

Here we go again

Here we go again…
I recently had a conversation with one of my co-workers about the rage of racism, which continues to hemorrhage throughout this nation. This conversation occurred after I had attended a reception celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Little Rock Nine with Elizabeth Eckford; and three days before about 40,000 folks from around the country traveled to Jena, Louisiana to denounce the treatment of the Jena Six; and about 20 days after the kidnapping and torture of Megan Williams in West Virginia. I guess tomorrow we could continue the conversation to include the clueless and offensive remarks recently made by Fox TV’s Bill O’Reilly. O’Reilly was recounting his experience during a recent visit to Harlem’s famed Sylvia’s Restaurant:

"[W]e went to Sylvia's, a very famous restaurant in Harlem. I had a great time, and all the people up there are tremendously respectful. They all watch The Factor. You know, when Sharpton and I walked in, it was like a big commotion and everything, but everybody was very nice.
"And I couldn't get over the fact that there was no difference between Sylvia's restaurant and any other restaurant in New York City. I mean, it was exactly the same, even though it's run by blacks, primarily black patronship."

Now, my co-worker (she’s white, maybe I should’ve mentioned that!) is a young, thoughtful, intelligent woman, but as with many white folks, she didn’t understand when I tried to explain that for the most part, black folks are raised/socialized from Day 1, to live in a mighty, white world, and that white people have the luxury of choice of whether to deal with black folks or not. Case in point, Bill O’Reilly is well over 60 years old and supposedly a well-traveled, sophisticated man, but this is obviously one of the few times he's ventured out of his comfort zone and patronized a Black-owned restaurant. Did he mean this comment to be racist, probably not, but despite his intent, it is racist, and just plain ignorant. Bill, my man, you (and many others) need to get out more.