Her story came sequentially in our Social Studies textbook
-- a small blurb between measuring time by using a calendar and the importance
of rules at school and at home. Citizen
Heroes was the heading on the page.
And that was my Darlings first introduction to a pivot in history that
shook the Deep South and ultimately, each of us.
I remembered that my principal, who once taught first grade
himself, had lent me the children’s book, “The Story of Ruby Bridges” last
year during Black History month.
It is a beautifully written book that pulls even very young children
into its riveting story from its first words.
It tells the true story of a six-year-old girl from
Louisiana who, in 1960, is judge-ordered to attend an all-white school, defying
the ban of black students from the William Franz Elementary School. The judge’s ruling is met with fury and
defiance from the white parents, who ultimately refuse to send their children
to a school that now has one lone black girl in it, our heroine, Ruby
Bridges.
Little, brave Ruby does indeed attend first grade at William
Franz. But Ruby is the only
student that year. No one will
attend school with her and no teacher will teach there with her in the building. A Mrs. Henry from Boston was
eventually hired to teach Ruby.
Everyday little Ruby walked through an angry mob of white “people” (I
use the term loosely here), hurling insults and threats at her. And everyday, she stepped into an empty
classroom and was the sole student of her teacher. Because of murder-by-poisoning threats, she was only allowed
to eat food she brought from home.
Someone even placed a black doll in a small wooden casket and left it in
front of the school. Not only did
that brave little girl walk into that empty building everyday, she also began
to pray for the very people who persecuted her. How many six-year-olds could do the same? I try to envision my own children doing
it. I cannot.
I did not add a lot of theater to the story as I read, as I
normally do. Instead I allowed the
power of the story to provide the drama.
My children were spellbound and sat uncharacteristically
motionless. My voice, soft and
even.
When I had read the last word on the last page, I carefully
shut the book and laid it gently in my lap. “What do you think of this story?” I asked simply. They were so quiet and somber, I
wondered what thoughts were tumbling around in their little minds. I waited in silence as thoughts and
words were forming and courage was being gathered. I thought I might get comments on the story itself. Things like, why were people so angry
or how could a little girl be so brave… things like that. I was unprepared for what came
next. One brave soul blurted out,
“What if a black kid came to our school, Mrs. Dahl? What would happen?”
My gaze rested carefully on this one who had given voice to the thoughts
of all. I took a deep breath. His honesty nearly toppled me. His ignorance staggered me.
A good counselor always turns a question back to the
questioner for scrutiny. “What if
a black kid DID come to our school?
What do YOU think would happen?
How would you feel?” An
answer shot out from my hard right.
“Scared,” tumbled from baby lips.
Others found their voice.
“Weird.” “Nervous.” The
answers were falling from freed tongues.
I struggled to settle on the right thing to do here. They were honest, yes. Bravo! But they just didn’t GET it. How could they?
They had no base of experience from which to borrow from. Their worlds are consumptively white
with no variation. The only
pigment represented in our little patch of Planet Earth is a couple of Native
American reservations. African
Americans are only recently finding homes among us, and only in the larger
cities of our fair (and I mean that literally here) state. We are Germans and Scandinavians. There is no shortage of blond,
blue-eyed North Dakotans. I do not
for one second hold these young ones at fault. They can no more understand racism than they can the
complexities of the Vietnam War.
I sat perfectly still in my groovy, octagonal turquoise
reading chair and tried to land on the exact right thing to say at this pivotal
moment. I wanted them to remember
this moment for…. well, for forever.
Then it came to me. I had
forgotten I had used this teaching moment last year during a similar discussion
with last year’s first graders after reading about Martin Luther King, Jr.
Seeming to switch gears suddenly, I announced, “I think we
will go outside.” Suddenly, happy
gasps and shouts of joy all around.
I let them celebrate for a few seconds. I stopped it with, “We have a new playground rule, however. Today those with blue eyes will sit on
the grass and watch the other children play. Everyone with blue eyes will be watchers. The rest of you will do the
playing.” I let this bombshell
soak in for a moment. Confusion
darkened faces that had just moments before been rejoicing. They looked at one another with blank
looks as if trying to discern from the other children whether they had truly
heard correctly. A couple heads
dropped down and one poor deflated soul even burst into tears. No one could make sense of it, so they
turned sad faces back to me. “Mrs.
Dahl, do you mean it? Everyone
with blue eyes has to WATCH?” I
nodded. “That is our new
rule.” Indignation met me
head-on. “But MRS. DAHL, that’s
not fair!!” Their Benedict Arnold
blue eyes were boring holes into mine.
They are German, and Norwegian, and Finnish. All but a few have blue eyes. I knew I had hit my mark.
“It’s not fair!” was being echoed around the circle. I let them express outrage for a moment
or two. Cursed blue eyes! I could nearly hear their minds
shouting accusations. Finally I
asked, “Do you know why I chose blue eyes?” No, they could not guess. I must have lost my mind, was all they come up with. They wanted to know. They demanded to know. “I chose blue eyes,” I said carefully,
“because I wanted to. There is no
real reason. I just thought today
blue-eyed kids should not get to play.”
Stunned silence as they vainly tried to process this gross travesty. The anger hung like a wet blanket. “It’s not fair,” someone whined again softly.
“No, it’s really not fair,” I finally agreed. “It’s not fair at all.” No one spoke. They couldn’t guess where this was heading so they waited
for more from their schizophrenic teacher.
“Boys and girls, that is how it is when people aren’t
allowed to do things simply because of their skin color. It isn’t fair and it makes no sense
whatsoever. People with black skin
or yellow or red skin are just like people with white skin. They think the same way we do. They have the same dreams we have. They have the same needs we have. For one group of people to tell another
group of people they don’t have the same rights solely because of their skin
color is incredibly unfair and it is wrong.”
I could see a flicker of comprehension dawn on a few of
their faces. They were still
smarting over the playground business and six-year-old minds were trying like
fury to catch up to what I had just said.
I continued, “So what if a kid with black skin did come to our
school? How would we treat
them? I would hope we would treat
them just like any other kid because they ARE just like any other kid. They are just like you. They want and need to be treated with
respect, just like you do.” A few
heads were nodding now. I asked
for suggestions about how we could make them feel welcome. “I could ask them to play with me at
recess,” someone ventured. Now we
were getting somewhere. More
suggestions and momentum was building.
I was pleased with the thought process I was witness to at that moment.
“So…. Mrs. Dahl, you were kidding about the blue eyes thing,
right?” I smiled, but kept
silent. They are watching my face
intensely. “Yeah, she’s
kidding. She’s smiling!” another
one spoke with authority. The one
with tears looked up hopefully.
“Yes, I am kidding. I did
it to help you understand the story we just read.”
If you think me cruel for toying with the happiness of
innocent six-year-olds, I respect your viewpoint. But I think it better to inflict a moment of sorrow over a
triviality like recess, than to let a distorted view of inequality go
unchallenged. It is not my job to
form the worldview of each child.
I am fully aware of that.
But right is right. There
is too much gray anymore. Few
people have the stomach to take a stand and say, “this is WRONG.” I hope my Darlings develop such bravery
and will be willing to be counted among those who refuse to cower in silence
when there is societal inequity.
Ruby Bridges was just six years old when she became a
hero. I think my students possess
the same seeds of steely core as that little girl from Louisiana. I really do. I hope they nurture and grow that core as they mature. I hope they make a difference when a
difference is called for. I hope
they always take the side of right.
I hope if a child of color does find their way to our town and our
school, that the inhabitants of the Magic Tree House make them feel warmly
welcomed. I hold many high hopes
for these, my students. This
particular one would make my venture into the world of education incredibly
rewarding and worthwhile.
Perhaps I have shared the following story already – I rarely
go back and read former blog posts.
If so, forgive me, but it bears repeating here. When I was a 6th grade
student in St. Louis, I sat next to a black girl named Esther who commuted
daily from downtown to attend our private church school. The inner city schools were so
bad then, they truly were. Busing
came a few years later and created a citywide furor that lasted for years, but
that would come later. For the
present, Esther’s parents sacrificed to drive her into the suburbs daily in
order that she could get away from the crime of the inner city schools. They too are my heroes.
One day we were talking softly, she and I, and out of the blue
she asked me a question that I carry with me to this day. “Do you ever wonder what it would be
like to be black?” she asked with sudden intensity. I was struck by her tone and a little ashamed for reasons I
could not explain. I thought for a moment and then had to honestly respond
with, “No, I guess I don’t.” She
didn’t say anything and I felt the need to fill the void with something. “Do you ever wonder what it would be
like to be white?” I asked in return.
I will never forget how wistful her voice and face were as she answered
softly, “All the time…”
It was the first time I had ever put myself in another’s
place and saw life through another’s eyes. It changed me forever.
And so…
To my blue-eyed Swedes and Finns and Germans. My precious, priceless Darlings… I long
for you to be changed as well.
Treat all with respect and be unfailingly kind to your fellow man. You will have made this world a better
place and a certain quasi-hippie very proud.
This one’s for you, Ruby….
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