“I think the reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself.” ― Rita Mae Brown

“Not being yourself is the worst form of self-disrespect.” ― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

I’ve been a scared-y cat. I have been one of those people who has remained silent when I’ve seen and heard incidents of unfair treatment of People of Color (POC). I have wanted to share a beautiful moment with you, but I’ve been too afraid to bring up the subject of. . .er, well, ahem, okay, injustice towards POC. Saying it like it is: too afraid to mention the subject of racism. I’m challenging my own fears by writing this blog post today.

I don’t like to be in trouble, or to stir up trouble for others. I don’t want people to fight, so I’d prefer to avoid any mention of prejudice, just keep quiet. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

But—a big but.  I have been moved from my hiding stance by the BLM protesters, by John Lewis’s call to get into “good trouble”. I’m working on correcting my previously unconscious complicity in racism.

A little backstory. I grew up in a quiet, safe, tree-lined Philadelphia suburb. Nobody locked their front doors and most people left their car keys in the ignition. No social or racial frictions—at least not on the surface, and at least to my child eyes.

Then when I was ten years old, I went to Chattanooga, Tennessee to spend the summer with my Grandparents. I was (and still am) horrified to see that some people, black and brown people, had to sit at the back of the bus—couldn’t join the rest of the people in front. Horrified that they also couldn’t use the water fountains; they had their own. Those black and brown people even had to use a separate bathroom.

I would burst into tears every time I saw new evidence of the cruelty of demeaning and excluding people of color, I can still see those “No Colored” signs in my mind, and the images still hurt.

Now to the beautiful moment. One day, when I was about fourteen years old, I trudged home from after-school field hockey practice a little early. As I was walking up the hillock to our front door, I passed Lilian, the Black woman who cleaned for us every other week. I rarely saw her, so she probably wouldn’t even have recognized me away from my home.

She was still pulling on her raincoat as she started down the hillock. As we passed each other, I could see that her eyes sparkled and her “hello” seemed particularly animated. Expansive. That’s nice I thought.

When I got as far as the kitchen, where I would usually find my mother, she was sitting at the kitchen table with an enigmatic smile on her mouth and a look of joy in her eyes. Her look was surprising enough that I asked her, “What happened?”

“Lillian asked me to call her Mrs. Gray from now on,” she said.

“Wow, that’s beautiful,” I said as my heart burst with happiness.

My mother and I were both feeling the uplift from something righteous happening. We felt a vicarious pride for Mrs. Gray for claiming her dignity.

This is a cherished memory of my mother, who in those moments showed her value of a Justice for ALL. A value I share.