To temba on racism ...

[Guest guest]

temba wrote:

 

someone told AMMAs son on the phone today that the issue of racism amongs

spiritual circles is being smered over.it was interesting that as an african

american ,AMMAs son had to comfort a white american.she was very upset.tried

to give her the universal love conversation but she wasnt trying to hear

it.dont get me wrong, the conversation was great.just wandering if anyone

alse had a perspective on this topic..MOTHERS son has been treated a little

strangly while chanting in certain circles.wont say there names .that is not

 

important.wondering also if anyone ever wondered why there arent more

blackpeople and hispanic people in some of these circles.AMMAs son is asking

because he is not aftraid to be real,but also,want to get a deeper

understanding.figure we are all brothers and sisters and could open this can

of worms.

 

 

Dear temba ~ this is not a can of worms, exactly, but it certainly is real

and not something you are imagining. Maybe it's a can, that once opened, the

Light will shine out of and all misunderstandings, preconceptions, conditioned

reactions, and some unaware negative behavior will just be washed away in the

Light. I can talk about this from two perspectives.

But first let me say that I'm sorry this response is coming two digests

after your post. I've been sick again and am having trouble keeping up with the

digests again.

 

First is the personal. I was born white and working class (of course I was

aware of racism long before I was aware of classism ... when a close friend

told me I was working class, I took great umbrage, but eventually, after I had

learned more, I realized she was right). And, I was born into an extremely

racist family, which I didn't realize until I was around 6 years old. I used to

go to my visit my (paternal) grandmother in downtown Wasington, DC. Well,

actually this was not the real beginning, although the real beginning was also

with the same grandmother.

 

I would go visit her, and we would ride the bus downtown to go shopping and

have lunch. It was one of my favorite things ... except for the bus ride. My

grandmother would talk all the way down and all the way back about black

people. She would say the worst things just as though she were saying, "oh,

look;

there are some flowers over there." I am even embarrassed to write what she

said, so I will spare everyone. I would just sit in the bus, shrink into my

seat and hope no one else heard. But because my grandmother didn't think she

was saying anything wrong, she talked in a normal tone of voice. ACK

 

Once when I was visiting my grandmother, I went outside. I discovered

another little girl about my age. I had never had anyone to play with when I

visited my grandmother, so I was so happy and excited. When it was time to go

home,

I rushed back to tell my grandmother and everyone about it. The anger I was

confronted with was terrible, confusing and uncompromising. My aunt taunted

me, "if you love them so much, why don't you marry one."

It took me awhile to even put together in my head that all this anger was

because I had played with a black child.

 

I loved my maternal grandmother and would spend every summer with her, but

this was the south. My maternal aunt had one of those black stable boy statues

in her front yard. My grandmother and aunt would bemoan the "good old days"

when the black people worked at the cannery and sat in the back of the church.

 

How I escaped being racist myself, I have no idea. Since it was all around

me, you'd think I would have just taken these toxic ideas in and become like

the rest of my family. But for some reason, I never believed what they said,

and I knew they were wrong. When I was older, I had to leave home (because of

the abuse, I was going to flunk my senior year of high school, and there was a

part of me that knew that would affect the rest of my life). I went to live

with my aunt. When my mother took me to the local high school, the principal

took us in his office and was apologizing to my mother because there were

black teens in the school. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. In my art

class, I had one of the black teenage girls pose for me, and I made a very

strong

painting of her standing her ground, looking firm as if daring anyone to

"diss" her.

 

That is the personal ... then the issue came up again in an artist group I

belonged to, the Women's Caucus For Art (WCA). The WCA was trying to raise

awareness and be inclusive in promoting all women artists and in dealing with

racism, ageism, sexism, classism, etc. The local chapters were strongly

encouraged to seek out women of color. There were several wonder older black

women

artists in our chapter. One was Corinne Mitchell. She was like the matriarch,

and if we got into bickering at meetings, she would quietly but firmly speak

up and tell us to stop. She did wonderful art. She taught art in the schools

for many years. At one meeting where we were discussing how to get more women

of color to join, she spoke up. She said, "We don't need you. Don't invite

us to come to your meetings, to your parties. We have our own culture. If you

want to include us, you come to where we live." I will never forget that.

When Corinne died our chapter created an annual award: The Corinne Mitchell

Award for Lifetime Achievement in the Arts. One of the greatest moments of my

life was when, at our annual award brunch, I was given the award.

 

I think we all saw some racism in the aftermath of Katrina, in the lack of

response. Most of the people who could not get out before the hurricane hit

were poor or black or both. This was commented on quite frequently in the

media.

 

So, as Germain Greer, an early feminist said, the personal is political, and

I would add, is also spiritual for we are still separated by fences of

outmoded beliefs. The only way to open the gate is consciously, to consciously

see

whatever racism or other ism we carry within; we must consciously see where

these separatist values hide within us, understand how wrong they are, and

consciously open our hearts and our minds to all, as you would say, temba,

Amma's children. Look, even Amma is very dark skinned, and even her own parents

were ashamed of her for that. So it does not surprise me that you feel this

when you are around even devotees of Amma. We are not perfect, and until we

ferret out these outmoded beliefs, we may unknowingly carry some of the less

positive values of our parents and their parents and their parents and so on. I

will never forget, when, as a young woman, my mother took me out to the field

behind my grandmother's home, which had once been a small plantation. She

pointed to the woods in the back and said "there was part of the underground

railroad, where blacks who tried to escape would hide, and there was a long

ditch back there." My great grandparents even owned slaves. I cry to even think

of it.

 

To me this is a very serious and important issue ... and not one to turn

away from or try to sweep under the rug (or put back in the can). I am glad

that

you brought it up. I am sorry if you are hurt by these outmoded ways of

thinking and seeing, but I know that you know that in Amma's eyes, all her

children look the same. Here is a poem I wrote. I hesitated to put it in because

I

use the "N" word, but I hope you and everyone on the digest will understand

that this is a poetic use to make the poem carry more truth and hence more

power. I don't know if anyone still remembers this, but several decades ago, on

the anniversary of the church that was torched while people and children were

in there practicing their music, three churches in Alabama were torched, and

some children died.

 

temba, brother, I thank you for bringing this issue into the light where we

can all look into our own hearts and minds. And again, I thank you for all you

are doing in your community to help the children. I wish I was well enough.

I would come and offer whatever skills I have in art and music and writing to

help your work. You are an angel. Love ~ Linda

 

 

 

 

Counting

Will my tears count

or all the hours spent

in tiny offices

answering letters,

talking to countless people

across this wide country

Working my heart out,

working until my body gave out,

working the hate out,

the destruction out,

working, working, working

to transform a society’s dross into gold,

the mud of hate into the milk

of loving kindness

My family owned slaves

I remember being shown the ditch

where the runaways hid

trying to get to the

underground railroad,

ahead of the dogs, ahead of the bullets

I remember my aunt

talking about niggers

who sat in the balcony at the church

when they still knew their place,

and the black faced jockey statue

that graced her front drive,

and the maids she always accused of stealing

And my other aunt yelling at me in the car

for playing with a new girl friend

we were both so little

she was black; I didn’t know

there was a difference

I might as well go marry one,

my aunt screamed at me, if Ioved them so much

And I remember the high school principle

apologizing to my mother

when I transfered to his school

in southern Maryland,

apologizing in whispered tones

for the blacks in the school

I wanted to scratch his eyes out

And riding the bus into the city

as a child, with my grandmother

while she talked about the niggers

loud enough for anyone to hear,

and how she remembered

the early days in the capitol of our country

when they knew their place

and carried white folks laundry

on their heads

I wanted to sink into the leather seat

disappear into the ground

grow up in another family

or on another planet

But when I was grown, I worked

I worked; I slaved

for little money

and no security

my greenest years spent

to grasp for peace

on earth

among men

in neighborhoods

for the children

Even in my dreams I worked

waking and sleeping

I worked

Three churches burned

this week in Alabama

and the last fifteen years

of my life went up in the flames

© 1996 Linda Talbott