Tag Archives: diversity

Who Did You Expect?

Who Did You Expect?     —by Jinny Batterson

My life so far has been fortunate—no privation, little discrimination, generally good health, many chances for love and adventure.  Much of the time, though not always, people I’ve met have lived up to (or beyond) my expectations. On those rare occasions when someone’s behavior has disappointed me, more cynical or world-weary friends have shrugged at what they regard as my naiveté. 

“Of course so-and-so let you down,” they’ve announced. “What did you expect?”  

Increasingly for me,  the appropriate question is rather “Who (or, for the grammar police, “Whom”) did you expect?”  As I mature (a work in progress), I become more aware of instances when I’ve pre-judged people and turned out to be fairly far off the mark.

The first occasion that stands out is my initial in-person meeting with the leader of our 1980 group tour to China. In those pre-internet days, I’d exchanged postal letters and paperwork with Ms. Baum and talked with her on the phone. Until we both arrived in San Francisco’s airport departure lounge for our trans-Pacific group flight to Hong Kong, I had not actually met this native New Yorker. I’d assumed from her accent and phone demeanor that she was of Jewish background. She seemed somewhat pushy and no-nonsense, ready to take on the world. I was surprised to see that she was African-American, not ethnically Jewish. She could be somewhat pushy and no-nonsense. Her prior experiences as both social worker and travel agent had prepared her well to take on whatever bureaucracy attempted to get in her way, regardless of ethnic origin or nationality. She turned out to be both different from and similar to the “who” I’d expected.

Earlier this fall, I signed up to work the polls in the 2018 mid-terms. After on-site training, I exchanged emails with the woman who’d be my site supervisor for early voting. Her written English was good, clear and simple. Her family name was a common one, her given name, ending in “a,” suggested to me she might be African-American, or maybe Hispanic-American. When we met, I could detect no skin coloring or hair texture to suggest ancestral links with Africa, no hint of foreign origin in her accent. She seemed at first a very “vanilla,” somewhat conservative American. During our work, she showed her passion for ensuring that anyone who wanted to vote was given maximum opportunities to do so. She’d sit patiently with someone lacking appropriate credentials, or with an address not yet entered into the electoral system database of rapidly growing Wake County. She knew the rules well. She could suggest pulling up an electronic copy of a utility bill on a portable phone. She might advise going home to retrieve a needed ID and then returning later in the day. In rare cases, she’d have the potential voter fill out a provisional ballot, explaining how and when to check whether their vote had been counted. The workforce she’d helped assemble to follow her lead was the most visibly diverse I’ve ever participated in. She was both different from and similar to the “who” I’d expected.    

I’ve just spent Thanksgiving with parts of my extended family that I barely knew growing up in Maryland in the 1950’s and 60’s. Only once had I had a chance to visit these North Carolina farmer cousins from a rural area near Charlotte. What little I remember from that farm stay involves ponies tame enough so even I was persuaded to take a short ride. I got to see my grandmother’s sister-in-law make glorious biscuits using milk straight from the cows. The cousins closest to my age teased me good-naturedly about my lack of country skills.

After moving to North Carolina a decade ago, I became reacquainted with some of the cousins who’d left the farm to settle in Raleigh. They’d tell me enticing stories of an extended family Thanksgiving gathering at “the shed.” I pictured the locale in my mind: an expanse of gently rolling hills, empty except for a few horses or cows grazing in pastures. “The shed” would be a slightly cleaned-up farm outbuilding. Twenty or so aging cousins of Scots-Irish ancestry would assemble for our midday meal, then say interminable grace before we could eat. Someone would have cooked a turkey and brought it still warm to the feast. We’d eat plentifully, exchange pleasantries, carefully avoid politics, and then everyone would go home.

This year as we drove into the neighborhood nearest our destination, I had trouble reconciling my mental image with current reality. The surrounding area may once have been farmland, but the vicinity had long since become part of suburban Charlotte. A mid-rise apartment complex dominated the nearest street corner. The “shed ” had been expanded and modernized from an earlier role as storage space for some cousins’ plumbing business. It was now a comfortable, well-appointed venue with adjustable seating for up to a couple hundred people. Nearly that many cousins of all ages were in attendance, along with baby equipment, pet dogs and a few footballs.

We did have a short sung grace before the long, snaking buffet line formed. We did generally steer clear of contentious political topics. People caught up on family news since the previous get-together. One 20-something cousin had recently returned from an extended Peace Corps stint in South America; in the next generation up, a househusband described his four years of helping school their daughters while his family was on assignment in southern Europe. One attendee I didn’t get a chance to talk with directly had a skin tone and accent that implied ancestry or origin in India. The Reas still cherished their rural roots and pioneering ancestors, but the clan had gotten more diverse and widely traveled—both different from and similar to the “who’s” I’d expected.

The remaining holidays of late autumn and early winter are likely to have more extended family gatherings and chance meetings. May I remember not to pre-judge those I encounter, to be more careful not to let “who I expect” get in the way of meeting current reality with an open mind and heart. 

Rea Thanksgiving at “the shed”

Lessons from Edgewood Avenue

Lessons from Edgewood Avenue   —by Jinny Batterson

(This entry was read as part of a service on diversity at the UU Fellowship of Raleigh, NC on Sunday, August 7, 2016.)

This is partly a story about two black families that I got to know well during twenty years of living down the block from them. It’s also a story about my evolving understanding of diversity. In the mid-1970’s, my husband and I moved to Richmond, Virginia. Both of us had grown up mostly further north, but our most recent adventure there—an attempt to go back to the land in Vermont—had ended badly. We were nearly broke. We wanted to start a family. We began looking around for a house our meager savings could purchase while we got back on our feet financially. We found one: an older, well-maintained, 4-bedroom two-story stucco house on Edgewood Avenue. At first, our next-door neighbor was elderly Mrs. Burnet. She called herself “the holdout,” an original owner who’d resisted the push to leave when the area got “flipped” by blockbusting real estate agents. After Mrs. Burnet died, we were the only remaining “white” family.

As our family grew, we got to know our other neighbors better. Most had moved in a decade before us, when their previous homes had been demolished to put through Interstate  Highway 95. The parents mostly held blue-collar or civil service jobs, sometimes working more than one to make ends meet. By the time we arrived, their older children were in high school or just leaving home. We became close with two other ’B’-named families: I’ll call them the Brooks family and the Brandons.  After our two boys were born, Sharon Brooks and Stacy Brandon became sometime evening babysitters. Jon, the youngest Brandon, was only a few years older than our guys.  He became a substitute big brother. Mrs. Brandon had given up her prior career as an English teacher to raise her five children. She later became our regular after school sitter—our boys could walk to Brandons’  house from their elementary school. Mrs. Brandon would sometimes give them a snack, or help them with their homework. She’d make sure they stayed safe until Jim or I finished work and could come get them.

Starting in the late 1980’s, the crack epidemic exploded in American cities. We heard gunfire and sirens at night. Our children were entering their teens. We went through the soul-searching that all parents of adolescent boys face: How could we provide good examples while shielding our sons from the worst temptations and dangers of their increasing independence? Should we move to the suburbs for safer neighborhoods, better schools? When both sons got accepted at an area magnet high school, the school issue became moot. Other dangers still lurked, though. Through the Brookses and the Brandons, we got a searing introduction to how these dangers sometimes played out in the lives of young black men.

In December, 1992, I learned through the neighborhood grapevine that Brandons’ older son, ”Teejay,” had died. He was 29. He had been missing for two days when his body was found by a stranger walking his dog. Teejay had been killed gangland style. Grieving with the Brandon family and attending Teejay’s funeral were some of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The funeral was held at Mrs. Brandon’s home church, a historic Baptist congregation in their previous downtown neighborhood. The place was packed. Some of the younger women sobbed loudly. Teejay’s two young children could not understand why their dad was in a box that would soon be closed. The minister did his best to provide comfort, but the unsolved murder left a wound that took a long time to heal.

I don’t remember exactly when Randy Brooks moved back home. At some point I started seeing him again. Randy, a star athlete in high school, had gotten a tennis scholarship to a historically black college. For a while afterwards, he worked as a computer operator. Then we lost track of him. When Randy reappeared, he was suffering from HIV.  Anti-retroviral drugs were still in their infancy. Randy hated their severe side effects. Eventually he decided to stop treatments. Attending his funeral in 1997, at a different Baptist church, was also hard. His mother, an assistant pastor, gave the eulogy, based on the 23rd Psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” 

The tragedies on Edgewood are not its only stories. There are successes, too—Jon became an award-winning high school teacher and choral director in Connecticut;  Stacy is a school administrator in Maryland; Sharon is a geologist in Texas.

Both during and after our Edgewood stay, I traveled widely, seeing parts of Africa, Europe, Asia, Latin America. Mostly, though, I’ve continued to live in the U.S. South.  As I get to know more of my neighbors in our increasingly diverse communities, I continue the transition begun on Edgewood years ago. I may never totally outgrow my origins. Too often, I get abstract knowledge about a problem, but lack the wisdom, compassion, humility, and engagement to make a positive difference. Still, I work, one day at a time, at the necessary transformation of a recovering stereotypical white liberal.