By Staff
Growing up through my adolescence, I was bored with my generation. I'm sure that is a common notion for the age, but I always believed that aside from a few key events, most of the 80s and 90s were lost in a painful sea of big hair and bright neon colors.
So when my family would gather in the living room of my grandparents' home, reliving stories of growing up through the Civil Rights Movement of the 60s – I sat completely enraptured in the images and the words that passed between them.
My mother, her brothers and sisters and my grandparents lived in a predominantly African American neighborhood in Grand Rapids, while they lived in that house, they witnessed blatant racism, segregation and the fight for equal rights.
Their house was open to anyone – as were their hearts.
My grandfather was a press operator for the Grand Rapids Press. During the 60s the black community in which my grandparents lived, were struggling for a voice – a way to communicate with each other, inform each other of the issues that were facing them on a daily basis. Exercise the most basic rights our Bill of Rights has to offer.
The community wanted to print their own newspaper and they turned to my grandfather for help. But instead of just providing services, where he could have just gone ahead and printed up as many copies as needed, he taught the leaders of that community how to print their own product.
Teach a man to fish … they say.
As the tensions rose in the streets, riots broke out in the neighborhood. On one particularly volatile night, my grandparents found themselves faced with an ensuing riot standing between them and their way home.
My grandfather was given very simple instructions. Turn the light on in the car and hit the horn on the way down the street. Those rioting against the hatred they were getting throughout the city, recognized my grandparents and let them pass by. Their house was recognized by all as a place where all were welcome. And I can't think of any higher symbol of respect than that.
As a journalist, I'm pretty hard on myself when I don't feel as though I've gotten a story right, included all the elements or painted the whole picture. As I tried to hit on stories to recognize Black History Month, with each one I felt I came up short. Short of expressing the importance of recognizing what Black History means not just to the African American community but to our community and to America's community.
I was fortunate enough to have the ideals instilled in me that I do. That I know better than to judge anyone, much less attempt to judge a person by his or her skin color. But that is not the case with everyone.
And so collectively, I think, we miss the point. We miss out on the possibility of becoming a truly united nation of people. Not "black" people or "white" people or "Latino" people. But just people.
And we miss out on the point of how our relations in the world of race have formed this country, changed this country and continue to change this country.
When I was speaking to three mothers, security workers at Niles High School earlier this month, one of them, Pauline Wortham, spoke of how important it is to keep learning about each other. To understand each other. And she said to start with just one person, one figure in black history or even just one person period. Your neighbor. A pastor. A friend.
I've been fortunate enough to learn a little bit about quite a few members of the community here. But if I've learned anything – it's that it's not enough – so I'll keep working to learn more. And I hope others do to.
And before I go – speaking of my grandfather and people within the community – I wanted to take a second to remark on the passing of Ralph Casperson. My grandfather was a tireless reader. These days I find myself thinking about that aspect of him more and more. When I am at my grandparents' home and find my mind racing with worry or apprehension, one glance over at his bookshelf can calm me down.
My fondest memories of my grandfather are when I would wake in the middle of the night or in the early morning hours and find him on the couch, a book in his hand, with something to tell me.
I met Casperson only once. Shortly after my grandfather passed away, I found myself compelled to go to the bookstore he went to regularly. I stepped inside and picked out a few of titles that I thought my grandpa would want me to read. When I told Mr. Casperson who I was, he spoke fondly of my grandpa. He'd missed him, he said. They'd had so many talks upon my grandfather's visits. I was touched Mr. Casperson remembered him so kindly. I promise to return the favor.