TEN YEARS OLD AND COUNTING

When I was ten years old, growing up in Los Angeles in a regular middle class neighborhood with all white people, some who had problems =with Jewish people too, I met my first black person when she came to our home one day a week to clean for my mom.  Her name was Minerva 

  Minerva.  I didn't really notice her color in any significant way.  I just noticed she had darker skin, and I thought nothing of it at the time.  At 7:30AM on the one day per week she came to our small house, I sat with her at the kitchen table as she drank a cup of coffee, black with no cream, while eating a piece of toast.  We sat across from each other just talking and sharing.calmly and honestly. 

I had about 30 minutes with Minerva before I walked the two blocks to my elementary school.   Minerva was the first human being to "see" me.  She always made eye contact, and her voice remained even and kind.  She talked with me, not down to me.  I did not have words at the time for how she met me equally.  I only knew she was different than most adults who spoke to me as a younger person, not considered a full human yet.

At the age of 10, I learned how much Minerva was being paid for the eight hours of work on this one day, and her two hour roundtrip travel by bus across Los Angeles.  I immediately asked my parents to double her pay out of fairness and justice.  They did.  They listened to me.

Years later, when I was 23 years old, I received a phone call from Minerva's family in Los Angeles, inviting me to her funeral.  I lived 400 miles away at that time, and I didn't think I mattered that much to the family, for me  to attend the funeral.  I took the invitation as a "nice" thing, but not that special.   I later found out, that I was the only White person close to Minerva, and she had told her family about me. 

I was fortunate to go to the only high school in Los Angeles that had a blend of white, black and Latino students that simply came together without making it happen.  And it was my own experience with extreme prejudice at the age of five that gave me a sample of what it is like to be marginalized, hated and spit on for having an identity of being Jewish, something I was not aware that I was, when five. 

I soon learned how the dominant white world controlled things, and often made war on people of color, and did so believing they were right and justified.   I did get to visit Milton Anderson at his home with his family when I was 16.  Milton was another Black man in my high school. 

Then I went on to teach high school only to find the principal segregating the black students from the white students.  I did speak up right away.  I did lose my job, but that was OK.  Then I got to work among Native Americans for three years, and found the same marginalization, a word that seems too sweet for what was happening.   Again I spoke up and reached out, and lost the job, but gained many friends and fellow and sister lovers of people. 

Today, I can get angry and frustrated with the continuing injustice and ignorance around color, dominant cultures, and children everywhere. I am left with devoting my life to finding ways to stand with and for all people.     

In a dream I had years ago, my father, a man who died decades ago, stepped out of an elevator that had just descended, walked towards me at my present age, as I stood alone in an old wood paneled courtroom.  He walked right up to me, looked me in the eye, and said, "Your life is about fairness and Justice."  He then turned around, walked to the elevator, stepped in and the doors closed and he ascended. 

These stories keep me awake, and remind me to make contact with everyone I meet.
Even if just a simple Hi.. 

--