I watched a very well-done and moving PBS documentary on the Civil Rights movement ca. 1963-5 the other night. I was horrified at the cruelty of people and the hatred that existed between humans. As they documented both sides of the story using footage from the era and interviewed both sides of the story present-day, it became clear that although we look back now horrified at such atrocities and blatant racism, at the time it was the accepted way of life. It seems ludicrous now, but those offenders really thought the way they acted was ok.
My initial reaction was to become angry as I smugly sat in judgement of the southern, white people who had behaved so badly and sometimes violently toward other people. My next thought was to put myself in those southern, white shoes and wonder who the people are today who are oppressed acceptably. Who are they? I concluded that they are the poor, the homeless, those living in poverty who we send aid to in other countries but we don't see on our own streets.
Immediately I thought about the man that stands on the corner of Sheffield and Armitage every day around 6. I had walked past him on my way from work to the train station almost every day, and never had I acknowledged him. Every day as I passed he mumbled passively and plaintively something that I never understood as though asking but already accepting rejection. Every day I walked by without even turning my head, as you are supposed to do in the city--steeling myself. Every day I felt guilty about it, but something kept me from turning, and by the time I got home, I had forgotten him.
What am I so afraid of? I tried to convince myself that I have to be cautious of my physical safety being a small, young woman who lives alone in Chicago. But I know that's not it. I wish it were that easy. And then I realized that if I acknowledge that man, I have to see him. And if I open my eyes to him, then I will see more and know more. And once I begin to see the hurt and suffering around me, there will be a leak in my happy, safe life. At that point, if I choose to ignore it, I choose something vastly different than being ignorant in the first place. In 50 years will someone do a documentary on the way we treat our poor and underprivelaged citizens today? Will our grandchildren be horrified by the way we closed our eyes and hands to them? If they interview me in 50 years about my actions (or lack thereof), will the fact that I was afraid keep me from being culpable?
I wished my activist, peace-monger friends from college were here to talk to that man first, so I could smile and wave at him by association. And then I stopped myself. Did I really get my education so that I could ride on someone else's coattails? Why do I have to wait until someone else has the courage to initiate something in order to jump on that momentum?
Yesterday I looked at that man on the corner. I asked him what he was selling. I didn't want it, so I smiled and said, "No, thanks," and he smiled back. I kept on walking. He is a person afterall. I don't know what to do next. Maybe I'll learn his name. I'm scared and uncomfortable, but maybe I'm making a difference?
