No Use in Putting On a Mask

My favorite bookstore, Square Books

Over the weekend I finished The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Good book. I succeeded in my goal of finishing it before the movie comes out, but unfortunately my current schedule is not one that allows me to spend an entire day in a coffee shop just reading. I did it anyway... and I'm now behind in everything, including my goal of blogging every night. To make matters worse, I put off grading again tonight so I could go to the legendary Square Books in Oxford to buy the next installment in the trilogy. We'll just call it the latest step in my endless and fruitless pursuit of momentary happiness. At this point, these pursuits are probably causing more than relieving stress because I'm becoming an epic procrastinator in the name of happiness... but that is not my topic tonight.

My friend dropped me off at the door because there was no parking to be found and, as is consistent with most things I do, I was in and out of Square Books in a matter of seconds. I knew exactly where I needed to go and I'm a regular at the store so I read off my frequent reader number and was back out the door in no time.

The middle school version of myself would have been ashamed that I had forgotten tonight was Halloween. Standing outside the book store I noticed for the first time the scene around me. On the lawn of the church, the sea of pumpkins that had been there a week ago had given way to throngs of 3-foot skeletons, Power Rangers, and witches. Pumpkin-shaped buckets seemingly bobbed unattached in the dark as parents eyed nervously the oncoming cars of college kids, I guess like me, who clearly had better things to do than stay at home and pass out candy. A sentry in the middle of the square, the courthouse stood poised, illuminated for the occasion. I've admired this building for five years now. Its antebellum facade with beautiful white columns, long, single-pane windows, and pristine lawn guarded by a black wrought iron fence provide the perfect picture of a time long past.

Getting back in the car, my friend was the first to say it. 

"There are a lot of black families out here tonight."

Sitting next to her, in the passenger seat of my own car, I visibly cringed. "Huh?"

"I know... that sounds bad. I didn't mean it like that. It's just that......"

"Oxford is usually more segregated than this... I noticed it too," I finished.

"Yeah. Is it bad that I noticed?"

"It's bad that we have to," I said.

The courthouse in the center of the Oxford Square

As we crept around the courthouse on the inner track of the square, trying to avoid midget zombies and Harry Potters, I stared out my window at white families, black families, white kids, and black kids trick-or-treating, sharing laughs, and generally enjoying the night. It was a gorgeous, clear fall evening - about 60 degrees. The moon hung over us like a picture in a post card. There were a few tables for cider and face painting set up on the courthouse lawn. I noticed food being served by a black family. Next to them was the face painting station run by a white family. In that moment I caught myself in awe of how far the South had come. Right there, on the lawn of a building that stood and watched as racism threatened to destroy this country 150 years ago, white and black families were one, allowing their kids to play together, roam the square together, grow up together.

My pride was gone in an instant.

It didn't take me long to begin thinking about my students and how foreign this scene would have been for them. They are, after all, the reason I noticed it in the first place. Over the last year and half, my eyes have been opened to the fact that racism is still very alive in this part of the country... maybe everywhere. I used to grimace when I'd hear students say things like "that white girl" or "that black girl" as if they had no other identity. I was naive to think that my race wouldn't matter as much because I was a teacher and the title alone demanded respect... not in a community where few trust the other race and fewer trust the adults in their lives. By the end of October I had been called an ugly white bitch by one girl and others had made their distaste apparent in more subtle ways.

Since last year it has gotten better. Once they saw that I wasn't going to leave after one year I gained a little more trust. Once they realized I actually cared about them more than my paycheck (and yes they can tell) I gained a little respect. I can't help but feel like none of it means anything though. I can't help but feel like it's a battle too great for one teacher to wage. 

What's it matter if white and black families can celebrate one Halloween together on the Oxford square? That's a tiny microcosm of the real spectrum. This is a college town, perhaps the most liberal part of the state. Just 45 minutes north there are 130 seventh graders whose teacher will leave at the end of this year.  She'll be gone, confirming their original suspicions, completing the pattern their lives already reflect, solidifying mantras they've learned to live by. Don't trust adults. Don't trust the other guy.