There isn't enough time in the day to explain how different Jackson is from anywhere else on earth. It seems to sit much in a reality of its own, and that reality is romanticized in such a way to keep its inhabitants content and full of hometown pride. The rose colored glasses Jacksonians wear keeps them waving to everyone they encounter, whether you are walking the dog in the suburbs, or driving down the most run down of neighborhoods in the inner city. Everybody greets you with a wave. Interestingly, smiles don't necessarily accompany these waves, but like a tradition or ritual that has outlived the understanding of how it came to be, the arms of both black and white, spontaneously stand at attention, swaying back an forth whenever another human being crosses their paths. Getting past hello - Well, that's another story.
Time after time, whether at the food pantry, where the White congregants busy themselves with food preparation and church work to avoid fellowshipping with the sea of brown, tattered, and often pungent crowd that gathers outside the church doors to get the groceries to make it through the week, or the young black girls who attend youth group who essentially act as if the white girls in the program don't exist, or restaurants, where I am hard pressed to find one interracial group sharing a meal; it is proven that Jackson has perfected the art of separate togetherness. In many cases they have no choice, they must exist among each other. They must share space, however; the sharing of space has not stifled their commitment to remain virtually independent of each other. I am not unfamiliar with this practice. During my stint in private school and even at Duke Divinity blacks and whites seek and are allowed separate communities. But here in Jackson the chasm that separates white and black is different. They exist in a sort of justified comfort, as if they genuinely believe sharing the same space achieves the goals of reconciliation.
When I met with the pastor about the food pantry I was amazed to hear him speak of a time when the congregation and the recipients did NOT intermingle. "Really? Was he kidding? Apparently the thick moist air of Jackson did more than just make it feel hotter. It edits the uncomfortable parts of reality, facilitating that rose colored experience I mentioned earlier. From my estimation, the people were still very much separated, and content to stay that way, making me a little frustrated.
It's much like the frustration I felt when talking to two of the most well adjusted, intelligent and aware young ladies I had encountered in a long time. Both had graduated from high school just days prior. They were clear on their history, the covert efforts to hinder their education, and had mapped out life plans that would make any mother proud. But when they spoke of race relations, they told a story of separateness, independence, and self sufficiency. " I can go for weeks without speaking to a white person, " the more vocal of the two stated, matter- of- factly. "White people don't mean anything. We may be poor, but we are happy!" I marveled at her statement, and must admit it gave me pause causing me to reflect on the many things I believe I need to be happy. For a moment I felt a bit shallow and tremendously brainwashed. However, after further reflection, I realized that those simple things I consider staples of my own happiness were byproducts of justice that many of the black families of Jackson had been deprived of. It wasn't that they needed the amenities made possible by equal treatment, its that they were robbed of them because of the color of their skin. Sure they had survived, with family and community almost in tack, but the many deplorable things that they had to endure still sat at the pit of their stomachs. ineligible for the rose colored glasses enjoyed by their white counter parts, because of their hue; hard living numbed resentment, preserving their souls from anger and affording them their own reality of joy, laughter, dance and song.
Today, fully sober and alert, my eyes took in the devastation of abandoned homes over run with weeds and soot from intentional fires. Once thriving communities, these homes and the people who inhabited them have become pawns in a political pissing contest. Many black people of Jackson have never known the kind of education their children are entitled to, and if they do know they had no way of affording it. Defacto segregation in the school system is alive and well in Mississippi, and dare I say in the United States, in the form of public and private schools. Most of the young black people I encountered attended public school, and were on their way to Jackson State, which seems to be the "realistic dream" presented to the black youth, kind of like trade school was the suggested path for African American youth of previous generations. The White kids were a different story entirely attending private schools, because the public schools are "just to dangerous" - code for too Black and setting their sites for big name ivy league schools. So the Black families are happy, happy in poverty and a lack of options and happy to be exist in a divided community. I understand from whence this attitude of "White people don't mean anything" comes from. I chalk it up as a means of survival and preservation of ones self esteem, but the conditions of Black people in Jackson tells another story indeed.
The culture of blindness, complacency, coupled with contentment with what has been accomplished among Whites and a lack of engagement and forgiveness among Blacks posits Jackson as a city stuck between a rock and a hard place. The greatest issue I have encountered thus far is denial, and this pesky little critter is by far one of the greatest obstacles of real change. In order for people to be invested in justice, they must first see how the "other" is not as foreign as they assume them to be. Racism and segregation has ravaged Jackson and both Whites and Blacks bear the scars, while believing they have come away unscathed. Perhaps I and others like me can open their eyes so that they may finally see the bruises and ugliness that still afflicts them, so that they might truly be healed.
Time after time, whether at the food pantry, where the White congregants busy themselves with food preparation and church work to avoid fellowshipping with the sea of brown, tattered, and often pungent crowd that gathers outside the church doors to get the groceries to make it through the week, or the young black girls who attend youth group who essentially act as if the white girls in the program don't exist, or restaurants, where I am hard pressed to find one interracial group sharing a meal; it is proven that Jackson has perfected the art of separate togetherness. In many cases they have no choice, they must exist among each other. They must share space, however; the sharing of space has not stifled their commitment to remain virtually independent of each other. I am not unfamiliar with this practice. During my stint in private school and even at Duke Divinity blacks and whites seek and are allowed separate communities. But here in Jackson the chasm that separates white and black is different. They exist in a sort of justified comfort, as if they genuinely believe sharing the same space achieves the goals of reconciliation.
When I met with the pastor about the food pantry I was amazed to hear him speak of a time when the congregation and the recipients did NOT intermingle. "Really? Was he kidding? Apparently the thick moist air of Jackson did more than just make it feel hotter. It edits the uncomfortable parts of reality, facilitating that rose colored experience I mentioned earlier. From my estimation, the people were still very much separated, and content to stay that way, making me a little frustrated.
It's much like the frustration I felt when talking to two of the most well adjusted, intelligent and aware young ladies I had encountered in a long time. Both had graduated from high school just days prior. They were clear on their history, the covert efforts to hinder their education, and had mapped out life plans that would make any mother proud. But when they spoke of race relations, they told a story of separateness, independence, and self sufficiency. " I can go for weeks without speaking to a white person, " the more vocal of the two stated, matter- of- factly. "White people don't mean anything. We may be poor, but we are happy!" I marveled at her statement, and must admit it gave me pause causing me to reflect on the many things I believe I need to be happy. For a moment I felt a bit shallow and tremendously brainwashed. However, after further reflection, I realized that those simple things I consider staples of my own happiness were byproducts of justice that many of the black families of Jackson had been deprived of. It wasn't that they needed the amenities made possible by equal treatment, its that they were robbed of them because of the color of their skin. Sure they had survived, with family and community almost in tack, but the many deplorable things that they had to endure still sat at the pit of their stomachs. ineligible for the rose colored glasses enjoyed by their white counter parts, because of their hue; hard living numbed resentment, preserving their souls from anger and affording them their own reality of joy, laughter, dance and song.
Today, fully sober and alert, my eyes took in the devastation of abandoned homes over run with weeds and soot from intentional fires. Once thriving communities, these homes and the people who inhabited them have become pawns in a political pissing contest. Many black people of Jackson have never known the kind of education their children are entitled to, and if they do know they had no way of affording it. Defacto segregation in the school system is alive and well in Mississippi, and dare I say in the United States, in the form of public and private schools. Most of the young black people I encountered attended public school, and were on their way to Jackson State, which seems to be the "realistic dream" presented to the black youth, kind of like trade school was the suggested path for African American youth of previous generations. The White kids were a different story entirely attending private schools, because the public schools are "just to dangerous" - code for too Black and setting their sites for big name ivy league schools. So the Black families are happy, happy in poverty and a lack of options and happy to be exist in a divided community. I understand from whence this attitude of "White people don't mean anything" comes from. I chalk it up as a means of survival and preservation of ones self esteem, but the conditions of Black people in Jackson tells another story indeed.
The culture of blindness, complacency, coupled with contentment with what has been accomplished among Whites and a lack of engagement and forgiveness among Blacks posits Jackson as a city stuck between a rock and a hard place. The greatest issue I have encountered thus far is denial, and this pesky little critter is by far one of the greatest obstacles of real change. In order for people to be invested in justice, they must first see how the "other" is not as foreign as they assume them to be. Racism and segregation has ravaged Jackson and both Whites and Blacks bear the scars, while believing they have come away unscathed. Perhaps I and others like me can open their eyes so that they may finally see the bruises and ugliness that still afflicts them, so that they might truly be healed.
Hey Courney,
ReplyDeleteThanks for blogging--great post! It would be interesting to get actual stats on the racial breakdown of private vs. public schools. I'm sure it is more extreme in Jackson, but much of this is true throughout the South and other parts of the country. I went to the city schools and was a part of the "minority" group. However, they kind of had school-within-a-school segregation based on ability programs. I'm a horrible test-taker and it took me years to be able to qualify, so I still struggle with pretty basic skills that I should have learned when I was "bunched in with the rest" so to speak. It is quite amazing how the issue of access to decent education can dramatically alter our lives.
--Jen Smith
"In order for people to be invested in justice, they must first see how the "other" is not as foreign as they assume them to be."
ReplyDeleteYes. I agree wholeheartedly, and I would add that folks also need to be committed to the idea of imago Dei and imago Christi. If we see ourselves and each other as created in the image of God and/or the image of Christ, then I dare say that we would not allow injustice (on any level) to persist.