In the summer of 1967, our family moved from the Midwest to
Winston-Salem, North Carolina. My father finished up his Master’s degree
in pastoral counseling, my mother worked the night shift at a local hospital,
and I attended segregated Dalton Elementary School as a fifth grader.
I have vivid memories from that year in Winston-Salem. One
is of the pervasive smell of the city, the home of R. J. Reynolds. As suggested by the city’s name and nickname,
R. J. Reynolds produced Winston, Salem, and Camel cigarettes—maybe they still
do. In the morning, I could step outside our apartment door, and every
breath took in the smell of unprocessed tobacco. The broad leaves would
soon be turned into cigarettes, and their smell was sweet and rich, similar to
honeysuckle. It permeated the city
before the morning winds blew it away. Every Saturday we also visited the
first Krispy Kreme donut shops, which got their start in “Camel City.”
Dad would load us up to get the kids out of the house, so Mom could
sleep. (The ladies at Krispy Kreme thought he was a single father and
gave royal treatment.)
Less pleasant are the memories of Winston-Salem associated with
issues of race. This was when I first became race conscious. Like
most families, we have our internal oral histories that we repeat often when we
get together. From that year we tell stories of my mother’s ostracization
at the hospital for providing equal care to all patients, regardless of race or
religion. She found herself eating her midnight “lunch” during the night
shift alone and isolated. My brother, who was in junior high, was
targeted for harassment, but responded with maturity beyond his years. As
for me, I had my nose bloodied by two older boys who lived in our complex
because our family had black friends over for supper. I responded with
less maturity than my brother.
That school year was also the year my elementary school was shut
down on April 4, 1968, after the shooting of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Winston-Salem, still reeling from the riots in the fall of 1967, shut
schools down schools as soon as they learned of Dr. King’s death. We were released mid-day at Dalton
Elementary, and our family stayed home the following days, watching Walter
Cronkite and other reporters keep us up to date on what was taking place around
the nation and across town.
Every year as MLK Day rolls around, I tend to think back to
Winston-Salem. As a father of a somewhat unique family, I find the day to
be a good reminder that we have not arrived, but rather are on a journey.
My wife told me when we were dating that she wanted a large diverse
family. She wasn’t kidding! Our nine kids make us look a little different
than most. We are white, black, and Asian. We are both gay and
straight. We have hearing and deaf in our house, and we have the full
range of academic abilities, from gifted to those who struggle academically.
For many reasons I am thankful for Dr. King’s pioneering work.
I am also thankful for less famous pioneers, such as my wife, father,
mother, and brother. I add teachers to this list as well, including many
of you reading this email. Lisa and I have experienced in our own lives
and through the lives of our children acts of kindness and courage from
teachers who will never receive national attention, but they are no less
important to us and our children.
This I believe: For most of us, living up to Dr. King’s dream and
continuing the journey is not about major initiatives, events, or actions.
It is not about one special day. Rather, this journey is filled
with countless individual acts and interactions carried out on a daily
basis by people just like you and me, going about the daily business of doing
our jobs and being intentional about treating people, all people, with respect
and dignity.
Thank you, HSE, for all you do to continue the journey by making
every student feel included, valued, and loved.
Keep fighting the good fight.
Phil
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