I have a Dream

“We must all learn to live together as brothers or we will all perish together as fools.”

The boy got a note in his folder yesterday from his teacher. Such notes usually say things like “The boy crawled upon his belly like a reptile in the cafeteria line. Please speak to him,” or “The boy used inappropriate language on the bus.” Frankly, I find these school administration types here in Texas to be a little uptight and eager to tattle on the children to the parents, as though they themselves never developed a post-first-grade mentality or as though they expect us parents to “do something” about every little thing our child does at school.

Yesterday’s note said, “The boy told another student that he doesn’t like black people and doesn’t like Martin Luther King. Please speak to him.” I spoke to the boy, who said he didn’t say he doesn’t like black people, but he might have said he doesn’t like MLK. He either said that or he said “I’m tired of hearing about MLK,” or perhaps “I don’t care about MLK.” If he actually said he doesn’t like MLK, then what he meant was he’s sick of hearing about him, and I can’t say that I blame him.

My son, a white boy, is a minority at this school. This is, in all honesty, a situation I probably would hardly notice at all, since I myself grew up in a black neighborhood, except there have been racial undertones churning underneath the surface from day one. When we first moved here, the boy was the only white child at the bus stop in the mornings. The other children (African American) were shockingly rude and mean to him from day one. He’d try to get their attention, they’d turn coldly away. He’d try to play with them, they’d mock him. They were so rude and nasty, I wondered how truly awful they would be to him if I weren’t standing there watching.

Eventually, more white kids moved in until the racial mix was almost even at the bus stop. Something surprising happened. Instead of becoming a melting pot where the blacks and the whites and the Mexicans all tolerated and learned to appreciate each other, the bus stop became even more drastically segregated. When the number of white children reached four or five, the eight or nine black children began waiting for the bus inside their parents’ cars. They don’t even mix with the white folk now at all. When the bus comes, they file out of the cars and go stand quietly in line, ignoring everyone. I’ve watched this situation develop in fascination over the months, and I wish I could provide an explanation for it.

Anyway, having seen this, and having heard my son come home from school day after day talking about Martin Luther King, I have no doubt that he’s telling the truth when he says he’s just sick of hearing about him already. Clearly the school made a big, big deal out of this historical figure, as a show of how racially tolerant and diverse they are. (Even in a mostly-black school, most of the administration appears to be white.) The kids at school—the same sort of rude African American children I see at the bus stop—picked up on the underlying “tone” or significance of MLK and began waving the words around like a flag. Ad nauseum. Any interaction with a white kid will be peppered with the words “Martin” and “Luther” and “King,” driving some kids to say something along the lines of “Oh, I just don’t care about Martin Luther King!” or maybe even “So what? I don’t like Martin Luther King!” which prompts the little black person to gleefully run to the teacher and inform her, “Joey said he doesn’t like black people.”

Just like in the adult world, an accusation of racial prejudice or intolerance must not be ignored and must be nipped in the bud. It’s treated in a very serious manner, with a somber note from the teacher and an expectation that the parents will give proper attention to their child’s racial sensitivity.

I’m probably the most racially non-offensive person I know. Like I said, I grew up on the “dark” side of the tracks, and race and color aren’t typically something I notice or think about when I meet new people, but even I am sick of Martin Luther King types and ready to get out of this neighborhood and its undercurrent of hostility.