The Color of God's American Houses

“If you can judge a wise man
By the color of his skin
Then mister, you're a better man than I”
“Living on the Edge”, by Aerosmith.

Are you a racist? Am I?

Little evokes more individual and collective unease in America than the topic of race. Indeed, I’m even uncomfortable pondering the answer to my question in my own heart; while I’d really like to believe that I’m entirely free of what ANYONE might consider racist notions, I find myself unwilling to proclaim that I am free of racism—in great part because I’m not entirely sure how to define it.

I guess I would like to believe this, however: with the certain pure-evil exceptions of Adolph Hitler and Osama Bin Laden, I'd need to do a little research and peek into the darkest corners of my heart to hate other things or people.

In that sense. while they truly do suck, I don’t even hate the red sox (those last seven words were hard to type, to my pleasant and amused surprise)…

And while I certainly can find other examples of things or people that I “dislike intensely”, thankfully I gotta look pretty hard.

Deep to left....

But a racist? Well, in case it matters (and apparently it does to me…hmmm…), I think I can flash some reasonably compelling life-experience credentials that have helped at least convince myself that I’m not impressed or unimpressed by the color of someone’s skin.

First, let’s start with the almost entirely obvious: I am indeed capable of visually discerning the difference between a black person, a brown person, a white person and a yellow person. And there are some cultural differences, GENERALLY SPEAKING, that thankfully do not escape my attention.

Diversity, we are rightfully told, is among the things to celebrate in America.

In fact, diversity runs in my family. My parents, who as adults fell generally to the right-of-center politically, were born and raised in New York City. Borough of Manhattan. Not only were they wholly committed to helping underprivileged minorities, but I do not remember them making a big deal about it (and if they did, I bet it was only to promote the worthiness of the cause).

Theirs was among those Beatnik minds that helped perpetuate the “Peace and Love” culture of late 1950’s, 60’s & early 70’s in lower Manhattan. Dad’s parents, my grandparents, were the children of New York City bound immigrants: Grandpa George was Spanish, and Grandma Marion was Czech. At that time, well on his way to being an accomplished chemist in lily-white Corporate America, my father also had the requisite Greenwich Village artistic streak and periodically painted and sculpted my mother in the nude (her, not him…at least as far as I know).

Hmmm…

This commitment to our fellow man, regardless of race or ethnicity, was an especially interesting aspect of my late mother’s sometimes paradoxical nature. You see, she was very, VERY proud of her Southern heritage. Her father’s family, my grandfather’s, fought in Revolutionary War and were farmers in a tiny town in Virginia, Drewryville, which is named for our family.

Revolutionary War? Rural Virginian land-holding farmers? Town named for them? Can it be possible that they could have escaped even the most innocent brushes with matters of race?

My grandfather, Samuel Drewry, died young. My grandmother, literally a Cuban refugee, settled into New York City with young Shirley Jean. But growing up, mom spent a lot of time--mostly summers--reveling barefoot with her kin in rural Southampton County, Virginia.

How did all this help form my views on the complex matter of race?

Well, as kids, my sister and I saw at an early age how much race mattered and didn’t matter (ditto for sexuality—we spent many summer vacations near Provincetown, MA). We, too, removed our suburbian Buster Browns and frolicked in Virginia’s summer heat, only to be summoned by my Aunt Helen’s cook & housekeeper, “Aunt” Lula, to hush up, wash up, and get ready for her cookin’ of Who-Knows-What accompanied by her grits and/or cornbread (yuk).

“Dad, do I have to eat this? And how come they talk so funny here? And why is mom all of a sudden talking that way, too?”

But those were special and formative times. I’ve always loved & liked my Southern aunts, uncles and numerous (and I mean numerous) cousins. And our first pet, a jet black kitten that we named Dixie, was also born in Virginia and relocated to New York to begin rearing kittens of her own (Beauregard, among her first sons, was “my” cat).

What a uniquely American opportunity it was to be exposed to both the "sophisticated" cultural progress of New York City and the tradition and history of the rural Old South.

My racial apathy was reinforced when, at age 10, our family left the New York area for about 30 months and relocated to Greensboro, NC.  It was 1973, and I was bussed across town to attend a school that I recall as being no less than 50% black. And ya’ know what? There I sat, unaware of race and place, as my bus twice daily passed the famous Greensboro Woolworths, which just 13 years earlier had been the site of sit-ins protesting the company's policy to not serve blacks.

I don’t ever remember thinking, on the long trip to Bluford Elementary or any other time, about Alfred, Veronica or Michael’s skin color. Or Jeff’s or Sandy’s or Houston’s, for that matter. Or even how different my classmates were from the ones in Westchester.

While I was aware of the differences, I didn't think much about them. Ya' know why? Me neither. I truly don’t. And that’s exactly what makes me think that they really didn’t matter.

But none of that means anything if I couldn’t believe, couldn’t hope, that anyone, EVERYONE, brought up under similar American circumstance and afforded similar opportunities wouldn’t feel similarly disinterested with race.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I must remind myself, always, that not everyone’s as lucky as I have been. Indeed, the good fortune of simply being an American has not proven enough to keep many among us from being scarred, physically and otherwise, by the evil malevolence of racism.

 

Among the blessings I continue to enjoy in my life is living in the lovely, gracious City of Charleston, SC. We spent two years in Savannah, GA, another great little Southern City, before moving here 15 years ago. Both are richly steeped in American History, Charleston especially so. Among other things, it was key to the ultimate success of the American Revolution, the site of the first shot fired in the Civil War, and remained one of the young country’s largest cities until the late 1800’s.

One of the less pride-evoking aspects of Charleston’s remarkable history, though, is its contribution to the industry of slavery. Regrettably, it was through Charleston Harbor and onto historic Sullivan’s Island that 40% of slaves disembarked from their tortuous journeys, making it the largest slave port in North America. In fact, Wikipedia claims that nearly half of all African Americans have ancestors that passed through Sullivan's Island. Consequently, it is understandably referred to by many as the Ellis Island of enslaved immigrants.

There is little if anything good to say about slavery. Being glad that it gave today’s African Americans a chance to be Americans, while true, is the best I can come up with.

Charleston is also known as The Holy City due to, also according to Wikipedia, “the prominence of churches on the low-rise cityscape, particularly the numerous steeples which dot the city's skyline, and for the fact that it was one of the few cities in the original thirteen colonies provide religious tolerance, albeit restricted to non-Catholics”.

The churches here are historic and beautiful, and I’ve recently begun attending Sunday Service at a different one (or two or three, believe it or not) every week. Among my favorites so far, perhaps due to my upbringing and familiarity with the generally tolerant United Methodist tradition, are two churches: Old Bethel United Methodist and Bethel United Methodist.

Bethel United Methodist Church

Built in 1797, Old Bethel is the third oldest building in Charleston, and the “new” Bethel was completed 50 years later. They are literally across the street from one another, a curious historical consequence of a racially divided city and nation during the Civil War period. Yet as different as they are, both are bound together in spirit, sharing a fascinating history that reflects the tumultuous and complex nature of race relations in America and its churches.

I hadn’t planned on it, but this past Sunday’s service at Bethel ended earlier than usual, so I walked across the street to experience what I thought would be the tail end of Old Bethel’s service.

Old Bethel United Methodist

There was not a black face in Bethel and, other than mine, not a white face in Old Bethel. But I thoroughly enjoyed myself at both. A lot. The tail end of Old Bethel’s service turned out to be over another hour of strong-voiced Amens, Hallelujahs, Hymns and Hand Clapping (I couldn’t help but think of the Blues Brothers as I joined in, careful to avoid becoming  too caught up in it all and somersaulting down the aisle like old“Joliet” Jake).
 

The Congregation of Old Bethel was particularly hospitable afterwards, in part I’m sure because I arrived late and slipped into the back row, and as such perhaps the congregants were seeking to comfort their likely uneasy guest (not the case, I assured them as I prepared to leave--but not without receiving a couple of bear hugs from their large, leather-lunged, Pastor Bowman as he and they repeatedly invited me to come back anytime).

Rev. Dr. Timothy J. Bowman, OBUM

And why wouldn’t I visit again? Soon? After all, like the Service across the street (which happened to be conducted by church youth and was equally inspiring in its own rite) my Fire-and-Brimstone, music filled, Revival-ish experience was, well, inspiring.

There were dramatic differences in the services, of course—differences that again, sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice. But did I overcompensate? Was I trying too hard to fit in? In fact, let’s dig a bit deeper: Was part of my motivation in going to Old Bethel something beyond a curiosity, and perhaps closer to an exercise in self-aggrandizement? Was I seeking a way that I could show (and now tell) everybody how cool and racially tolerant I am by spending an hour in a “Black” church?

Hmmm…

Maybe, but I hope not. Because besides hoping that I’m not quite that vain, I’d like to believe that not only do I not care about race, I don’t care enough to care about it, either.

And I bet you don’t either. Ya’ know why?

Because as flawed as She has been, still is, and always will be, God blessed America. And I bet He wants what we all should want--that the bold, brilliant colors of His houses here have nothing to do with racism.

Church! Can I have an Amen?