When two athletes raised their fists at the 1968 Olympics, my dad frowned at the TV. I was puzzled, too.
After the Civil Rights Act passed, our school district in Southeast Texas desegregated, and my classrooms were a rainbow of flesh tones. Sitting by each other in class, cheering for one another, and growing up together taught us co-existence, even if it didn’t erase prejudice. The culture surrounding us also shaped our attitudes.
In the 1960s, television executives diversified their weekly programming. Sammy Davis, Jr. became a variety show staple. Two of my favorite programs were “The Mod Squad” and “Mission Impossible,” both with Black actors in prominent roles. Bill Cosby played a cool counterpoint to Robert Culp on “I Spy” and Lt. Uhura directed communications on the Starship Enterprise.
Local radio stations played Marvin Gaye and The Temptations, and white teens danced to Motown hits at their proms. Black authors, athletes, and activists were everywhere, succeeding and gaining social recognition, navigating the process of acceptance. Or that’s what I saw.
I didn’t see the subtle and overt racism my classmates endured, starting with our box of Crayola Crayons, where the official color of “flesh” was a light peachy pink. I didn’t know that area swimming pools closed rather than admit Black children or that local restaurants only served them from the back door. I’d never heard of “The Green Book” nor did I know my Black male classmates sometimes feared for their lives.
Laws have changed since then, and affirmative action helped balance out certain inequities. In 2008 the United States elected its first Black president. I thought things were ok.
But here we go again. In May, billions of people watched the video of a police officer suffocating George Floyd to death. Statistics and cameras show that unarmed Black men are more likely than White ones to die in police custody. And now, as in 1968, a famous athlete has been shut out for protesting police brutality.
How should I answer my friends who say, “All Lives Matter?”
I’d say technically, you’re right. But in the United States, on paper and in flesh, Black lives matter less.
After fifty-two years of gains in education and income, in 2020 Black Americans earn on average 75% of what their White peers earn. They also have shorter life spans and higher infant mortality rates.
From our schools and courtrooms to banks and healthcare systems, Black males have worse outcomes than their White cohorts. Discrimination and racism have been built into our institutions so that from the neonatal ICU to the criminal justice system, Black men are at a disadvantage.
According to the U.S. Department of Justice, “At current levels of incarceration a black male in the United States today has greater than a 1 in 4 chance of going to prison during his lifetime . . . and a white male has a 1 in 23 chance of serving time.”
Decades of predatory lending ensures that Black Americans are less likely to receive loans and pay more for them than Whites. Real estate appraisals often show lower property values in predominantly Black neighborhoods. And lower real estate values mean less tax money for neighborhood schools.
American History teaches that with will and persistence, systems can be fixed. But could prejudice also be rooted in our hearts and minds?
Racism may come easy for us. Studies show that infants pay more attention to faces like their own, and for most of human history, recognizing one’s own tribe has been a critical survival skill. Skin color, eye shape, and hair texture define and identify us. We judge each other in a millisecond, based on these traits. Now, we deny being so discriminating, even telling ourselves we don’t see color. By doing so, we turn a blind eye to the strength in our diversity.
Recovery programs like Alcoholics Anonymous teach us that admitting your problem is the first step. Maybe our millennials, often derided as “snowflakes,” have done it for us. The size and diversity of recent protests look like an admission.
George Floyd’s public execution was a call to action. Will we admit our wrongs, apologize and work for change? Or will we retreat to the “few bad apples/stop resisting/he was a criminal anyway” narrative?
It’s time to examine our hearts and have hard conversations about equality. Is America ready to move forward so that in another fifty years, we can say that all lives really do matter?
Kay Dial, MSN, RN