Respect

I typically enjoy listening to a talk radio show most mornings after dropping my daughter off at school. This morning they were discussing the Martin/Zimmerman case and fielding calls from the public with opinions on both sides of the fence. The host of the show (who happens to be black) told a personal story detailing his treatment by law enforcement during a time in which he owned a new and expensive Porsche automobile. He went on to say that he basically expected to be stopped by the police at least once a week if for no other reason than to provide an explanation for why he was driving such a nice car. I think this was more than a few years ago, but I’m sure it still happens to some extent today.

But in the middle of his story he touched on a point that brought back memories very personal to me. I won’t pretend to tell you that I know what it is like to be black, but I can tell you what it feels like to be visibly different. I know what it feels like to walk in a store with your family and have the conversation stop. What it feels like to see the father of a girl your own age take his daughter’s hand and quietly lead her away from you. What it feels like when a store owner chooses to follow you through the store while you shop. What it feels like to be stopped by the police because the car you are driving or the length of your hair makes them suspicious and uncomfortable. Being judged never feels good.

I grew up in the late sixties and early seventies. My parents drove a Volkswagen van and we all had long hair. We rented a house close to the college and had friends of every color and nationality. Let’s just say that we didn’t visibly fit the profile of the average resident of a small middle Georgia town. But the only time I felt different was when others made me feel that way; I was just a normal little boy that wanted to play football and ride his bicycle. “Those are some pretty little girls you’ve got there…is number 24 a little girl? Look at that hair coming out the back of her helmet”. These weren’t serious statements; these were statements meant to harm; these were statements meant to divide.

Of course these statements hurt my feelings, but we were taught from an early age not to take the bait. We were taught to be respectful even when we were not treated with respect. We were taught that if there was going to be a problem to be sure that we were not the cause. To say “yes sir and no sir” to a person who was giving you a hard time simply because they had the authority to do so was merely the best way to diffuse the situation and not a conformation of their sensibility. It wasn’t “kill them with kindness”; it was more that it just wasn’t worth it to let them drag you in. You have to know who and what you are or you will end up being what other’s suspect you are. Admittedly this is easier said than done, but it is a lesson that all parents must teach their children. Being respected is wonderful; staying alive is priceless.