A Lesson on Privilege at the Park

THIS WEEK WE ARE FOCUSING ON PRIVILEGE. WE UNDERSTAND THAT THE BATTLE AGAINST RACISM BEGINS AT HOME, AND THAT TEACHING OUR KIDS TO RECOGNIZE SYSTEMIC INJUSTICE WILL MOVE THE NEEDLE TOWARD A LESS-PREJUDICED WORLD. WE INVITE YOU TO DO THE SAME AND ARE SHARING STORIES AND RESOURCES THAT WILL AID IN THAT JOURNEY.

It was a soggy early June, but my kids were undeterred by the rain when they realized we were close to their favorite park. They begged. We had been running errands all afternoon, and even though I didn’t want to get rained on, I reasoned that they deserved some unadulterated fun after holding it together so well through Target and Costco.

So we struck an agreement. They could play on the playground for 20 minutes if they stayed within eyesight while I remained dry in the car. I knew that the playground was about 10 yards from where I could park and keep a close eye on them, and that the park was never crowded and would be even less so on a rainy day. It seemed like the perfect compromise.

It was my favorite park before I had kids, adjacent to the small, quant neighborhood where my husband and I first lived when we moved to Missoula. I loved that the houses were cute, but not extravagant. It’s close enough to walk to downtown, but not posh like the University District. In those days, before kids, I used to spend afternoons reading under the large oak trees or dozing off to the sound of children playing. My favorite part of the neighborhood was the diversity. We had moved to Missoula from Houston, and I missed the kaleidoscope I was used to. I found myself visiting the park even after we moved from the Westside to the South Hills, and still find myself there often even though we now live 20 miles away.

I was lost in thought about those early days when I saw my kids making their way from the slides to the swing set.  Uh oh. This wasn’t part of the deal. I knew my daughter wasn’t tall enough to foist herself onto the seat of the swing on her own, and my son wasn’t big enough yet to lift her.

My kids have a social brazenness that amazes their father and I. We were both shy at their age, but my kids have never met a stranger.

I better get out there before they trouble a poor bystander for pushes, I thought. But by the time I had put on my jacket and made my way around the car, it was too late. A young, black man was making his way toward my children. I rushed toward them, hoping to get there before my daughter asked a complete stranger for an underdog.

Our eyes met and the young man stopped, holding up his hands. “Your daughter asked for help getting on the swing,” he explained. He wore a red hoodie. He must have been a teenager.

Half a mile away, Black Lives Matter protests had been happening at the courthouse for days in response to the police killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and countless others. Racial tension was at the top of everyone’s mind, as the world became aware once again of what can happen when white America wields its might against its minority citizens. This tension was never far from my mind, and I had participated in some of the protests myself, but had yet to feel the pain of racial injustice metastasize in real human relationships outside of social media.

I smiled at him to let him know I didn’t fear him. That I was a friend. An ally. I wanted my smile to communicate, I know you are safe.

But he didn’t return my smile, and I realized in an instant I had it wrong. He feared me.

For years, white women like me have been weaponizing fear and racism against Black men. We’ve seen it happen time and time again. It happened to Emmitt Till, a 14-year-old Black boy who was lynched in 1955 when a white woman accused him of flirting with her. It happened to Chris Cooper in Central Park over Memorial Day Weekend when Amy Cooper called police to tell them he was attacking her when no physical altercation took place. We’ve seen white women call police as Black Americans do normal things like have barbecues in public parks or swim in public pools. It happens when cameras are elsewhere and there is no witness to tell the story.

What had his mother told him about white women like me? What did she worry about when he went to the park? My privilege shielded me from these concerns, but they must always play on her mind. The physical space between us was only a few feet, but a gulf of unshared experiences stood between him and me.  

I stepped back. “Thank you for helping my daughter,” I said.

“No problem,” he said, and lifted her onto the swing. The scene relaxed, and my kids, who were oblivious, continued playing happily. I let them stay at the park longer than I’d promised and concealed what was growing in my heart.

But that night in the shower, the well of sadness burst, and I cried heavy tears for a world where a black teen has reason to fear a white woman. What is my role? What could I do to bridge this heartbreak? What could I do to fix this? It is not Black Americans’ responsibility to undo the racism they encounter daily. It is ours. And our children are the vehicle for change.

That night I resolved to have more meaningful conversations with my kids about racism. I would teach them how to call out a rude joke and recognize cruel behavior directed at minority Americans. When we made the commitment to homeschool this year, I made sure that anti-racism education was part of the curriculum.

Maybe if we all make an everyday commitment, our children won’t be raising their own children in a country with such blatant injustice.