How far have we really come?

 Is to  Dream Still Just A Dream?

   I was born in 1951 in Kansas City, Kansas. Our family was racially confused (that's how my sister describes us), but at the time we (the kids) didn't know it we thought everybody was like us. We had black folks in our family, white folks, Indians, Creole, and some we didn't have names for. We were just family.

 I went to Catholic School for 17 years. For the first 8 the school was all Black taught by White Nuns and White Priests. There was no such thing as Black History. Race was never discussed in our home. I didn't even know who Martin Luther King was. I never heard the name.

 My Mother was from Pensacola, Florida. My Father was from Boley, Oklahoma. There were 6 of us kids. About every four years, my parents would save enough money to drive to Florida from Kansas City so my Mother could see her family. I never understood why my Dad was afraid of driving through the South at night. I never knew why we couldn't use the restrooms at the "filling stations'' or drink out of the water fountains. I remember the food my Mom packed before we left Kansas City; she always made it feel like we were going on a long picnic. Back then it was like an 18-hour picnic ride. I remember the fear in my Daddy's face when he stopped to get gas in Mobile, Alabama but he always said "not much longer". But he never said why. It wasn't like that in Kansas City, but then we just stayed in our place.

 I remember my Mother pulling me in the street when a White person was on the side walk with us and telling me to look away, but never telling me why. We never talked about race in our house. I never saw the riots on TV. I wasn't allowed to read any of that stuff the newspapers.

 Then I graduated from 8th grade and went to Catholic High School and my whole world changed. I found myself the only Black student in most of my classes. I couldn't understand why no one would talk to me, why every seat filled up in the class and the only ones left were the ones near me. 1965 was one of the worst years of my life. What was even worse, teachers accused me of cheating because I was able to compete with the White students and so my Mother had to make several trips to the school. I DISCOVERED THAT DAY, WHAT IT MEANT TO BE BLACK and I DID NOT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE IT. AS A MATTER OF FACT, I WAS ASHAMED. My Parents thought they were doing us a favor by sheltering us from the ugliness and meanness of racism what they forget to do was teach us to be proud of that part of our heritage.

  I spent three years of living hell at that High School because my Mother decided I was going to tough it out. My junior year, I took American History. My teachers name was Ronald Poplau. Yes a very “white” guy, who becomes my hero. The first day in class he said, "I have two heroes, Woodrow Wilson and Martin Luther King" He fascinated me. He saw in me, the fear of not knowing who I was and took the time to help me through it. It just so happened that it was 1968 that Dr. King was killed. Had it not been for my teacher I would not have had the appreciation for this man. Had it not been for this man, I would probably not be able to stand up today.

  When I first heard about the situation in Jena, La. it took me back to 1965 in Kansas City, Kansas at Catholic High. So when people asked me why did I go, I say because somebody almost 40 years ago got up for me.

  So my Sisters and Brothers, as we go through not just Black History month but while we celebrate Women's Months Hispanic Month, and while we are looking at our Political Candidates, ask yourselves, how many of us are still " judged by the color of our skin, rather than the content of our character".