An afternoon at the National Civil Rights Museum
About two years ago, I had a free afternoon after a conference in Memphis. I spent it at the National Civil Rights Museum.
It’s housed in the former Lorraine Motel – and in case the “Lorraine Motel” doesn’t ring any bells for you, it’s where, in 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. It wasn’t particularly busy, and it wasn't hard to notice that mine was just about the only white face I could see.
I walked. And walked. And walked. Through the exhibit presenting the horrors of American slavery, including child-size shackles and newspaper advertisements of parents trying to locate separated children, or spouses trying to find partners who had been sold away. Inside the to-scale representation of Rosa Parks’ bus, complete with a loud male voice periodically playing through a speaker, screaming at me to get to the back of it. Up a ramp under a replica of the Edmund Pettus Bridge, toward a video of John Lewis and his colleagues being beaten by club-wielding law enforcement officers. Onto the balcony adorned with a wreath – the exact spot where King was killed.
Slavery, Parks, the Pettus bridge, the King assassination – I’d learned and read about all of them in school. I learned about the “evil” people who actively took part in the persecution and violence against black people in America’s past. Like just about everyone I knew, I condemned them. But what school didn’t show me were the white faces in the background. These were the people looking on – not participating in the action, not cheering it on, but merely watching. And these, more than any other images in the museum, affected me.
What were these people thinking? Did they agree with what was happening, but not enough to actually act? Did they disagree with what was happening, but not enough to say anything? Did they disagree with what was happening, but also fear the consequences they’d suffer for standing against it? The opportunities for white people to stand against these kinds of injustices are presenting themselves again today.
You don’t have to go to a march or rally to voice your disagreement with this administration; speaking honestly and a bit embarrassedly, I don’t have a temperament for that. But I’ve picked up the phone and called my representatives to ensure my voice is heard, on the record.
You don’t have to wage a war of words with pro-Trump people who cross your path; I can say from experience that’s a losing battle. But I’ve tried to engage people – especially white people, and often Republicans who are uncomfortable with Trump but still afraid of the getting “liberal” tag – in conversations about why I believe this administration and our leaders in Congress are causing our country significant harm.
You don’t have to apologize for being white and proud of what you’ve accomplished in life and worked hard to earn. But I’ve recognized that my success is a product both of my own making and of a boost from the lottery of birth – and that it's my responsibility to use my voice and my vote to support those who don’t have the kinds of advantages I've enjoyed.
My walk through the National Civil Rights Museum crystallized my desire to NOT be one of those white faces in the background. Instead, I want to use the little power I have to advance the issues that I believe in – a woman’s right to choose what happens to her own body and a gay person’s right to marry, affordable healthcare regardless of pre-existing conditions, ending police brutality against people of color, humane immigration policies, and access to quality education for all – especially our most poverty-stricken communities. I don’t want to sit back, be quiet, and assume that things will get better, to hope that democracy will fix itself if I just mind my own business.
Do you?