I was about to be a senior in high school that summer, with my family on vacation in Provincetown, MA, at the tip of Cape Cod. All I really wanted to do was find Edna St. Vincent Millay’s summer hangout and the theater used by Eugene O’Neill and the Provincetown Players. Those were gone; instead, I tripped over a future that quickly ended my quest for the past.
Walking by a restaurant, we passed a TV sitting on the sidewalk, on a milk crate so everyone could watch. On the air: the March on Washington and the speech by Dr. Martin Luther King. I was transfixed. Living in a little town outside Pittsburgh, I hadn’t really paid much attention. Until that moment. It was August 28, 1963, and it launched the next phase of my life. As I watched, I knew that I belonged there – where there was purpose – in the middle of history. It was a profound thing to listen to this man, to see the sea of people around him, watch the individual interviews, hear the music. When people wonder how we became a generation of activists, I know that this was one of the moments that drove us forward, if we weren’t there already.
How beautiful then that EXACTLY 45 years later, Barack Obama will accept the nomination of his party to be the Democratic candidate for President of the United States. I heard Rep. John Lewis, so badly beaten in the 1965 march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, tell an interviewer that he wasn’t sure he could make it through his own speech — that if anyone had told him that 45 years after that Selma march he’d watch an African-American man accept the presidential nomination, he would have told them they were crazy. Obama adviser and friend Valerie Jarrett, describing what it would mean to her parents in an interview with our own Erin Kotckei Vest, struggled to contain her own tears. This is important.
Today is my 62nd birthday. It’s pretty amazing. Not only am I, while still healthy and not rickety, able to witness a Democratic primary where a white woman (for the first time) and an African-American man (for the first time) are the major Democratic Presidential candidates. Not only am I, while still healthy and not rickety, able to witness the probable nomination of the 46 year old product of an interracial marriage, who has lived outside the U.S. in the developing world, and who is running on a platform of unity and commitment to helping our country have a better future. AND who is the first candidate to sit for a video interview with BlogHer, thus demonstrating a comprehension of women who blog — and those women who read them.
Not only that. This morning, half-awake, watching C-Span footage of the Obama Iowa rally last night, I saw a nice white Iowa lady of a certain age, like the one in this photo, put one hand on either site of Obama’s face and kiss him on the forehead. And it wasn’t even a big deal.
You need to realize that in my lifetime as someone old enough to notice – probably the past 40 years — that would have been unthinkable. That a highly regarded TV drama was canceled after one season because it featured a white male and black female social worker working together and stations across the south refused to carry it. Slowly, as the Civil Rights movement brought us forward, things changed. And here, I’m really only talking about symbols – not all those individual life moments that remain so difficult for so many. I believe that when symbols change, real change will follow. And some of that appears to be true.
In September of 1967 Peggy Rusk, daughter of then Secretary of State Dean Rusk, married Guy Smith – and it was so unusual it made the cover of TIME Magazine. Which wrote this:
Resignation Offer. As recently as 1948, California law would have made the union a criminal offense in the state. Until last June, when the U.S.
Supreme Court killed Virginia’s miscegenation law, 16 states still banned interracial marriage. More to the
point, and more poignant, in a year when black-white animosity has reached a
violent crescendo in the land, two young people and their parents showed that
separateness is far from the sum total of race relations in the U.S.—that to
the marriage of true minds, color should be no impediment. Indrawn as usual,
Rusk pronounced himself “very pleased.” Clarence Smith, Guy’s father,
said simply: “Two people in love.”
That’s right – Rusk offered to resign because of the wedding – that was
how unusual it was. In the early 90s I visited a high school
near Cincinnati, OH, which was once KKK country. I was producing a “space
bridge” — a satellite conversation between high schools in Ohio and Moscow. The night
before the show I gave a reception for the families of the kids featured
in the program. As they wandered in, there in the middle of Ohio, I noticed that one couple was comprised of a white man and an African American woman. Apparently I was the only one who did though. One of the boys’ parents had divorced and his dad had married this woman who was now the kids’ stepmom. And in the middle of semi-rural Ohio, close to the Kentucky border, nobody cared. I guess you’d need to have been around for canceled TV shows and Secretaries of State offers to resign, to be so struck by what happened.
Fast forward to the Grammys, 1990, this winning song and video, with this kiss.
I guess it’s just that we forget how bad things used to be; a kiss like Neville and Ronstadt’s once could ruin both careers.
There’s lots more. But what does all this have to do with a presidential candidate? In Iowa? I don’t know why but as I watched this morning I was so struck by the changes I’ve seen in my lifetime. Probably it’s just the birthday. Whatever happens in the campaign, and I am worried about the race stuff that came out of Kentucky and West Virginia, it was a reminder that at least things are better than they were before. OH and last week I read that there has not been a white male Secretary of State in the US for 11 years! Nobody’s been yelling about that, either.
You aren’t going to believe this! The fact that this aired on a "mainstream" program –albeit Rush Limbaugh, is, indeed, beyond belief.
The viciousness of it, and the fact that Limbaugh remains so popular, is very scary. Inspired by my friend Cooper Munroe, who posts her outrages, I offer it here. If it won’t play (I am NOT quite clever at the relationship between TypePad and YouTube) here’s the link.
I was about to be a senior in high school that summer, with my family on vacation in Provincetown, MA, at the tip of Cape Cod. All I really wanted to do was find Edna St. Vincent Millay’s summer hangout and the theater used by Eugene O’Neill and the Provincetown Players. Those were gone; instead, I tripped over a future that quickly ended my quest for the past.
