“In a racist society it is not enough to be non-racist. We must be anti-racist.” Angela Davis
I grew up in the white suburbs of Los Angeles in the 1960s and 70s, or as my dad liked to say, “the relatively smog-free western end of the San Fernando Valley.” I was a Valley Girl, for sure. I might have grown up racist if I didn’t have Richard and Claire O’Connell as parents.
Formative years
Our family of five lived in Sepulveda and both my parents were college professors—Dad taught psychology at Cal State Northridge and Mom taught English at Santa Monica College. They were card-carrying members of the NAACP and the Fair Housing Council. They wanted Black neighbors (didn’t happen until the 90s). Mom was active in the League of Women Voters and my family espoused liberal, democratic values of equity and inclusion. I was raised in a home, that great incubator for values, promoting the value of Black rights, Black leaders, Black neighbors.
Sepulveda, largely White and Mexican, faced its own issues of racism. The western part of Sepulveda separated from the predominantly Mexican eastern part by renaming itself North Hills. Ironically, “six months after residents of part of Sepulveda changed their region’s name to North Hills--to escape the stigma of crime and seediness they said had become attached to the name--the community they fled rejoined them . . . What remained of Sepulveda will now be named North Hills too…” (Jim Herron Zamora 22 Nov. 1991, LA Times).
First Black friends
So I grew up in a White suburb where mistrust of Blacks and Latinos was common. While I don’t remember ever having a “talk” about race or racism, my parents embraced people from all backgrounds and races. But they didn’t just model inclusivity; they were intentional. My mom often started up conversations with strangers, so while checking out at Von’s Grocery Store one day, she chatted up the young Black man bagging her groceries. After talking with Lewis several times, Mom invited him over for dinner. He eventually became a lifelong family friend, and I most recently saw him at my mom’s memorial service in 2016. I cannot overestimate Lewis’ influence on me as a young White girl in a completely White neighborhood. He is funny, sweet, kind, and a real storyteller—my positive first introduction to Black men.
It wasn’t until Cal State Northridge in 1977, that I had my first close Black girlfriend. Lydia was a classmate who lived in Watts. We became friends--she visited my house in the Valley, and I visited her house and church in Watts. Her single mom was raising several girls, some of whom had children of their own. Watts was a world away from where I lived in Sepulveda. Watts was predominantly Black—parents worked mainly in service industries. Lydia’s mom worked as a janitor in a hospital. Twelve years before I met Lydia, Watts erupted in the riots of 1965, precipitated by the treatment of stepbrothers Marquette and Ronald Frye by White Highway Patrolmen and police officers. A gathering crowd and the brute force police exerted exacerbated the tense standoff and riots ensued. Now 55 years later, America is still dealing with the same issues. My friendship with Lewis and Lydia opened my eyes to the history of trauma and systemic racism faced by Black Americans every day.
My husband and sons
In 1979 I spent a summer in Kenya, East Africa, on a short-term mission trip. Among the 30 of us from the U.S, Bill Sweeting was the only African American. I was attracted to his gregarious smile and raucous laughter. We became better acquainted over the summer and upon our return to NYC, Bill invited me to stay for a few days to see the sights and meet some of his family. Four months later he flew out to LA to meet my parents—guess who’s coming to dinner!
I moved to New York in 1980 after I graduated from college, and Bill and I married in 1983. By 1999 we had a teen and pre-teen son, so when Amadou Diallo was shot 41 times and killed in 1999 by four white police officers when he reached for his identification, we did have “the talk” with our sons—the talk about what a young Black man should do when approached by a police officer.
Twenty-one years later America is still facing its own racism—both individual and systemic. I will not attempt to posit a solution for systemic racism. I do, however, firmly believe that on an individual level, it is not enough to do nothing. It is not enough to not pass on racism to our children. It is not even enough to model good anti-racist behavior. We must actively, purposefully, consistently teach our children to be anti-racist. It starts with us, the parents. If you’re White, do you have a Black friend? Not an acquaintance, colleague, or neighbor—a real friend. If not, start there.
