Barbara passed away young.  Her children say it was heart break.  I tend to agree with them.  I was moved into Betty’s home, with her husband, George.  They seemed happy overall, but George tended to get angry quickly and over small things.  Fortunately, he tended to calm down just as quick.  He never hit anyone, and he used few words when angry.

One thing that got him worked up was something he called “civil rights.”  It was also one of the few things he and Betty didn’t agree on.

“Can you believe that Negro woman wouldn’t give up her seat on the bus?” Betty asked one night while brushing her hair.  She was brushing roughly, her teeth almost grinding together.  “The nerve of some people.  I mean, if I was getting on that bus, I’d expect a Negro to give up their seat for me.  There I’d be – a hardworking, white woman.  I’d have the right to sit down!”

“Well, she was tired,” George said, “Shouldn’t she have rights, too?”

“Would you rather I stand and let a Negro sit?”

George paused from hanging up his suit coat.  “Well, as my wife, I’d certainly hope you got a chance to sit if you ever needed to take a bus.  But as my wife, we have a car.  So hopefully you won’t ever have to take the bus.”

“George, you’re missing the point!”

George slammed the hanger down on the pole in the closet.  The coat rocked back and forth, trying to hang on.

“The point is she was there first.  She was leaving work and she was tired, too.  Why should she get booted just because someone else is tired?  She was on the bus first, she got the seat first.”

“But she’s Negro.”

“And you’re white. What does it matter?  You’re both hardworking, American women.”  By this time, George was walking around the room, his arms gesturing wildly.  “Why does skin color matter?  I bet if we cut you open, and her open, you’d both bleed red.  Why does the outside matter so much?”

Betty slammed the hairbrush down.  That stung a little on my wood, but I much preferred the wood being hit to my glass. 

“Because I’m better than she is!”

“Why?  Do you know her personally?”

“Because I’m white!”

“White, shmite.  I don’t care what color you are.  If you call yourself a Christian woman that you should ‘love your neighbor as yourself,’ and that includes people who are a different color than you.”

“Would you love me even if I were black?” Betty demanded.  She was standing now, with her hands on her hips.

“Good grief, woman!  Yes!  But you’re not black, you’re white.  And acting very green with envy that she got the seat first and you WEREN’T EVEN ON THE BUS!  So it shouldn’t MATTER!”

Just then, there was a timid knock on the door.  George and Betty both took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly, glaring at each other the whole time.  Then George smiled a fake smile at Betty; she smirked back.

“Which precious child is knocking?” Betty asked, forcing her voice to be sweet.

“Mama, it’s Linda.  Can I come in?”

“Of course, honey.  What’s wrong?”

Linda, a small girl with dark curls poked her head in.  “Are you fighting?  I’m scared.”

“We’re not really fighting, honey, we’re…” Betty turned to George.

“We’re having a disagreement.  About adult things.  Nothing for you to worry about, Linda, so go on back to bed.”

“Mama, will you tuck me back in?”

“Of course, dear.”

Betty took Linda’s hand and led her out of the room.  While she was gone, George paced the room, rubbing his chin. 

When Betty returned a short time later, George said, “The words coming from your mouth about Ms. Rosa Parks is hateful.  I will not tolerate that in this house.  We are a Christian family, and like Christ we will act.  Let’s pretend for a stupid minute that Negroes are inferior to whites.  Let’s pretend they’re less intelligent and capable.  If that is the case, then we should treat them with the same care and concern that you showed Linda just now.  Because that is what Jesus would do.

“I personally believe that they are not inferior.  And one day, there will be a Negro that will change the course of this nation.  For the better.  And I just hope I live to see that day.”

Betty blinked a few times.  Then she turned to finish getting ready for bed.  She mumbled something under her breath, which she refused to repeat when George asked what she had said.  I sure wouldn’t repeat it, either.

However, I watched that night as George fell asleep peacefully, and Betty lay there for a while, eyes wide open.  She stared at the ceiling, not moving.  What is she thinking? I wondered.

Some years later, Betty was singing a different tune. 

“Did you hear Dr. King’s speech on the radio?” she asked, as she and George were again getting ready for bed.  “My, that man can talk!  And he and the others certainly did ‘dramatize a shameful condition,’ didn’t they?  And I don’t believe the ‘bank of justice is bankrupt’ either, do you?  My, I sure thought it was. 

“I still can’t believe I used to be one of those whites who thought that I was better than the Negroes.  I mean, just think of Ms. Harriet White.  She’s the kindest woman I know, and she makes the most amazing bread I’ve ever eaten!  All while raising eight children – can you imagine?”

“No, I can’t,” George was finally able to answer.  He had gone about getting ready for bed while Betty talked.  After all these years of practice, he was pretty good at listening with half an ear.

“Well, I’m just glad I’m walking the ‘sunlit path of social justice’ now, anyhow.  I feel so much more free, and so much happier now when I see a Negro.  I know we can be friends, and I’m not nearly as afraid of them as I used to be.  Oh, now, don’t look at me like that.  I know now it was silly to be afraid of them.  Honestly, I don’t even know what I was afraid of.

“But I do know that I now share that dream with Dr. King.  I do hope that everyone can come to see that ‘all men are created equal.’” George and Betty slipped under the covers, and I felt in my joints that things were heading in the right direction, in the house and in the nation.  And for several years, I was right.