my shoes

In 1970, I had the opportunity to work as a counselor at camp in Georgia called Camp Barney Medintz. The camp was associated with the Jewish Community Center of Atlanta but its physical location was in a remote part of the state a town called Cleveland.

This was, for me, the first time I had travelled to the south, with the exception of Miami Beach, and I had little idea aside from the stereotypes and pre conceived concoctions of what spending a summer in the South would really be like.

I was a Northerner, an Easterner, a Jewish kid who lived in a community predominately Jewish, white and progressive. My world had been for the most part protected, safe and rather mundane when it came to my every day existence. My level of risk was minimal and I could only image what not being similar to me and my experiences must be like. I could only imagine without any concept of truth or consequence.

The camp director, one of my hero’s from the past, Bob Schachter, knew a whole lot about people and understood that you hire people for the qualities they posses, the talents they have honed and the spirit they project. For him what counted mostly was not necessarily the outside wrapping, but the wonderful gifts inside. One of the people he hired in 1970 was a young Black woman to work at camp named Chrisite.

It was the 70’s and it was cool to know people of color. It was politically correct to reach out from our own sheltered existence and open ourselves up to those in our nation who didn’t look like us, dress like us, pray like us, or so we assumed act like us. I was entering my sophomore year at college, was deciding on a social work or education degree and considered myself forward thinking so getting to know Chrisite was an important task for me.

It was easy to be friends with Christie and I found myself actually legitimately liking her instead as some people at camp did, not patronizing her. She was a savvy individual and knew her way around bull shit and tokenism. Even though she was one of a handful of people of color at the camp she was nobody’s main event, or side show offering. I often thought how brave she had to be to spend the summer in a place where she physically stood out. But then once I knew her well, what only stood out to me was her skill set, honesty and sincere friendship.

When we had our days off one of the main events was to leave camp and find some real good southern food. One of the places very popular with the staff was the Smith House a restaurant based on family style cooking and family style eating. You would sit at a long table with at least a dozen to 18 people you didn’t know and the wait staff would place large platters of food on the tables and as if everyone at the table was your family. You then shared the goodies in front of you. In those days I weighed maybe 120 pounds had one of the fastest metabolisms of mankind and could eat anything I wanted and still not gain weight. So a trip to the Smith House and all I could eat of fried chicken, grits, corn bread and mashed potatoes made me quite happy.

Christie and I had become good friends and she along with about six other staff members managed our days off together and we headed to the Smith House. I had been there many times and this was the first trip by Christie. We entered the restaurant and as you enter you immediately are facing all the patrons. The interior was dark so once the door opened the sunlight almost rushed in like hurricane winds, most people would turn and face the light then resume their family style fare. It was kind of cool so I thought that all these people seemed to greet you by turning their heads toward you. (Even this feature made it feel like eating a meal at your parents home so family like).

A few friends entered first then Christie and I and two more people. The door opened the faces turned and there was silence. The silence soon turned into whisper and then the whisper morphed into mutter and the mutter into sighs. The hostess came over to us, and said seating was tight, so we might have to wait so all of us could sit together. We waited for half an hour. We waited as parties of six, seven and eight came in were seated. We waited until a whole section of a table became empty. It was a table at the end of the restaurant near the kitchen and almost isolated from the rest of the place. There were at least a dozen other people who had come into the place after us, but none of them were seated at our table. We looked at Christie and said should we leave? She said in a very direct and decisive answer, no, that is what they want. And besides she added I thought Jews were just as equal as everyone else.

Until that day, I had never actually been confronted with hate or bigotry or any kind of ‘ism’head on. Until that day I could only intellectualize what it must be like to be Black, what it must be like to be a scapegoat, what it must be like to be feared based on nothing but fable. Until that day I had never experienced the rebuttal and rebuke of others. On the way home we all apologized for putting her in that situation and we said how terrible we felt. She apologized for having us experience the kind of hate and loathing that she faced in her life.

As I read the headlines or listen to cable news regarding the unemployed, the poor, the elderly, hear the politicians or talking heads or journalists ruminate about those populations situation, I often think about my experience at the Smith House and Christie. I hear employed, wealthy, young to middle aged people talking about the unemployed, poor and elderly and think they know not at all of the actual trials and tribulations of this group of Americans. Without any first hand experience they still love to pontificate and pronounce remedies for them. Without once being denied employment or prioritizing food, medicine rent not trying to live off of social security these policy makers try and speak for people with whom they don’t understand the language.

I wore my tie-died T-shirts, bell bottom pants and chanted we shall overcome, I protested from afar the conditions of the Black community, but until I was face to face with rejection, condemnation and criticism at the Smith House I had no idea of the real issue.

I get so tired of people who are not unemployed telling those who are how you should feel, what you should do. I am so tired of those making six figure salaries explaining how cutting back this denying that can make you stronger. I am so tired of people in the 40’s or 50’s explaining that social security is an entitlement older people are not entitled to.

I never knew what it was like to be shunned or ignored or reviled until we went to the Smith House with Christie. I in turn am angry that those who have plenty think they can speak for those who have little or have not at all. I am angry that supposition assumption and surmising are now the standard bearers for reality and truth.

I am not sure how we fix the issues of today, but it seems we had better not talk about walking in someone else’s shoes until we actually acquire the blisters from that long, arduous road. Perhaps some sensitivity, more insight, a bit of sincerity is needed to solve major issues of our life.