MEMOIR/
ESSAYS

HOW THE SAUSAGE IS MADE

From “Under My (Black) Skin”

The little girl’s name was Janae. She wore her hair in braids whenever I would see her running around -- giggles carrying in the wind that would mix into a school yard full of innocence each afternoon when I arrived to pick up my four-year-old daughter from the Knox Pre-School in Culver City. Such a carefree age I would think to myself. Janae seemed especially joyful that Friday maybe because she was eagerly looking forward to her birthday party the next day at a playhouse in Hollywood. Her dad David, along with a couple of other moms and dads had volunteered for driving detail for the outing. I was one of those dads. The play that she chose for the celebration was The Princess and The Frog. It was a live performance that until now had only existed on the one-dimensional pages of a children’s story book. But that afternoon it would come to life with magic that only the theater could conjure. The kids, totaling at least twenty, were buzzing like locusts -- charged with energy and excitement of a power line that collectively if harnessed could power a small city. These cherub small faces in a spectrum of brown shades cut quite a swath through a sea of snow-colored faces of the nearly eighty or so other young kids who had also come to view the performance. Soon the lights dimmed and the magic began. The play was visual overload. The Prince sitting high-atop a very tall throne, with his loyal subjects adorned in brightly colorful costumes that sparkled when the various colored lights hit them. The live music helped make the whole show over-the-top leaving all the kids in the audience wide-eyed and open- mouthed.

     At one point the show became interactive, with the Prince himself enlisting several children from the audience to come on stage to be part of the festivities. Little hands went up almost before the invitations came out of his mouth with screams and shrieks and kids jumping up and down in their seats like they had to pee. Down from his perch and up the aisle went the Prince, head swiveling pointing to this kid and that one, as about a half a dozen or so kids followed his majesty back on stage to be part of the Prince’s hand-picked inner circle. The children who were not selected came back to earth in their seats like balloons with less air, while the chosen ones never felt their little feet touch the floor on their way up to be in the spotlight. About ten minutes later the Prince extended the same invitation to a new group of kids. Randomly chosen to widen his circle. Same drill. Six different kids to be stars for a day while others looked on with hope. To that point, none of the kids chosen were from our group. Even though they represented in number, about a quarter of all the kids in the audience and sat in a large block near the front of the stage. These faces in a multitude of beautiful shades and tones waving their excited little hands.

     Maybe the Prince just missed them. Both times. This group of Black children sitting among this audience of white children. Maybe he just walked right past the lot of them and never actually saw them. Maybe the dimly lit theater caused them to be a bit more obscure than usual. Maybe. As these thoughts ran through my mind, the Prince descended his throne yet again before intermission in search of six more loyal subjects. Surely the third time would be the charm. I was convinced of it. Janae was not.

     The Birthday Girl decided to take matters into her own young four-year-old hands. As the Prince made his way, and once again was about to look right through the pleas of our little children’s faces, Janae bolted from her seat to meet the Prince mid-aisle like one would jump in front of a moving train. It was fearless as it was sudden. It was a move that said this little Black girl was not going to be ignored. Particularly at her own birthday party. If he saw her at all he never acknowledged such, as he did an abrupt 180 degree about-face while quickly picking yet more raised white hands as he returned to the sanctuary of his throne. Janae, relentless in her pursuit for a seat at the table to be part of the performance like all those other kids, put on her own performance and latched onto the Prince’s leg refusing to be ignored. The Prince shaken but not deterred made his way towards the stage while dragging about forty pounds of extra weight shackled to his ankles. Unable to shake her loose like a pile of dog mess he had stepped into, until an usher came to finally pull her away.

     If our children could have grasped even a smidgen of what was happening to them that afternoon they would have taken to the streets of Hollywood in defiant protest. Or found a rock or a discarded bottle and hurled it onstage. Or maybe burned down the entire theater. At the very least, they would have left their seats in boycott and vowed to never again set foot in that wretched place. But instead they did what children would do. They sat slumped, frozen with hurt on their faces as if they had eaten something that made their tummies ache. They could do nothing about their predicament. So we did it for them. All six of us parents demanded to speak to whatever white person was in charge of this debacle. We took a collective deep breath and told him in painful detail what had taken place. To our genuine surprise he appeared shaken, followed by shock as he turned red-faced with embarrassment.

     Our over-heated engines began to idle some as we appreciated his ability and his eagerness to listen and engage rather than pulling out his privilege card to deflect and defend. He heard us that afternoon and apparently so did the Prince as he chose our kids by the bushel after intermission each time he ventured up and down the center aisle. By the time the fairy dust had cleared and the final curtain had fallen, about half the children sitting around the Prince’s circle were our children. The light beaming from their eyes as they sat joyfully in the glowing spotlight of their own skin. THE END.

     Unfortunately, this was just the beginning. What was advertised as a fairy tale, turned into a tragedy right in front of our eyes. It was one of the most blatant and irreverent displays of racism I have ever witnessed firsthand. At that theater in Hollywood on that Saturday afternoon, I saw how the seeds of inequality become planted. How they get packed into the new soil, and with just the right amount of water and sunlight, grow into a full-grown tree that becomes diseased, bears rotten fruit, withers, and dies.

     If that horrific day had taken root, any one of our kids could have grown into that now older Black child who believes they deserve nothing. So they do nothing with their lives. That Black child that is looked over, passed by, and becomes so starved for attention they turn to selling themselves on the street believing they aren’t worthy of anything more than that. Or say they have that beautiful gift to act as embolden as Janae did that afternoon at the playhouse. But instead of grabbing onto a leg to get a place at the table, they grab hold of a gun, you know, just to get someone’s attention. To become visible in their Black skin and in the world. What then?

     The fire can get out of control pretty quickly. Instead of getting to the actual root of the problem – why do white people insist on planting the seeds of racism and hate – and then stand there in the middle of a five-alarm fire looking dazed and confused not getting one step closer to understanding why those people get so angry.

     And what of those young white boys and girls who also attended that tragedy that afternoon. Though born privileged, they are also born of innocence. They too have no understanding why some other kids who were happy kids like them with different color skin weren’t chosen also to hang onstage with the Prince. Their young eyes as their only discriminating device, are left with a four-year-old deduction that kids who look a certain way, kids who look like them, get the prize, and kids who don’t, don’t. As those seeds get planted, watered, fed, and exposed to more sunlight, they can’t help but grow to believe they are deserving of their good fortune even knowing they did nothing more than show up in their white skin to receive these spoils. And those other kids who don’t look like them must have done something undeserving of the prize.

The system is designed to work this way. And for 400 years in America it has worked nearly flawlessly. I saw the innerworkings of it hard at work that day. I didn’t even have to peek behind the curtain. The curtain was raised high to the ceiling for everyone to see. On this unwelcomed tour of the factory, I saw how the sausage was made nearly thirty years ago. And I still cannot wash that dreadful taste from my mouth.