As an OWG (Old White Guy) who grew up in the Texas Panhandle in the 1940s and 1950s—before the Civil Rights era, I find it hard to understand antiracism. I’ve always insisted that I’m not racist. But Black folks tell me, “That’s not enough. You have to be antiracist.” In part, I wrote my novel, Colleen and the Statue, to try to understand what Confederate statues mean to African Americans, and thereby understand racism and antiracism. I have ancestors who fought in the Confederate States Army. Some of them gave their lives in the war for the “Cause.” For me growing up, a statue to commemorate their valiant service was appropriate. I grew up playing around the Confederate statue in Ellwood Park, Amarillo, Texas. I never thought about what it might mean to a Black resident of Amarillo. It never occurred to me that the statue might represent anything dishonorable, and thus it should be removed.
I published my novel and have come to understand that what I see when I look at the Confederate statue is not what a Black person sees. But I really don’t understand. I’m a white Southerner. As such, it’s hard for me to understand what a Black American sees. So, I continue to read and study. Recently, I read two books by Black authors: Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste—The Origins of Our Discontents, and Ibrim X. Kendi’s Stamped from the Beginning—The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America. I’m trying to see the history of this country through the eyes of a Black woman and a Black man.
It’s important to me to see how they see history. Because I didn’t see, I recently lost a good friend, an African American woman who is a recognized abstract artist. We were exchanging and sharing: her images of abstract paintings and my photos of flowers from my garden. We were doing this almost daily for quite a while, until I said something about the style of her art and compared my photos of flowers to her artwork. I don’t know what I said that was offensive. I thought I was praising her work, but without intending to do so, I offended her—so deeply that she abruptly stopped accepting my texts. We are both losing. I don’t get to see her art; she doesn’t get to see my flowers. And we are no longer friends. She is almost my age. She grew up in Louisiana and moved to Texas as a young adult. She has told me in detail the many obstacles and abuses that white people, especially white men, have perpetrated towards her. I thought I was different. But it turns out that I am not. … And I don’t even understand what I said that was so offensive.
I’m elderly, but it’s never too late to try to change and understand.