Who came to dinner

While I was still in Texas, late in 1960, the incident most reported and pictured in the newspapers was the matriculation of a couple of tiny Negro children in a New Orleans school.

Behind these small dark mites were the law’s majesty and the law’s power to enforce – both the scales and the sword were allied with the infants – while against them were three hundred years of fear and anger and terror of change in a changing world.
        -- John Steinbeck, “Travels with Charley”

When Steinbeck arrived in New Orleans nearly 50 years ago, it was with a deep sense of foreboding. He nearly wanted NOT to see what he was certain to see as much as he felt he NEEDED to see it.

“It,” of course, was the ugly face of hatred. The great novelist was on his final cross-country trek: in search of America. He was three-quarters done with his travels and was about to conclude that the America he had found fell short of the one he had dreamed of and had promoted in some of his best writing.

In 1954, the Supreme Court declared that sometimes the word “equal” really means “same.” Segregation, according to the justices, is inherently unequal and creates a condition that discriminates against some people – denying them their rights.

For many years after that historic decision, the face of hatred was easy to see – it was reflected on the faces of overt bigots from coast to coast – both north and south of the Mason-Dixon line. Hordes of haters showed up everywhere people tried to apply the Court decision: theaters, workplaces, restaurants and even schools.

For a while, New Orleans was the center ring in this three-ring circus. And the most outrageous clowns were a chorus of women who put their hate on display each morning at a local school.

The target of their venom was one innocent little black girl who wanted what the United States Constitution said she had a right to have: the same quality of education other kids her age were getting in all-white New Orleans schools.

After New Orleans, Steinbeck seemed interested only in getting home. He began his book (Travels with Charley) by noting that he’d lost touch with the American people; and he seemed to be ending by admitting that such ignorance had been bliss and that he wanted most to return to the comfortable isolation that had caused him to get out of touch in the first place.


Today, 20 or 30 elementary school students showed up at the facility I’m in. They were invited to dinner by their pen pals – seniors who live here – to culminate the school project.

Nearly all of the kids were black; all of the seniors in this building are white. The kids were obviously in their best clothes and on their best behavior. The somewhat formal atmosphere (big dining room, place settings, food served in courses by uniformed wait people) and the large number of strangers no doubt made this a very special day.

I watched as the residents and students interacted – the seniors were clearly into the moment and were providing what I’d have to call a rather quaint, perhaps old-fashioned but definitely well-intentioned experience.

Well-intentioned.

I’ve confessed before in this venue to often being a bit slow in the uptake. As I watched the seniors, sitting more straight, perhaps, than usual and taking care to keep pleasant conversation flowing, I felt happy. This, I knew, would be a day the kids would remember – a visit, almost, to another time, a glimpse into a world that may disappear completely with this generation.

Then dinner was served. The kitchen staff is nearly all black and only then did I recognize that this adventure – this cross-cultural experience – was a metaphor for a world that has changed much less than I realized since Steinbeck visited in New Orleans.

The faces of hatred are missing, but the barriers and the segregation and the prejudice remain.

I’m certain that the children I saw today are receiving a better education than those in the defacto segregation era. And I’m certain that the picture they saw today overshadowed the kind, and well-intentioned, words they heard.

They realize that unless things change – more than they have changed in the past half-century – the next and only other time these young black Americans will be welcome at this well-intentioned retirement facility is if they come here to work in the kitchen or cleaning rooms.

I used to get mad at my school
(No I can't complain)
The teachers who taught me weren't cool
(No I can't complain)
You're holding me down (Oh),
turning me round (Oh)
Filling me up with your rules
(Foolish rules)

I've got to admit it's getting better
A little better all the time
(It can't get more worse)
I have to admit it's getting better)
It's getting better
since you've been mine

Me used to be angry young man
Me hiding me head in the sand
You gave me the word,
I finally heard
I'm doing the best that I can

I've got to admit it's getting better
A little better all the time
(It can't get more worse)

I have to admit it's getting better
It's getting better
since you've been mine
Getting so much better all the time
It's getting better all the time
        -- Lennon/McCartney, 1967