If Rosa Parks were alive, she’d tell you how to change systemic racism

As we enter the fifth month of mask-wearing and social distancing, America not only has to worry about the pandemic and its effects on our country. After more than a month of protesting, Americans must also grapple with the new social changes that are taking place in our country.

I believe it is safe to say, that when the dust settles from all the protesting, we will be living in a different, and hopefully, a better America.

It will be different because many of the iconic statues and emblems that have been offensive to Black Americans for centuries are being taken down. It will be better because the iconic statues paying homage to the very men who inflicted pain and horror on Blacks, and the flag representing a dark time in America, will no longer be flaunted in the face of Black America.

As a Black American, I have been forced to watch as America honored the memory of men who enslaved and brutalized my ancestors. I had to watch helplessly as the Confederate flag was flaunted in my face. And I have been told that I am “un-American” if I even protested in the least.

Yet, I have lived long enough to see some changes being made in my homeland. And it makes me happy to know that my great-grandchildren won’t be subject to the same kind of racism that I, and my fore-parents, have been victim of for more than 400 years.

You will notice that I said “the same kind of racism.”

I know there will always be some kind of racism inflicted upon those who look different and/or who are different.

I also am aware that we won’t be able to knock out racism and bigotry by knocking down a few statues of men who boldly inflicted pain on my people, or with a few months of protesting.

Change will come, but it won’t always come easy. Change comes when a privileged person walks a mile in the shoes of the people who have been racially offended for hundreds of years.

Change happened when Rosa Parks said to herself, “Enough is enough,” and refused to give up her seat on a public bus to a white man.

Change happened when public school officials woke up one morning and decided it wasn’t right for little Black children to have to read the “Dick and Jane” readers, while not seeing even one Black face on its pages.

Change happened when Black school children no longer had to have hand-me-down textbooks in school that had the names of white children inscribed on the front page.

Change happened when Black children no longer were required to sing, ““I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixieland…”

Change happened when I watched a little Black girl, dwarfed by the FBI men who escorted her on her day at an all-white school, looked as brave as any grownup. Change happened that day because the little Black girl exhibited the grace and courage that was not visible in the actions of the angry white mob — many of them the children’s parents — who yelled out racial slurs at her.

Change happened when I endured the racial antics of some editors who sent me, as a new reporter, on fake assignments (once I was sent to the county dump), simply to wear me down and perhaps cause me to believe the newsroom was not the place for a woman who looked like me.

Change happened because I didn’t buckle, although some days it was so hard, I’d cry all the way to work. But once in the parking lot, I’d dry my tears, powder my face, and make sure my hair was in place. Then I’d walk, with my head held high and wearing a big smile, into the building that was once 1 Herald Plaza.

Change happened in the Herald newsroom because I persevered, and gave slices of homemade pound cake to some of my known enemies, who later became my supporters.

It must have been hard for those who deemed the newsroom a “good ole (white) boys” domain, to watch women like me walk into their place.

However, I wasn’t the only one who brought about significant change to the newsroom. I was there for only a few months when the great Edna Buchanan, a white woman, was hired and assigned to cover the crime beat. Heretofore, the crime beat had been designated a man’s beat.

Enter Edna, a woman delicate in stature, who looked like she would barf at the sight of a dead body. But there was a stamina in her that often went undetected. She also had a way with words that made you want to read what she had to say about the murder that happened the night before.

Edna added color to her stories — in great detail. Still, I watched from across the newsroom as Edna fought to keep her stories uniquely hers. It was a battle, but Edna won and changed the climate in the newsroom. For her, change included a Pulitzer Prize, and later a best-selling author.

Just to remind you: Change has happened to us all. It will happen again. My advice to anyone who is having trouble with change is simply this: Give it a chance.