Audacity's Reward

A few weeks ago, Amy had a two-day class in Jefferson City for her position as a breast-feeding peer counselor at the health department. I tagged along for a mini-vacation. While there, one of the things I had the chance to do was visit the Missouri capitol for the first time. I admired the solid construction, the attractive statues and decorations, the elegant interior (one of the nicest public restrooms I've seen!), and visited the museum that fills the central hall. From all of this, I came away with three strong impressions: the beauty of the capitol building, the predominance of weapons and war in the museum, and the shame of the legacy of slavery in Missouri.

In particular, I was struck immediately by the juxtaposition of violence and slavery in the museum. The most common exhibits were guns, uniforms, models of ships and cannons, and other remembrances of the war and death, from battles with Native Americans, the horror of the Civil War, and the immense machinery of the World Wars. The most moving exhibit, on the other hand, was easily the room that was filled with both written and oral accounts from former slaves of their everyday lives, a room which I left blinking back tears and filled with horror at man's ability to hate. Could it be that there is some relationship between a culture that has so embraced violence and a culture that found it possible to justify the atrocity of slavery?

I happen to live in a small, rural community with almost no ethnic minorities. As recently as eight or nine years ago, I had neighbors who referred to all black people using the "n-word." Rumor has it that many people in town opposed bringing in new industry (there really isn't any "old" industry) because they didn't want "those damn Mexicans" coming in to work the factory. My older son came home from school last year with stories of his teacher talking about "the black people trying to take over our country who should all go back to Africa where they belong." Amy and I were livid when we heard this and spoke to the teacher. It turned out that the teacher said nothing of the sort, and that he heard it from some students in his class (who doubtless heard this from their parents). We were relieved...sort of.

All of this makes me by turns sad and angry and ashamed. It also makes me worry a bit since our youngest son, adopted from Kazakhstan, has dark skin and Asian features. This may not be the easiest town for him to grow up in. In general I'm somewhat of a pacifist, but the mindless hate that sometimes rears its head here brings me as close to considering violence as anything., and yes, I see the irony in that. Of course, most of the people of this town are welcoming and more tolerant; but even some of them unconsciously use language that is demeaning to minorities without realizing it.

Considering the legacy of hate that lingers so stubbornly in our hearts sometimes makes me almost despair. Amy had a conversation with someone in our area last fall who said they thought the country might be ready to have a woman president, but surely not a black man. Last night, Barack Obama leaped the first hurdle to prove them wrong, and I felt a swell of pride. Whatever you think of Mr. Obama or his politics, I agree with the post my brother-in-law wrote: I am thankful to be alive to see this happen. I am thrilled by the thought that we can rise above our past, that we can make our hearts bigger than they were, that we can say no to bigotry and hatred.

Barack Obama is just a man, with all of the failures and frailties common to our species. He is not the savior of America, and I don't expect him to make everything turn out right if he wins. Even so, I am immensely proud of him. He has managed to overcome the race barrier that is part of our nation's shame, and he did it not through recrimination and anger, but through reconciliation and hope.

Good for him.