by Barbara J. Cohan-Saavedra

Created on: April 04, 2007   Last Updated: April 30, 2007

Born in 1951, when overt racism was not yet socially unacceptable where I lived, I was fortunate to be raised by two socially conscious, egalitarian parents who made a point of teaching by example.

When other people made racist or sexist comments, particularly within the hearing of my brother or me, my parents engaged them, challenging them to defend their hurtful and inappropriate comments. Later, they would review the situation privately with us, explaining the wrongfulness of the other person's attitude or actions.

My mom was particularly good at explaining why stereotypes were bad, pointing out that white people aren't really white, and black people not really black. We were all, she said, coffee with varying amounts of cream in it.

She was also considerably more aggressive than my dad was in confronting offenders.

Shortly after my parents moved to their present home in 1963, an interracial couple moved across the street. The husband was African American, the wife a blonde-haired blue-eyed white woman. Their kids were gorgeous, with permanent tans and their mother's blonde hair.

One of our more obnoxious neighbors, who lived far up at the end of our block, ran into our house one day and, utterly beside herself with fury, asked if my mother knew who had moved into the Singer house. My mother knew where she was going, but she made her say it. "Why, yes, Hannah. Their name is Jones and I understand they're lovely people. Why do you ask?" Hannah pressed on. "Well, have you SEEN them?" Mom wasn't giving an inch. "Yes, Hannah, I have. What is your point?" "Well ...," our neighbor huffed, "just WHAT do you intend to DO about it?" My mom looked at me and winked. Then she turned to Hannah. "Why," she said, "I have a cake in the oven right now. As soon as it's cool, I'm going to frost it and take it across the street and say, 'Hi. I'm Rae. Welcome to the neighborhood.'"

Hannah was apoplectic. She stormed out of the house and never spoke to my mother again. Shortly thereafter, Hannah and her family sold their house and moved away.

The neighborhood was a much better place after that.

Learn more about this author, Barbara J. Cohan-Saavedra.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.