In 1999, I volunteered at the Northside Child Development Center in North Minneapolis. I was the only white person there, and I wrote an article for the Chicago Tribune about that experience.
Today, it feels relevant to again share these thoughts, and I have written them here, as the original Tribune article is not available online.
Sunday, September 26, 1999
My red Subaru rattled as I turned the corner onto Washington Avenue in Minneapolis. The landscape immediately changed around me as the road crossed back over the highway. Interstate 94 shielded boarded buildings from the view of daily commuters on the city’s north side.
White people rarely exited on Washington Avenue. The August morning was humid and hazy. I was surprised at the number of people already outside. Stoplight by stoplight, I crept toward the Northside Child Development Center, a volunteer assignment I’d surprised the staff with my willingness to fill.
My heart pounded with nervousness, but not fear. The 10’oclock new often reported from this area as though the area were in war-torn Beirut. So far, I had seen nothing to suggest that, aside from dusty vacant lots and loose boards partially covering broken windows.
My mother had seen no sense in my decision, “Isn’t there anywhere else you can do this?” she pleaded. “Do you really think it’s safe?” she had asked.
“You do realize,” my mother warned desperately, “you’ll probably be the only one.”
Her emphasis on the final words implied the sealing of my fate. Was this what I was supposed to fear? I would be the only one. The only white person in the Northside Child Development Center, the only white person driving on Washington Avenue. At 8 o’clock on a Friday morning, I was the only white person in this neighborhood. Should I be afraid?
The building’s front door stuck and required my entire body to jar it loose. Finally, it opened with the conspicuous sound of a popping balloon, announcing my presence. I stood in the middle of a hallway that served as the reception area and the entrance to the center’s gym.
Energy radiated from inside. Children raced back and forth chasing colorful plastic balls, a teacher’s whistle punctuated the kids’ piercing screams, gospel music echoed across the large room.
Swept into the mesmerizing activity, I was momentarily unaware of myself. I forgot I was supposed to be afraid. I forgot I was the only one.
Suddenly, as though an invisible spotlight shone around me, my whiteness was illuminated, and everyone noticed. Heads turned. Conversations hushed. Adults laughed—at me?
The unwelcome attention exaggerated my every move. I smiled realizing I looked foolish because no one was smiling back.
I tried avoiding eye contact. Determined not to appear weak and uncomfortable, I instead forced casual glances, hoping my confidence would not be perceived as arrogance. Finally, I reminded myself the day was to be spent with 3-year olds and scolded my own discomfort.
Why was I feeling so paranoid?
Though I would rather not admit it, I found myself searching for another white face. Perhaps I now knew why all the black kids hung out together in school. There is comfort there—something familiar in the stranger I now wanted desperately to find.
I really did not want to talk to another white person. I just wanted to know another white face was around. I just wanted to know I wasn’t the only one.
Until this moment I had never really thought about being white. But now my whiteness seemed to be the contributing factor to others’ behavior. I could not hear what they said, I did not know why they laughed. Was everyone really this aware of me? Each passing moment reminded me of my color. Suddenly, I was obvious and different.
Whiteness fit best in the category of daily occurrences, rarely noticed. It was acceptable for me to be white. My whiteness was never challenged; this is how it feels to live in the majority. I do not have to think about the inherent benefits of whiteness. Rarely has whiteness hindered me.
At this particular moment, my whiteness was the contributing factor to others perceived behavior. Each passing moment reminded me of my color. Suddenly, I was obvious and different.
I remembered John Doyle, who came to Nicollet Jr. High in the spring of 1987. John was the first black child in our school. The only one. I wondered if John futilely searched the hallways for non-white faces. Did he feel ignorant eyes stare at him in wonder? Did he mind when people asked about his hair? Did John ever forget he was black? At times, I forgot John was black; he was merely John. I wondered if John wanted us to forget. Did he long to blend in? Or did he long to have his identity acknowledged?
Now, 18 small-faced 3-year olds turned together to see their latest visitor. Two rushed toward me, each grabbing one of my legs. Others followed, and suddenly I was a novelty. I don’t believe this was because I am white, though I believe the children were aware of this fact. I was a novelty merely because I was new.
Small hands pulled me in different directions as I simultaneously tried to play house, superheroes and sing the ABC’s. Finally, I decided we would unwind by reading a Curious George book. Gathering in a tight circle around me, small knees poked into my thighs and sticky hands reached up to help me turn pages.
One 3-year old was big for his age. He wore Tommy Hilfiger jeans and new Nike shoes. Pushing his way to the front, he watched with intensity as I turned the pages of Curious George. Suddenly, the boy reached for my left hand, grabbing it tightly, he pulled it toward his face. Carefully he examined the back of my hand then slowly turned it over and did the same to the inside of my wrist.
With his pudgy index finger, he traced the unfamiliar maze of blue veins visible through my pale skin. Without speaking he released my hand and began inspecting his own arm, unable to find a similar contrast.
The boy’s teachers were suspicious of the attention I was receiving.
“They sure do like that white girl,” I heard one joke. I laughed with the women. Did they see me as someone selling out of her own culture? Or an ignorant suburban white girl?
I felt my personality teeter between outgoing and quiet. As I struggled to find myself amid my own severe scrutiny, I was simultaneously aware of how clear my thoughts became. Weakness and uncertainty are not options while in the minority.
My experience as a minority was temporary. I can never claim true understanding of a circumstance I could willingly choose or willingly leave. Though my experience was both enlightening and invaluable, there were moments I wanted only to leave. I wanted to escape. But I could escape. And I didn’t have to go back if I didn’t want to.
A little girl approached me slowly holding a blond Barbie by one leg. Coyly, she looked back to her two young friends who obviously had voted her their leader. Stopping short, she placed a nervous finger on her lower lip while resting her free hand on her right hip. Cupping her hand to her mouth, she pressed my shoulder toward her as if to tell me a secret.
She paused for a moment, then blurted, “Do you straighten your hair?”
“No,” I said with a surprised smile.
“Then why is it like that?” she inquired freely now. “It just grows that way,” I said.
The little girl studied me for a few long seconds. “It’s pretty,” she responded finally and gently began combing my thick, blond hair with the Barbie’s small, pink brush.
I wondered what she thought of me. She was too young to fear the questions that kept adults separate for lifetimes. She knew we were not the same. She played with dolls that looked like me. Most dolls look like me, only a few resemble her.
On TV, on virtually every channel, day after day she sees white families smile and laugh, struggle and cry. Families that do not look like her family or act like her family. How does it feel to watch a world where no one looks like you?
The little girl will grow up in this world with an intimate knowledge of my culture. It is required to succeed here. She will know how to adjust her speech or actions to fit the surrounding environment, appeasing those who maintain control.
I, on the other hand, can choose the degree to which I experience or understand her culture. I can regulate the suspicious stares, the muffled comments, and the uncomfortable seclusion.
In my world, I can flip a channel, I can turn a block, I can always find people who look like me.
I do not have to be the only one.
Prior to that day at the Northside Child Development Center, I did not notice my race on the average day. I did not think about my culture until I was forced to represent it. I did not experience my color until it made me different.
Thank you for sharing your experiences. Your writing is honest and direct, and paints a picture for your readers to learn from. Thank you.
Beautifully written article, Jill!
Thanks for your inspiring story Jill.