Doreen
a short story
by Chip Kussmaul
As the accepted leader of our neighborhood, it was only natural that I got the girls together and visited the new neighbor, Doreen, right across the street from me. So, Laura, Susie, Denise and I went over to her house shortly after she moved in, to welcome her and her family to the neighborhood.
I’ve got to say, Doreen is a very nice person. She invited us into the living room, still a little cluttered from the move, but organized all the same. The living room furniture was in place, so we all had a place to sit. Doreen apologized for not being able to offer much in the way of refreshments, but it was understandable that she couldn’t. We all settled for glasses of ice water.
She’s very friendly and we had an interesting conversation about the schools and other neighborhood concerns. She appreciated getting all the inside information about the neighborhood from us. This is how we maintain a close-knit neighborhood. We are always looking for ways to pull everyone together, to keep us on the same page, so to speak.
I asked Doreen about her kids and her husband. I wondered why we didn’t see a husband. Turns out he was still in New Jersey or someplace, finishing up with his job there, before he moves here. He’s been transferred to that new industrial park in Waynesville.
Doreen said that he is an industrial designer. She explained that his job is to understand the demand for products. He makes sure he understands what features people want, and then designs the products with features and appearances that meet the demand. Doreen said that people don’t appreciate what goes into making the products that end up on store shelves. I suppose not.
I’d seen her two kids before, a boy and a girl, walking along the street and riding bikes. They have already made friends with some of the other kids.
Doreen called her two kids in from the backyard so she could introduce them.
“This is Daron, my oldest, fourteen,” said Doreen. “And this is Patrice, eleven years old.”
Each child stood on either side of their mother, who sat in one of the upholstered chairs. Doreen patted Patrice’s head as she introduced her. And without being told, after Doreen introduced them, both children came and shook our hands and told us how glad they were to meet us.
I was very pleased, at that point, with our new neighbors. I’ve never had a problem with black people. And these weren’t the first in our neighborhood. We have several black families, and we make sure that they feel welcome.
“I imagine you’ll be going into fifth grade in the fall, Patrice,” I said. “That would be Inwood Elementary. It’s a wonderful school. You’ll make lots of friends.”
“Yes, Patrice will be a fifth grader this fall,” said Doreen. “But we home school. Daron will home school this year, but after that he’ll be going to the Hope Christian Academy for high school.”
All four of us, Laura, Susie, Denise and I, were silent for a moment. What black parent home schools? Home school is for right-wing religious people and such, not for people like Doreen and her children.
After a short moment, Susie spoke up, “I don’t know how schools were where you came from, but we have excellent schools here, I assure you. You have no reason to home school here.”
Doreen seemed a bit perplexed by that. “Home schooling is what we want for our children, regardless of the quality of the schools. They are our children. We are responsible for them and for what they learn. My husband and I made the decision, even before Daron and Patrice were born, that we would home school. We feel that it’s important to not just teach subject matter, but to instruct our children within the context of the beliefs around which we live our lives. We incorporate our beliefs when we teach history, geography, literature, and so forth.”
Daron and Patrice stood by their mother quietly. They made me feel self-conscious. Children don’t need to listen to conversations such as the adults in this room were having. If they had been my kids, in my home, I would have sent them off to play. But there they stood, and they seemed engaged in our discussion.
“I understand your concern about values,” I said. “I would be the first to say that the values in this country are sinking rapidly. But that’s why our schools are so important. They teach our children values, just as they teach history and science.”
“I’m glad that it all works out for you,” Doreen responded. “But my husband and I often don’t agree with the context of the instruction in public schools. We prefer to teach based on our own beliefs and values.
Laura stepped in. “What are your values? How are they different from ours? More to the point, what makes you think they’re better than ours?”
Laura has no tact. It was a good question that she asked, but there are better ways of asking. I was going to say something to smooth things over, but Doreen seemed not too upset. And then she said, “I’m not saying that our values are better. It’s just that they are our values, and we want to teach them to our children. I assure you that Daron and Patrice are free to question our teaching and our values. We encourage them to see from all sides.”
They are children! What can they know of any of this? Our schools are for instilling values into young minds, not for letting them wander in any direction they want to!
Daron was giving Laura an odd, questioning look. I almost took offense; his look seemed to say that he did not agree with what she was saying, as if a fourteen year old could have a serious opinion. “I don’t think I understand what you are saying,” he said to Laura. “Shouldn’t we consider all opinions? Doesn’t everybody have the same right to their opinions as we have to ours?”
There was a moment of absolute silence. It was as if we were in a movie, and someone had hit the pause button. Then Laura moved her eyes to Doreen. I know that she expected Doreen to intercede, to explain to Daron that it was inappropriate to question his elders in such a way, especially when they had just met. But Doreen was expressionless. Apparently, she had no issue with her son being confrontational.
Laura turned back to Daron. “No, not all beliefs are worth considering. Some people believe things that are absurd, that are bigoted. Surely, your mother has told you about bigotry and what it has done to your people. If you have not already experienced it, you will, soon enough.”
Laura turned her eyes to Doreen, expecting support in this. But Doreen remained expressionless and silent.
“I cannot control what others think,” Daron offered. “But I can control my own thoughts. If I react to someone else’s bigotry, then they are controlling me and my thoughts. It is better to ignore them, if possible.”
“If possible?!” Laura exclaimed. “You face continual discrimination. You can’t avoid it.” Once again Laura turned to Doreen. Surely, she would speak, and explain things to her son. But she did not.
I noticed Patrice. The girl stood beside her seated mother, showing only casual interest in the conversation. I perceived that the child might have heard conversations like this one, other times, and was growing tired of it.
“I mean no disrespect,” said Daron. “But I don’t think you’ve got it quite right. I am the one who is black, who has experienced being black. I see very little of what you are talking about. In the past there was, but very little now. My parents have raised us to think for ourselves, to see for ourselves. And I see so little prejudice that I just don’t want to waste my time with it.”
I’ve never seen Laura like that. She was, well, befuddled is the word that comes to mind. She remained silent, but now Denise jumped in. She turned from this young man addressing us as equals, and looked to Doreen. “You have a fine young son here, Doreen. He expresses himself so well. And at such a young age. But can you just sit there and let him say these things, and not correct him?”
Doreen broke her silence. “I said before, we are raising our children to think for themselves. If Daron says that he has encountered little prejudice, should I tell him that he is wrong? I am not with him all the time. I don’t know all that he has seen and experienced. But if he says that he has encountered little prejudice, why would I assume he’s wrong?”
“He’s still a child,” said Denise. “There is much that he is too young to understand... I think I understand where you’re coming from, in all of this. It’s admirable that you are teaching your children to see the big picture. But they are still children. There is much they do not know.”
“And should I tell them, so they know? Or should I let them sort things out for themselves, find their own truths?”
“Their own truths?” asked Denise. “We don’t all get to have our own truths. There is the truth, and it’s the same for all of us.”
“And perhaps you think that’s why all students should go to public schools. So that they all learn that truth.”
Doreen’s response was even, but it had an unmistakable edge. For myself, I was beginning to see her point, in a nebulous sort of way. I couldn’t fully grasp it, couldn’t decide where to be. I did the smart thing. I remained silent and listened.
Laura did not. “Yes, the truth. We can’t have everybody going around with their own truth. There is the truth.” Laura’s voice had its own edge. It made me think. I’ve known Laura for years, and it’s not surprising that she was getting hot with Doreen. Laura is prone to going off the deep end when the conversation goes ‘off script.’
What was unusual was that she was doing this with a black woman. I’d never consciously thought about it before, but none of us ever argued with black people we knew.
As this discussion went on, my mind was going in its own direction. We claim to not be prejudiced, to not discriminate. But isn’t that what we were doing right now? We expected Doreen to see things our way. We had not considered her way. We didn’t want to know, didn’t see a need to know her way. We were feeling that she should capitulate to our point of view because we genuinely care about black people. We are good people who care.
I sat out the rest of the conversation. I became an observer. An impartial observer? I hope so. My three friends discussed, more like argued, with Doreen about the usual racial issues, equity, inclusion and so forth. What I came to realize, apart from any specifics, is that Doreen went way deep, mind wide open, while my friends barely skimmed the surface. To me it was less about any of the truths that were being considered, but rather the depth of comprehension concerning them. My friends were way out of their league, in this discussion with Doreen. But Doreen didn’t raise her voice, didn’t express anger, and only occasionally let her exasperation slip.
I came to realize that the only one who wanted something that resembled truth was Doreen. Laura, Susie and Denise didn’t so much want truth as they wanted self-satisfaction. They didn’t so much care about being right as they did in feeling righteous. They knew all the right answers, had memorized them by heart, had contemplated almost none of it.
###
Thereafter, no one wanted to get into any social commentary with Doreen. We had no trouble accepting her and her husband, James, and the kids. After all, they’re very nice, caring people. We could talk of sports, tread lightly around politics, commiserate and congratulate concerning family events. But nothing about racism, past, present or future.
###
My conversations with Laura, Susie and Denise began to change. As we discussed racial issues, including concerning ourselves with black neighbors, I asked questions as much as I offered answers. Rather than take me up on the questions, the girls sidestepped. I couldn’t seem to engage them in any meaningful way, so I’ve pretty much stopped asking questions.
###
One day found Doreen and me alone on my patio. Our kids were doing their thing in the yard, except for Daron, who was at baseball practice. Our dog, Toby, chased after the kids as they played tag. He seemed to get the idea, and would tag random kids with his nose and then stand back expecting praise.
Doreen and I smiled as we watched Toby play with the kids, using his own interpretation of the rules.
As we watched we talked casually of family and of neighborhood things. And of kids. But it started to drift into other areas. I have never forgotten this conversation. I think about it, sort through it. I’m still sorting through it.
“Do you remember that time we first really got together?” I asked. “You, me, Laura, Susie and Denise?”
Doreen smiled. “How could I forget?”
I smiled, too. “…I still don’t entirely get it. I think I understand where you’re coming from. Keeping your mind open to all possibilities. Of course. And letting your kids think for themselves… And your kids are amazing… I’ve tried to open my eyes wider, see more of the things I haven’t seen before. But I can’t let go of the need to link together. We can’t all just go our own direction; we have to have common pathways. Ways that we can all follow and know where we’re going. Don’t we all need some of that?”
“I don’t think so,” said Doreen. “Some need that, clearly.” We both smiled at the thought of Laura, Susie and Denise. “Some need none of that, and some need some of that. But none of it adds up to any essential truth.”
“I suppose not. Yet we hang onto it, whatever ‘it’ is. Maybe it’s a security blanket. In a complex world, some simple truths, artificial as they may be, help keep us centered.”
Doreen contemplated me for a moment. Read me. She does that, and I’ve come to feel comfortable with it. “How complex is the world, really? Technology grows more and more complex, but we’ve always been the same people. We’re the same as in the time of slavery.” I couldn’t believe she said that, and she knew I was surprised. “Don’t kid yourself,” she said. “There’s that saying, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same.’ People think that hate was rampant then, that we’re doing better now. You think that, because you don’t hate me, that proves to you that you are better than the racists of the past. But hatred didn’t exist so much then, either. Sure, some hatred. You’d be surprised how little. Slave owners were expected to be as attentive and considerate to their slaves as they were to their horses.”
Doreen probably anticipated my grimace. “And that works for you?” I asked. “That slave owners cared as much about their slaves as they did their horses?”
“Think it through. What am I saying?”
I was drawing a blank. “I give up. What?”
“You have a dog, Toby.”
“OK, yes.”
“Like slave owners had horses.”
“I guess. But slave owners also had slaves. We don’t. We would never own slaves”
Doreen raised her eyebrows.
“What?!” I demanded. “You’re suggesting there’s still slaves?”
“I’m suggesting there’s still a slave owning mentality. More to the point, a slave/master mentality. Think back to when we met. You, me, Laura, Susie and Denise.” I thought back, still not seeing a point. “Slave owners felt a responsibility to slaves as well as to their horses and other livestock. There’s a term, ‘chattel.’ The term applies to ownership of horses as well as slaves. And that ownership implies responsibility. Feed the horse after it plows the field. Feed the slave the same way. Does the slave owner love the horse but hate the slave?”
“I guess not,” I said. “But I’m failing to see a point.”
“The slave master did not hate the slave. There was a general feeling that slaves were inferior intellectually, that they benefited from the oversight by the master… Your dog Toby. He is good to have around. You feed him. You house him. See to his medical care. And one day he may become too old and dysfunctional, and you will have him put down. He doesn’t know that. He will never know that, even when you do it.”
Doreen was making me uncomfortable, but I knew there was a point in there somewhere. She regarded me, seeing if I was keeping up. I guess I was.
“Toby trusts your judgment,” she said. “He has no choice, but still, he trusts your judgment. Slave owners expected both their horses and their slaves to trust their judgment. And the horses and slaves had no choice, either.”
“OK, I’m with you so far. Is this about my own judgment?
“It is, isn’t it? Your judgment. Your judgment doesn’t come from nowhere. It is based on your truths. Toby will literally live or die, based on your judgment, based on your truths.”
“But he’s a dog. And a horse is a horse. But slaves are people.”
“You say that. But in the time of slavery, slaves were chattel, and were often given no more consideration than a horse. Sometimes, less.”
“And every white person should feel horrible that it was ever like that. I do feel terrible. But what in the hell does that have to do with you, me, Laura, Susie and Denise?”
“In that conversation, when we first met, I was told that the only truth that mattered was your truth. Nobody wanted to hear my truth. Or Daron’s. We’re just black people, chattel to be seen to, according to your own perceptions of who we are and what we need. You have developed your own truth that dictates your own judgment, and you expected me and my children to just go along.”
“But we mean no ill will. We want what’s best for you. For all black people.”
“Yes, and for all dogs. And for all horses… I am saying, in the kindest way I can muster; you treat us like chattel. You are treating us like we need your help more than you need ours. You treat us like we have no truth of our own, so we must live within your truth. You seek ways to fit us into your reality, but make no effort to fit into ours.”
Doreen was agitated, although, for her, agitation didn’t amount to much. She simply looked at me, wondering if I finally got it. I looked back, trying to get it. I understood intellectually, but I was having trouble absorbing it.
“But we are trying to make up for past deeds. We owe it to you.”
“You owe me nothing. And I ask nothing but consideration. I want you to realize that I do not and will not allow myself to be dovetailed into your truth. Do not enslave me in your ideology and your angst. I will work out my own truths that suit me. And the rest of my family will do the same. For what it’s worth, we have black friends and relatives who are much like your girls. They see what they want to see, not what is there.” Doreen looked at me, almost as a kindly grandmother, even though we are both early thirties. “My children will go in directions that James and I did not anticipate. We must let them do that, or otherwise make them chattel of our own. I will be no one’s chattel, and I will own no chattel.”
“Well,” I smiled, “except that you might get a dog someday.”
Doreen smiled back. “I might get a dog someday.”
###
It’s kind of ironic. I’m learning from a black woman what it is to be free. The truth, as they say, will make you free.